BasqueClown
Zirkua ata heriotza
- Jun 9, 2022
- 121
It's incredible the level of 'suicidality?' that I achieve in the last month.
I don't know if it's a consequence of my clinical depression, my Dissiociative Identity Disorder (My Alter trying to killing me), or both of them.
It's incredible that when I helped my aunt with some cleaning of the apartment, if my aunt saw it as a old, moldy leather purse, I saw its belt as a ligature. Same as with an old sport purse who my cousin used to going to run (He married and moved on another city), and again, see it as my ligature to hang myself.
I'm okay with the idea of dying by suicide. But I'm wondering why I'm in a stage who routine objects transform to potential death devices. I don't want to disclosure with my aunt or my psychiatrist, since I DON'T WANT TO RETURN TO A FUCKING PSYCH WARD. Sure, the 'ethos' or ethical duty of health providers is to preserve the life of anyone, but hell, in any of both of my countries I can't die with dignity without defy the system, since the only way that I can got "euthanasia" is to have an terminal illness and a previous medical screening about my decision of dying.
I was planning to do it in this summer but I don't trust my pills (Duloxetine and Asenapine), I don't trust doctors (I want to ask to change to another psychiatrist), I don't trust my family, I don't trust my friends. Everything is "you can do it", and pro life slogans. Sure, pursuing recovery is still an option, I mean, in theory, because when I writing this I was spotting the screen of my oldie laptop for minutes in a blank manner. Writing is my only method to express myself, and to put in order my thoughts, but 70% of them are in thinking in death.
I want to rant and scream, but that will make things worse.
It sucks to be the crazy, black sheep of the family.
I don't know if it's a consequence of my clinical depression, my Dissiociative Identity Disorder (My Alter trying to killing me), or both of them.
It's incredible that when I helped my aunt with some cleaning of the apartment, if my aunt saw it as a old, moldy leather purse, I saw its belt as a ligature. Same as with an old sport purse who my cousin used to going to run (He married and moved on another city), and again, see it as my ligature to hang myself.
I'm okay with the idea of dying by suicide. But I'm wondering why I'm in a stage who routine objects transform to potential death devices. I don't want to disclosure with my aunt or my psychiatrist, since I DON'T WANT TO RETURN TO A FUCKING PSYCH WARD. Sure, the 'ethos' or ethical duty of health providers is to preserve the life of anyone, but hell, in any of both of my countries I can't die with dignity without defy the system, since the only way that I can got "euthanasia" is to have an terminal illness and a previous medical screening about my decision of dying.
I was planning to do it in this summer but I don't trust my pills (Duloxetine and Asenapine), I don't trust doctors (I want to ask to change to another psychiatrist), I don't trust my family, I don't trust my friends. Everything is "you can do it", and pro life slogans. Sure, pursuing recovery is still an option, I mean, in theory, because when I writing this I was spotting the screen of my oldie laptop for minutes in a blank manner. Writing is my only method to express myself, and to put in order my thoughts, but 70% of them are in thinking in death.
I want to rant and scream, but that will make things worse.
It sucks to be the crazy, black sheep of the family.