Weather
Student
- Oct 18, 2020
- 152
I've been having a rough time the past few months. I found this site a while ago when things had gotten particularly dark and have been lurking ever since. I suppose I am feeling a little less desperate right now, but I can't say I remember the last time I didn't wake up covered with a blanket of disappointment.
I have had several significant traumas in life, and I have been diagnosed with depression, anxiety, and PTSD. I'm relatively old now; it has been 20 years since I was hospitalized for being a "threat to myself." I've taken a variety of meds, but none of them helped much and had intolerable side effects. I've seen highly qualified therapists. Yet, I have never really gotten on top of things mentally and lean into suicidal ideation daily. Of course, that's not something you can talk about in normal company, is it? And that silence lets it grow and take root; before you know it, it's blooming again. Nevertheless, I've generally been successful at pruning it back. I think, I hope, I can again. At the same time, I'm very tired and not every untended garden is a disaster.
I feel guilty. I don't have an immediate crisis. My life isn't awful. While the pandemic and the political environment haven't done me any favors, nothing terrible has happened to me. In fact, most people on the outside would think my life was, well, good. My first marriage was horrifying, but that's long past, and my second marriage is long-standing -- most people who know me assume it's my only marriage. My spouse seems to genuinely care about me. I have children. I have friends. I'm highly educated. I am relatively successful in my work.
So what is the missing piece? Objectively, my life is fine. But I feel like garbage every day. Sometimes, I think I want to kill myself for the satisfaction of murdering the person I loathe the most, myself. I have removed all mirrors from our home. I berate myself for being ugly and stupid and worthless. I mess things up all the time. I can take every kind statement made to me and turn it inside out. I hate everything about me: my voice, the way I look, the way I write, my drive, my exhaustion, my anger, my sadness, my distrust, my brain.
I don't know. Why am I making this post? I suppose I'm looking for community where I can talk without feeling the need to hide the core of it all. Perhaps others who think about suicide all the time, yet... Yet.
Perhaps I'm just a self-indulgent piece of shit twat. Who can say? (Answer: Me -- I am a self-indulgent twat.)
I have had several significant traumas in life, and I have been diagnosed with depression, anxiety, and PTSD. I'm relatively old now; it has been 20 years since I was hospitalized for being a "threat to myself." I've taken a variety of meds, but none of them helped much and had intolerable side effects. I've seen highly qualified therapists. Yet, I have never really gotten on top of things mentally and lean into suicidal ideation daily. Of course, that's not something you can talk about in normal company, is it? And that silence lets it grow and take root; before you know it, it's blooming again. Nevertheless, I've generally been successful at pruning it back. I think, I hope, I can again. At the same time, I'm very tired and not every untended garden is a disaster.
I feel guilty. I don't have an immediate crisis. My life isn't awful. While the pandemic and the political environment haven't done me any favors, nothing terrible has happened to me. In fact, most people on the outside would think my life was, well, good. My first marriage was horrifying, but that's long past, and my second marriage is long-standing -- most people who know me assume it's my only marriage. My spouse seems to genuinely care about me. I have children. I have friends. I'm highly educated. I am relatively successful in my work.
So what is the missing piece? Objectively, my life is fine. But I feel like garbage every day. Sometimes, I think I want to kill myself for the satisfaction of murdering the person I loathe the most, myself. I have removed all mirrors from our home. I berate myself for being ugly and stupid and worthless. I mess things up all the time. I can take every kind statement made to me and turn it inside out. I hate everything about me: my voice, the way I look, the way I write, my drive, my exhaustion, my anger, my sadness, my distrust, my brain.
I don't know. Why am I making this post? I suppose I'm looking for community where I can talk without feeling the need to hide the core of it all. Perhaps others who think about suicide all the time, yet... Yet.
Perhaps I'm just a self-indulgent piece of shit twat. Who can say? (Answer: Me -- I am a self-indulgent twat.)