14th April 2019

14 Sunday Apr 2019

Posted by SuperDepressed in Uncategorized

Tags

anxiety, chronic pain, depression, graphic self-harm, intrusive thoughts, mental health, mental illness, self-harm, suicidal ideation, suicide

CW (Content Warning: suicidal ideation, self-harm, suicide):

Yesterday was the first day in a while that I woke up and felt like I wanted to die. It was beyond the feeling of wishing I didn’t exist anymore–that feeling is an old friend, and I try not to let it bother me too much–no, yesterday, I actively felt the urge to harm myself.

I don’t usually go into this much detail, but I need to get it off my prefrontal lobe (I’m out of practice, uni was 2 years ago, but let’s pretend that’s where the synapses for our current thoughts reside). I’m gonna give another content warning here, because this is about to get graphic.

When I woke up yesterday, I was overwhelmed by visions of me stabbing myself with a variety of rusty farming/maintenance tools. I used my own hands to drive wood-handled weapons (they were being used as weapons, anyway) that I don’t even know the names of, into my eyes, ears, neck, stomach, throat. I saw myself in a quiet, abandoned barn, far away from curious stares or offers of help, removing my vision, hearing, and eventually my life, forever. I felt sad (just sad–not depressed, or miserable, or like crying–just a normal, low-level sadness) during the stabbing portion of my thoughts, coupled with a bone-weary exhaustion. There was a flicker of anxiety (when do I *not* experience at least a flicker of anxiety?) that I might be too weak or tired to finish what I was doing, which spurred me on to finish the job.

(Looking back, I am rather taken aback by the undeniable normality of my feelings and responses: sadness at a regrettable event, a little anxiety that actually helps one to complete their task, rather than the debilitating type I typically suffer, etc. Such “normal” responses to such an abnormal situation… ordinarily, it happens the other way around, and I’m crippled by a minor setback that most people would hardly notice. Anyways. I digress.)

As the anxiety sparked a final push of energy, I imagined driving the final blade through my own neck, nearly severing it on one side, I felt such intense relief and even a frisson of pleasure. I saw myself topple to the ground, my body torn and raw in places, bright red blood already drying to the colour of tea stains in the bottom of an old mug (drying on clothing I don’t own, by the way–I don’t know if I’ve ever bought a flannel shirt and a pair of pale, straight-leg jeans). My hair was long, like it was until about 7 years ago (I still mourn my hair–like Jo March in “Little Women,” it was “my one beauty”) and I seemed a little heavier than I am, now.

Parsing through the memories of those thoughts, I suppose I might’ve been looking at me when I was about 17: starting to lose a little weight (which I gained back, never actually hitting a “normal” weight until hyperemesis with my 1st pregnancy) still with waist-length, curly brown hair, wearing some male relative’s clothing, and in a rural community not unlike the one where I grew up. I was near the sea, though. I never lived near the sea until moving to the UK… which I did at 19. 19-year-old me, a little slimmer than I actually was, then? So odd.

This wasn’t a dream–I was definitely awake–but it really knocked me, to have such an intense, self-harming…. vision?… out of nowhere, before I’d even sat up in bed. I was a little off with Hubs, yesterday. I suppose this explains that, to some extent.

I wonder if it’s time to increase my antidepressant. Or change meds, or request some talking therapy. I feel a little flat, a little worn-down, lately, and I’ve had a cold for a week or so… I didn’t think I was getting BAD again, though.

Maybe it’s just April. This is my least favourite month. Or–my chronic pain has been worse, lately. Maybe this is a stress response caused by intense physical pain, and I don’t want to kill myself, I just want to kill the pain/stop hurting. Then again–that’s what most suicides are.

And maybe I should go see my doctor.

13th January, 2019 (Suicide)

13 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by SuperDepressed in Uncategorized

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alcoholism, bereavement, depression, end-of-life, liver failure, suicide, terminal illness

I was on Twitter, today (never a great idea, when controversial topics are being thrown about…). I managed to read a beautifully written, poignant account of one man’s struggle to keep his friend from committing suicide.

He lost the battle. They both did, I guess–his friend had saved his life a year earlier, and they had leaned on each other for support, but eventually, it wasn’t enough for the older of the 2 men. Despite multiple calls each day, and lots of empathy and talking therapy, this terminally ill, soon-to-die man took the final step himself.

Most people who read the story were concerned for the surviving friend (especially as he’s also a pretty high suicide risk) but there’s always one, isn’t there? One person always stands up and tells everyone else why they’re ALL wrong, and someone did. “How can you all say this is okay? If it had been me,” they glibly Tweeted, evidently without reading any of the actual history between the 2 men, or the surviving friend’s tireless vigil, “I would have done everything I could, to stop this from happening.”

Well, no, sweetheart. You wouldn’t have. You would NOT have been on the phone multiple times a day, risking your job and your own sanity. You wouldn’t have given the unconditional, positive regard that lets people know they can really open up to you, without fear of judgment… the regard that has postponed so many suicides, and prevented some deliberate losses of life forever.

You sure as shit wouldn’t have given the guy a piece of your liver, so that he could continue drinking himself to death slowly, would you? No. Of course not. And if you would have, there’s not a surgeon in the world who would’ve taken those odds and performed the surgery. So… what *would* you have done?

My guess is, you would’ve shouted at this end-of-life liver failure patient to get his life together–about 10 years too late–and then, after screaming at him for 2 or 3 phone calls, you’d have washed your hands of it. All you’d have done, would be make a dying man feel worse.

Shame. On. You.

All the love in the world to the surviving friend, who put his career, his very new romantic relationship, and his own well-being on hold, to figuratively hold the hand of a dying friend who had done the same for him. This is what makes the world a place worth living in… people who can look past their own needs, and the fear of their own mortality, to be there for someone in the most dire of circumstances. This is what makes us special, among the other animals–the ability to communicate gently, with understanding, with compassion and love, in all kinds of extremity. We would be so much less than human, without the ability to love others at least as much as we love ourselves.

Everyone probably gets tired of hearing this from me, but if you need to talk to someone WITHOUT JUDGEMENT:

Samaritans (UK only): freephone 116 123
Samaritans email (Worldwide): jo@samaritans.org

Those are not only numbers for suicidal folk–most of the callers are lonely, anxious, depressed, at their wits’ end, self-harming, or even just old and isolated–but by all means, if you’re suicidal and want to talk about it, rather than being told why you just shouldn’t be, please contact Samaritans. The understanding really helps.

Lonely Holidays and Breaks from Social Media

07 Friday Dec 2018

Posted by SuperDepressed in Uncategorized

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breaks from social media, depression, feeling alone, grief, holidays, loneliness, poem, poetry, suicide

Weirdly I have often wondered,
When I let grief steal my thunder,
When the sand surrounds my head,
When I think, “I should be dead,”

Who will miss me? Who will care?
Do they even know I’m there?
A question that will not be voiced–
Those who think it need a hoist,

We are not weak, we are not strong,
Like you we’re trying to get along,
To live, to love, to like, to make it,
But sometimes, god, we just can’t take it.

And those of us who can hide, do,
Sometimes we disappear from view.
Don’t hate us then, don’t hate us now,
We’ll come back once we relearn how.

And those of us who never learn,
Your memories fond, you mustn’t spurn.
It’s not our fault the world turns on greed:
Not our fault, our endless need.

Not our fault, the hurt and pain,
That darken every glad refrain,
It wasn’t we who chose to feel
The torture of wounds we cannot heal.

So if one of us re-joins the fray,
Be joyful we lived for one more day.
Help us fight, see how we strive;
Just help us, please, to stay alive.

Update: Marriage Soon

15 Sunday Oct 2017

Posted by SuperDepressed in Uncategorized

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abuse, abusive, autism, autistic, depressed, depression, Domestic violence, emotional abuse, suicide

Before I talk about my new guy, a little background:

At the start of this year, I was with a guy who blacked my eye the week before Christmas, who continually made snide comments about my children, who regularly believed the very worst interpretations of my actions, who shouted at me and belittled me virtually every time I had the audacity to disagree with him… I remember lying on his couch, so many afternoons in January and February (because I was too lonely and unhappy to lie in the bed with him at night, so I was trying to get sleep during the day, sometimes skipping lectures at uni to do so) and listening to this song on repeat:

All I wanted, was someone who made me feel that way–someone who would feel that way about me. It sounds macabre, but this was the only song that would settle me, late last year/early this year. It was the only adequate lullaby, for sadness like mine… and you can call that maudlin purple prose if you want, because it is maudlin purple prose–it’s also true.

Then–I swear to all the gods that ever were–in February, on Valentine’s Day no less, my stepdad killed himself. Fella-who-hates-my-kids came to the States to hold my hand and whatnot, and he *loved* my sister’s (neurotypical, or near enough) kids. It just drove the point home, in a way I could no longer ignore–kid-hater didn’t hate ALL kids, he just hated MINE.

Because they’re autistic. Like that’s *their* fault.

I had no idea what to do, or how to feel, to be honest with you. But I came home from the States feeling closer to filling my pockets full of stones and walking into the ocean than I have in years. I spent 2 weeks, again, listening to the Death Cab song on repeat, pining for my kids while I was at uni, and trying not to think about the asshole lying in bed in the other room.

Then–at some friends’ Stag and Hen Night–a miracle occurred.