Greetings everyone.
I have nursed suicidal ideation for a long time, own the Peaceful Pill Handbook, and was pleasantly surprised when I stumbled upon these forums. Yes, I thought....*that's* the word for what I am. Not *pro-suicide*, pro-choice suicide. I believe people in chronic physical or mental pain should have the right to end their suffering peacefully, and I believe there can be many valid reasons to exercise the right.
Everyone has a story, and I thought I'd share mine. I'm not looking for validation or advice either way, and I realize that's not the point here, though I'd be open to perspectives. I've been perusing these forums about the stories on heartache, and that is a big part of my story. I have found a lot of wisdom here, especially in the idea that people experience pain in different ways and one kind doesn't take priority over another's.
I've always struggled with depression, but in the fall of 2015 I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder after experiencing a severe, months-long manic episode that involved pretty much every symptom, sleeping with strangers, spending myself into debt, staying up all night long, talking loudly and incessantly, sleeping like two hours a night. Work asked me to take FMLA because I was scaring people and I pretty much managed to isolate all my loved ones (other than a couple of friends and family who stuck by me) but most heartbreaking of all, the man I thought was the love of my life, who I verbally abused and kicked out of the house we shared together.
And if you have the disorder or know someone who does, you know what came next. The post-manic crash into bipolar depression. Boy, I thought I knew what depression was like before. No. This was the blackest, most consuming depression I had ever experienced. My only respite was to sleep, I struggled to get out of bed, still somehow managed to hold down my job but struggled to focus and concentrate, and I would just come back home and that was all the energy I had, lay down in my filthy bed in my filthy house again, cry, look at pictures of my ex, dream of death all day long. I tried OD'ing a couple of times, I think more than anything else as an escape from pain, though as most of us know OD'ing on pills and alcohol only usually just ends you in the psych ward for a time, which is what happened to me.
People told me I could recover from that, and I did have a partial recovery. The most amazing thing that happened is my boyfriend, my soulmate, my dream missed me too and forgave me, and even moved back in with me, even though I could have and probably should have fucked things up by texting him at every opportunity how much I missed him and and how sorry and regretful I was. Some friends came back into my life when they realized I wasn't being scary anymore. Some never did, and that hurts, but I have to accept my actions had consequences. I definitely passed through some of the blackness and became more functional for a time, but I never quite recovered from that incident.
I continued to experience sometimes profound depression, sometimes nightmares and PTSD about things that I did or what happened, that at times was incapacitating, to the point where I'd call in sick to work, lie in bed all day, not be able to self-care, practice good hygiene, or cook and clean. Those last two years and and my love were together are somewhat blurry to me. I swear I changed my meds so many times and tried every regimen under the sun, I did therapy and EMDR, I did inpatient and outpatient programs, I even tried electroconvulsive therapy (which I actually had a horrible experience of memory loss that sounds more severe than most cases, so I think it only ended up hurting matters).
My long-suffering boyfriend was the light and the love of my life this whole time. He was so generous and kind and he never gave up. He cooked and cleaned for me when I couldn't get out of bed. He came with me to therapy and psychiatry sessions and drove me an hour and a half to and from the only ECT clinic that would take my insurance. You probably see where this is going. He definitely gave too much.
I don't know what triggered it, I think it was a perfect storm of things. He left on a month-long trip and I became despondent, drank heavily, left the house a wreck, spent a lot of time in bed. I think I knew then I would lose him soon because I wasn't able to take care of myself. I loved him more than anything else in the world, but I kept telling him maybe this was unhealthy and he should leave, and he would never have any of it, he would hold me and tell me how much he loved me, he was never leaving me, how right it felt when we met, etc.
For some reason after he came back from that trip I went down a bad downward spiral, and even he lost his patience sometimes telling me I had to shower and wear clean clothes. I just started giving up. I have to acknowledge some was chemical but I probably could have done more. I think my ever-evolving meds were bad at the time, work was an incredibly toxic and stressful situation, a lot of things built up. I had a couple of ketamine treatments, having tried everything else under the sun, and though I had heard some amazing testimonials about it, I think like ECT it only made my situation worse. The ketamine somehow gave me really vivid, intense flashbacks to my manic episode. I just left feeling nothing had ever felt the same after that. I feel something died inside me in mid-2015 and since then I've been wading through molasses and nursing so much regret despite trying so hard. I've always been sensitive and could never seem to forget what a hurtful person I had been to my loved ones, and post-meds and ECT I just felt like a stupid, hollowed-out shell of the person I used to be. I really felt a mercy-killing would be best for all involved and my love and everyone else would be better off without me. I tried to go about acquiring N on the Internet and my ex found out I was doing it. He put me into the hospital and then he left me, saying he had done everything for me, and I had broken his heart.
I was devastated, but I understood his decision. I'm almost 40, was married once, and had a few serious relationships. But I knew the minute I met him, he was the love of my life. Every single cliche they have about love---about stars and fireworks and soulmates---I felt with him, instantly. I literally felt dizzy with joy and ecstasy for months afterwards. I would wake up in the morning and remember he existed and a flood of endorphins would wash over me. He was my perfect fit---very physically attractive, ridiculously smart and funny and kind. I felt attracted to him on a very cellular level that I never had with anyone. I was glowing and crowing at work and my boss asked me if I had a new boyfriend and I told her "No, I have a life partner." And all these things? He said all the same things back to me, all the time. He was an older man, almost 50, but would say nothing he'd ever had in his life compared to this, I was "the one," he wanted to commit to me forever.
After maybe a year of incredible infatuation, that did mute a little bit, but I think we still had an amazing relationship. I still felt I never wanted anyone else. We started living together and every night was filled with fun conversation, art, weird movies, and joy. I looked forward to coming home to him every night. Our sex life was still amazing. We were both artists and had many artistic partnerships, he had a gallery where we both displayed and we did other shows too, including with vintage and vinyl, which we both collected. We texted each other all day long, he'd send me pictures of our cats or his drawings he was working on, we never, ever fought or argued, we supported each other all the time. I sometimes try to think back to try not to idealize and put my finger on the "bad things" but I honestly feel like there were almost none. He smoked pot a lot, but I never cared. He even had really good breath all the time. I was drawn to him on every level.
This last year and a half has been torture for me. I thought my depression was bad before, but now I walk around the apartment and every little thing I see gives me a memory of him. It's a book we bought together, or a curtain he hung up. I feel like all the light and the joy and the color has left my life. People have told me over and over "the one" is a mythical thing, and I will meet others. But I'm 40, and the skeptic tells myself the odds of feeling that way again in my last 40 years of life are slim. It really felt pretty epic and magical, and I kind of *always* want it to feel that way. Maybe I want to punish myself, who knows.
I found out on New Year's Eve he proposed to another woman, and it absolutely broke me. He moved in with her about 2 months after moving out of our house, and I did some research (I'm a librarian and also crazy) and she's his ex of 20 years ago. Not only do I now know I have to spend the rest of my life knowing he's actually the love of someone *else's* life, but he always told me despite saying those things to me he never wanted to get married again, because he'd been married and divorced three times already (I know, some people told me that should have been a red flag). So it's kind of hard to believe I was all that special to him after all, and maybe I was the only one who actually felt that way....which made it hurt even worse.
Anyway! Goddamn I didn't mean this to turn into the novel that I did. Big picture is living with this heartbreak is hell, living alone in my filthy apartment is hell, living with bipolar disorder and the memories of things I did is hell. But I don't want to do the cliched thing of "dying of a broken heart." I guess my larger issue is the regret over hurting loved ones in the past, and the fear that I'm either going to break the heart of someone I love in the future, and I just can't imagine living without love. I hate suffering, and I hate making people worry because I suffer. My sister has told me she's spent numerous sleepless nights worrying about my suicidal tendencies.
I guess you could say this is all in the contemplation phase, I'm going to sleep on it a bit. I do have a lot going for me. I still make art and have an art studio. I'm a successful enough librarian. I'm in law school right now. Not to toot my own horn, but a lot of people say I'm smart and creative. I have two loving cats and I know my family loves me very much and that I am so lucky in that department, and I may have lost a lot of friends but the ones who have stuck by me are loyal and caring and true. I write about movies about mental illness and run a film festival about mental health. I don't suffer from any physical maladies and I feel blessed because I know people who have both. But I think I am going to try to procure that Holy Grail N if I can, because I would like this to be as peaceful as possible for both me and the ones who love me. It's just hard to live knowing how many people I've hurt and disappointed, including my love, and the some I may still.
I have nursed suicidal ideation for a long time, own the Peaceful Pill Handbook, and was pleasantly surprised when I stumbled upon these forums. Yes, I thought....*that's* the word for what I am. Not *pro-suicide*, pro-choice suicide. I believe people in chronic physical or mental pain should have the right to end their suffering peacefully, and I believe there can be many valid reasons to exercise the right.
Everyone has a story, and I thought I'd share mine. I'm not looking for validation or advice either way, and I realize that's not the point here, though I'd be open to perspectives. I've been perusing these forums about the stories on heartache, and that is a big part of my story. I have found a lot of wisdom here, especially in the idea that people experience pain in different ways and one kind doesn't take priority over another's.
I've always struggled with depression, but in the fall of 2015 I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder after experiencing a severe, months-long manic episode that involved pretty much every symptom, sleeping with strangers, spending myself into debt, staying up all night long, talking loudly and incessantly, sleeping like two hours a night. Work asked me to take FMLA because I was scaring people and I pretty much managed to isolate all my loved ones (other than a couple of friends and family who stuck by me) but most heartbreaking of all, the man I thought was the love of my life, who I verbally abused and kicked out of the house we shared together.
And if you have the disorder or know someone who does, you know what came next. The post-manic crash into bipolar depression. Boy, I thought I knew what depression was like before. No. This was the blackest, most consuming depression I had ever experienced. My only respite was to sleep, I struggled to get out of bed, still somehow managed to hold down my job but struggled to focus and concentrate, and I would just come back home and that was all the energy I had, lay down in my filthy bed in my filthy house again, cry, look at pictures of my ex, dream of death all day long. I tried OD'ing a couple of times, I think more than anything else as an escape from pain, though as most of us know OD'ing on pills and alcohol only usually just ends you in the psych ward for a time, which is what happened to me.
People told me I could recover from that, and I did have a partial recovery. The most amazing thing that happened is my boyfriend, my soulmate, my dream missed me too and forgave me, and even moved back in with me, even though I could have and probably should have fucked things up by texting him at every opportunity how much I missed him and and how sorry and regretful I was. Some friends came back into my life when they realized I wasn't being scary anymore. Some never did, and that hurts, but I have to accept my actions had consequences. I definitely passed through some of the blackness and became more functional for a time, but I never quite recovered from that incident.
I continued to experience sometimes profound depression, sometimes nightmares and PTSD about things that I did or what happened, that at times was incapacitating, to the point where I'd call in sick to work, lie in bed all day, not be able to self-care, practice good hygiene, or cook and clean. Those last two years and and my love were together are somewhat blurry to me. I swear I changed my meds so many times and tried every regimen under the sun, I did therapy and EMDR, I did inpatient and outpatient programs, I even tried electroconvulsive therapy (which I actually had a horrible experience of memory loss that sounds more severe than most cases, so I think it only ended up hurting matters).
My long-suffering boyfriend was the light and the love of my life this whole time. He was so generous and kind and he never gave up. He cooked and cleaned for me when I couldn't get out of bed. He came with me to therapy and psychiatry sessions and drove me an hour and a half to and from the only ECT clinic that would take my insurance. You probably see where this is going. He definitely gave too much.
I don't know what triggered it, I think it was a perfect storm of things. He left on a month-long trip and I became despondent, drank heavily, left the house a wreck, spent a lot of time in bed. I think I knew then I would lose him soon because I wasn't able to take care of myself. I loved him more than anything else in the world, but I kept telling him maybe this was unhealthy and he should leave, and he would never have any of it, he would hold me and tell me how much he loved me, he was never leaving me, how right it felt when we met, etc.
For some reason after he came back from that trip I went down a bad downward spiral, and even he lost his patience sometimes telling me I had to shower and wear clean clothes. I just started giving up. I have to acknowledge some was chemical but I probably could have done more. I think my ever-evolving meds were bad at the time, work was an incredibly toxic and stressful situation, a lot of things built up. I had a couple of ketamine treatments, having tried everything else under the sun, and though I had heard some amazing testimonials about it, I think like ECT it only made my situation worse. The ketamine somehow gave me really vivid, intense flashbacks to my manic episode. I just left feeling nothing had ever felt the same after that. I feel something died inside me in mid-2015 and since then I've been wading through molasses and nursing so much regret despite trying so hard. I've always been sensitive and could never seem to forget what a hurtful person I had been to my loved ones, and post-meds and ECT I just felt like a stupid, hollowed-out shell of the person I used to be. I really felt a mercy-killing would be best for all involved and my love and everyone else would be better off without me. I tried to go about acquiring N on the Internet and my ex found out I was doing it. He put me into the hospital and then he left me, saying he had done everything for me, and I had broken his heart.
I was devastated, but I understood his decision. I'm almost 40, was married once, and had a few serious relationships. But I knew the minute I met him, he was the love of my life. Every single cliche they have about love---about stars and fireworks and soulmates---I felt with him, instantly. I literally felt dizzy with joy and ecstasy for months afterwards. I would wake up in the morning and remember he existed and a flood of endorphins would wash over me. He was my perfect fit---very physically attractive, ridiculously smart and funny and kind. I felt attracted to him on a very cellular level that I never had with anyone. I was glowing and crowing at work and my boss asked me if I had a new boyfriend and I told her "No, I have a life partner." And all these things? He said all the same things back to me, all the time. He was an older man, almost 50, but would say nothing he'd ever had in his life compared to this, I was "the one," he wanted to commit to me forever.
After maybe a year of incredible infatuation, that did mute a little bit, but I think we still had an amazing relationship. I still felt I never wanted anyone else. We started living together and every night was filled with fun conversation, art, weird movies, and joy. I looked forward to coming home to him every night. Our sex life was still amazing. We were both artists and had many artistic partnerships, he had a gallery where we both displayed and we did other shows too, including with vintage and vinyl, which we both collected. We texted each other all day long, he'd send me pictures of our cats or his drawings he was working on, we never, ever fought or argued, we supported each other all the time. I sometimes try to think back to try not to idealize and put my finger on the "bad things" but I honestly feel like there were almost none. He smoked pot a lot, but I never cared. He even had really good breath all the time. I was drawn to him on every level.
This last year and a half has been torture for me. I thought my depression was bad before, but now I walk around the apartment and every little thing I see gives me a memory of him. It's a book we bought together, or a curtain he hung up. I feel like all the light and the joy and the color has left my life. People have told me over and over "the one" is a mythical thing, and I will meet others. But I'm 40, and the skeptic tells myself the odds of feeling that way again in my last 40 years of life are slim. It really felt pretty epic and magical, and I kind of *always* want it to feel that way. Maybe I want to punish myself, who knows.
I found out on New Year's Eve he proposed to another woman, and it absolutely broke me. He moved in with her about 2 months after moving out of our house, and I did some research (I'm a librarian and also crazy) and she's his ex of 20 years ago. Not only do I now know I have to spend the rest of my life knowing he's actually the love of someone *else's* life, but he always told me despite saying those things to me he never wanted to get married again, because he'd been married and divorced three times already (I know, some people told me that should have been a red flag). So it's kind of hard to believe I was all that special to him after all, and maybe I was the only one who actually felt that way....which made it hurt even worse.
Anyway! Goddamn I didn't mean this to turn into the novel that I did. Big picture is living with this heartbreak is hell, living alone in my filthy apartment is hell, living with bipolar disorder and the memories of things I did is hell. But I don't want to do the cliched thing of "dying of a broken heart." I guess my larger issue is the regret over hurting loved ones in the past, and the fear that I'm either going to break the heart of someone I love in the future, and I just can't imagine living without love. I hate suffering, and I hate making people worry because I suffer. My sister has told me she's spent numerous sleepless nights worrying about my suicidal tendencies.
I guess you could say this is all in the contemplation phase, I'm going to sleep on it a bit. I do have a lot going for me. I still make art and have an art studio. I'm a successful enough librarian. I'm in law school right now. Not to toot my own horn, but a lot of people say I'm smart and creative. I have two loving cats and I know my family loves me very much and that I am so lucky in that department, and I may have lost a lot of friends but the ones who have stuck by me are loyal and caring and true. I write about movies about mental illness and run a film festival about mental health. I don't suffer from any physical maladies and I feel blessed because I know people who have both. But I think I am going to try to procure that Holy Grail N if I can, because I would like this to be as peaceful as possible for both me and the ones who love me. It's just hard to live knowing how many people I've hurt and disappointed, including my love, and the some I may still.
Last edited:
