"I’m 15 years old and tried to off myself a few weeks ago.
I write about everything in my diary, including a suicide note and how I tried to kill myself and how I started cutting. Well, me and my mom got into a fight one day, and she said that if I don’t tell her why I was going down this destructive path, then she would read my Diary. After she started reading I couldn’t hold it in anymore and started to cry and panic. I basically freaked out. My mom calmed me down and started crying with me and holding me and telling e everything would be okay. So lets see whats happened to me:
It all started Sophomore year.
In November I had just confessed to my mom tht my step dad molested me for a year when I was 11. (By this time he was living in another state)
My Grandmother died two days before christmas from natural causes.
My older sister died less than a month afterward.
My step dad was found is in jail at the moment. I might end up having to testify at the court date which is about a year from now.
One of my best friends just suddenly dropped me and stoped talking to me. Not wanting to friends anymore. When I tried to talk to her about it she just said that she had a bad feeling about me.
My grades dropped severely and when my mom found out I was no longer allowed to be a part of the family. I ate dinner by myself in the kitchen and stayed in my room the rest of the day.
I then couldnt take it anymore and made a plan to kill myself that night using pills. So that way no one would find me since everyone would be asleep. I talked myself out of it.
Well I’m going to get help soon. There are two options:
Anti-depressants or
Inpatient Therapy.
Is it okay for me to want inpatient therapy? I mean, I want to talk about my feelings to my friends and other people my age, but I cant at school because I dont want to come off as an attention whore.
P.S. I do see a counselor every week. But the week I wanted to die, she was on vacation….."
Source: http://www.antiagingarticles.cn/?p=4173
Monday, March 8, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
I sleep on thorns
"Hello sleeping in the middle of doing assignments! I need to get myself a table filled with thorns so that when I do fell asleep, I sleep on thorns. Slept while thinking of possible designs for an… apse. But forget that. I had a disturbing dream. One that might or might not reflect my current mental state. Even before anything happened, I was already aware I was in a dream. Or at least, I should have been considering I was seeing myself. I was sitting on my bed, Japanese style and oddly enough, wondering, how good it would be to die. Regrets? I had none. So, MAGICALLY, I brought up my hand which wield a kitchen knife and held the handle with both my hands with the blade facing towards my chest. Oddly enough yet again, I was thinking, I wonder if it hurts, but that though quickly got thrown to the side with just a, oh well, I’ll die soon anyway, and with a slight hesitation, I brought the knife to my chest and I even wondered, should I scream? It’s painful. I thought it was wise for me to scream but it seemed laughable so I just slumped to one side and waited for the pain to subside. Rather than my vision disappearing hazily, it was suddenly all black. My eyes were still open though (mind you, as stated before I was looking at myself). It felt so nice just lying there in that place. The black felt comforting and the void, reassuring.
And THAT, was when I got back to reality, waking up in front of my laptop, with a pencil in hand. I kind of pondered but I don’t think I’m that depressed enough to kill myself yet but the thought of not needing to worry about things anymore and the comfort and satisfaction felt when I was lying there in that realm of black felt right. Wouldn’t it be boring just lying down in a place where darkness and light did not exist? Just you, and all the black. But in the dream, it felt right. I didn’t have any regrets, I didn’t have any lingering feelings, I felt not happiness, not sadness but just a state of calmness.
No, I still have far too much to do before I leave this world :)
But, maybe I am depressed…"
Source: http://nanas.gla-la-lam.com/?p=343
And THAT, was when I got back to reality, waking up in front of my laptop, with a pencil in hand. I kind of pondered but I don’t think I’m that depressed enough to kill myself yet but the thought of not needing to worry about things anymore and the comfort and satisfaction felt when I was lying there in that realm of black felt right. Wouldn’t it be boring just lying down in a place where darkness and light did not exist? Just you, and all the black. But in the dream, it felt right. I didn’t have any regrets, I didn’t have any lingering feelings, I felt not happiness, not sadness but just a state of calmness.
No, I still have far too much to do before I leave this world :)
But, maybe I am depressed…"
Source: http://nanas.gla-la-lam.com/?p=343
Saturday, March 6, 2010
I'm slowly losing my mind
"It feels like I'm slowly losing my mind. I don't know how to explain this. I still have a firm grip on reality, though. I don't know...I honestly can't explain it. I think I've been having some suicidal ideation, but I'm not sure. I have not been feeling like I want to do it. It's not really an option for me, but I've been curious about it. I don't really want to commit suicide...I don't want to die. I guess I want to just sell everything and go somewhere far away. Start over. I feel like everyone in my life has caused me some sort of pain and they just aren't worth it right now. I'm very disappointed with my life and how it has turned out. I'm almost 30 and I have nothing. No family of my own, no relationship (I think I inadvertetnly destroyed my last and most meaningful one). In the past two years, I have blown over $15,000 in savings trying to support me and my ex after she lost her job. I live paycheck to paycheck on a very good salary. I have maxed out credit cards that were previously payed off and can't even afford to make the minimum payments. I now have a strained relationship with my family when we had a wonderful relationship. I'm in school and I have absolutely no drive to complete my assignments. I have been diagnosed with clinical depression and am now seriously considering medication because I don't think I can do it on my own anymore. I feel like I can't function as an adult. I feel like I can't do anything right. If I'm cleaning the house, everything else falls to the wayside. If I'm working on my finances, then the house is not clean. Why can't I do what it is that I'm supposed to do as an adult?? It's embarrasing and I'm tired of being ashamed of myself. I don't know what is happening to me, but I'm so tired of it. I just want to start over. I want to cut ties with everyone and just walk away. I think it would be better, and I almost don't care what anyone else would think or feel about it. I don't know what to do with myself anymore. It's so hard. I'm tired of being in constant pain. I'm tired of no one understanding me. I'm tired of the crying...I wish I could just turn my emotions off. Nobody else cares, so why do I have to? Why can't I be as uncaring as everyone else???"
Source: http://www.depressionforums.org/forums/Time-I-ve-Admitted-This-t43737.html
Source: http://www.depressionforums.org/forums/Time-I-ve-Admitted-This-t43737.html
Friday, March 5, 2010
My life is kinda screwed up
"I just turned 14 and my mom kicked me out a day before my birthday. She hit me and stuff but before that i was always really sad and i would purposly hurt myself…My life is kinda screwed up right now and i had a pill problem but kicked it and theres a lot of shit going on. i was wondering what the symptons are for depression because i really want to kill myself but don’t want to leave behind my girlfriend. I triend once before and my mom walked in…idk"
Source: http://www.depression.cz.cc/about-depression/depression-symptoms.html
Source: http://www.depression.cz.cc/about-depression/depression-symptoms.html
Thursday, March 4, 2010
What chance do I have?
"There’s been a couple of recent high-profile celebrity suicides. Earlier this month, celebrated fashion designed Alexander McQueen hanged himself in his London home at the age of 40. Then this week, actor Andrew Koenig was found dead from suicide in Vancouver after being missing for several days. These are just the most recent – there’s also David Foster Wallace, Spaulding Gray, Kurt Cobain, Ian Curtis, back to Diane Arbus, Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath.
Of course, there are a lot of people who commit suicide who don’t make international headlines and don’t get websites doing slideshow retrospectives of their careers and bodies of work. But I don’t always know about those – it’s only the celebrities or the dramatic suicides (burning down a house while inside it to avoid foreclosure, for example) that come to my attention through the media. And every single time it happens, it stops me in my tracks.
These events remind me that the monster of depression can always get you. No matter how creative and inspired you are. No matter how much admiration and respect you earn from the fashion industry, the music industry, the world at large. No matter how privileged and rich you are. No matter how well known your struggles with depression are, no matter how many friends and strangers love and support you, no matter ho many people feel your loss. No matter how many years you’ve spent running from the monster. It can always catch you. It can always kill you. You are never and can never be safe.
I follow the twitters and blogs of a lot of alternative comedy people and the past week has been filled with concern about Koenig’s disappearance and ferverent please for help in finding him and making sure he was ok. This is even more notable from the comedy crowd who tweet only silly and humorous things and have essentially broken character to express their concern and love for Koenig. While I realize I can’t tell whether Koenig had actual love and support in his life just from reading a tweet from Doug Benson, I can see that there was a network of people who were really worried about him and who seem deeply affected by his loss.
If I committed suicide, it wouldn’t make any headlines. I’ve done a lot of work of which I’m very proud, but it wouldn’t be reviewed and featured on the Huffington Post. And certainly a generation of people wouldn’t have vivid memories of where they were when they heard about my death, as exists for Cobain. (I was in a car with my dad on Folsom Ave. in Boulder, C0lorado, driving south, when I heard it announced on the radio.) So the fact that the monster overtook these celebrities makes me feel even more vulnerable to succumbing.
Everything they did, everything they had, it didn’t help them. Couldn’t save them. What chance do I have?"
Source: http://disabledfeminists.com/2010/02/26/i-cant-handle-celebrity-suicides/
Of course, there are a lot of people who commit suicide who don’t make international headlines and don’t get websites doing slideshow retrospectives of their careers and bodies of work. But I don’t always know about those – it’s only the celebrities or the dramatic suicides (burning down a house while inside it to avoid foreclosure, for example) that come to my attention through the media. And every single time it happens, it stops me in my tracks.
These events remind me that the monster of depression can always get you. No matter how creative and inspired you are. No matter how much admiration and respect you earn from the fashion industry, the music industry, the world at large. No matter how privileged and rich you are. No matter how well known your struggles with depression are, no matter how many friends and strangers love and support you, no matter ho many people feel your loss. No matter how many years you’ve spent running from the monster. It can always catch you. It can always kill you. You are never and can never be safe.
I follow the twitters and blogs of a lot of alternative comedy people and the past week has been filled with concern about Koenig’s disappearance and ferverent please for help in finding him and making sure he was ok. This is even more notable from the comedy crowd who tweet only silly and humorous things and have essentially broken character to express their concern and love for Koenig. While I realize I can’t tell whether Koenig had actual love and support in his life just from reading a tweet from Doug Benson, I can see that there was a network of people who were really worried about him and who seem deeply affected by his loss.
If I committed suicide, it wouldn’t make any headlines. I’ve done a lot of work of which I’m very proud, but it wouldn’t be reviewed and featured on the Huffington Post. And certainly a generation of people wouldn’t have vivid memories of where they were when they heard about my death, as exists for Cobain. (I was in a car with my dad on Folsom Ave. in Boulder, C0lorado, driving south, when I heard it announced on the radio.) So the fact that the monster overtook these celebrities makes me feel even more vulnerable to succumbing.
Everything they did, everything they had, it didn’t help them. Couldn’t save them. What chance do I have?"
Source: http://disabledfeminists.com/2010/02/26/i-cant-handle-celebrity-suicides/
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Choose Light over Darkness
"My whole life I've had depression. I can remember being ten years old and reading in a Snoopy health book for kids that we lose between 30,000-40,000 skin cells each day. I was crushed. The idea that a tiny holocaust was taking place on my body every single day was too much to bear. I cried and cried. And then I laid in bed, numb. I had no desire to play or talk to anyone. There was no hope in this world. I might as well be one of those skin cells, lost in the abyss of nothingness.
Yeah, I was kind of an intense kid.
And it's funny in hindsight. Sorta. I mean, looking back on past troubles can often be humorous in a "Oh, what was I thinking? Why was I so upset about that?" self-deprecating kind of way. And there's something to be said for black humor. But there's also something to be said for depression.
Depression is an evil, elusive motherfucker. It comes in all different forms. Not everyone battling depression stereotypically retreats from the world, sleeps all day, drops out of school, misses work and all that. Sometimes it's this ever-present itch deep inside. It's a general ennui or Meh that dulls your senses and interests. It's not severe enough to draw attention to yourself, even to yourself. You might just think you're bored. Or lazy. Hell, maybe you are.
And maybe you think, "What do I have to be depressed about? I had a decent childhood. I have a decent job and a decent social life. There are people out there who have it much worse off than I do. I shouldn't complain." You feel guilty for being momentarily self-absorbed.
And maybe you try not to think about it too much, because what's the point? So you toss back a few beers each night or a few whiskeys each weekend, or maybe you smoke a few bowls here and there or just watch movie after movie to keep the numbness going. Or maybe to get rid of the numbness, you cut. Or fuck. Anyone. Just to feel something. Maybe you stop and start projects but can never finish. Maybe you're stuck and don't know how to move forward. So you wait. And wait.
And you might think, "Yeah, I had a pretty shitty father. And yeah, I was raped that one time. And sure I don't know of a single happily married couple that could serve as a role model for a good, worthwile, long-term relationship. And some days my self-esteem all over the place, but hey, that's life, right? Shit happens. Nothing's perfect. You live and learn and make the best of it."
And all those things are very true.
But something else is very true as well. It starts off as a tiny pea inside your brain, or perhaps in the back of your throat. You know it's there because it tastes slightly metallic and pinches from time to time. And if you let your guard down, it might retract it's tiny thorns just enough to slip down into your chest where it swells, warm and misty, and you hear it deep in your gut:
You don't have to suffer.
You shouldn't have to live like this.
There is another way.
There came a point in my life where I was so depressed I realized there were only two options. Get help or kill myself. Because the pain was so great I couldn't bear it anymore. I consider myself really lucky to have hit that point, actually. Many people never get that low, instead they hoover at this semi-tolerable level of depression. They can still go to work, still maintain relationships, still live for the most part normal lives. Perhaps they have bad spells, but they are so used to them by now they just chalk them up to a part of who they are. And worse, they believe that it's an integral part of who they are and they begin to pride themselves on it. "I'm dark," or "I'm a lone wolf," "I'm different," "I'm special," "No one understands me and I like it that way."
But are you happy? You might say sure. But hell, do you even know what happiness feels like? How would you if you have been dealing with this blah, this restlessness for so long?
I think I've been in this place for a long time now. It's not the sweeping, drastic, violent depression of years ago. But this might be worse. I'm ok enough to rationalize, to make excuses, to not be completely honest with myself. But two things have now become clear.
I don't want to suffer.
I don't want to live like this anymore.
I sat down on Saturday with my phone in my hand and a phone number in my other. And even though I've been through this before, even though I've promoted this and confidently helped others through it. Hell, I've even worked as a first-responder rape councilor myself. But no matter what your personal level of experience is with it, there is nothing, nothing that ever makes it any easier to make that phone call. To say those words. "I need help."
It has to be one of the hardest things a person can do.
And it has to be one of the bravest, strongest things a person can do.
Choose Light over Darkness.
I called the number and I made an appointment with a therapist. I did it."
Source: http://yourenotthebossofme-jsn.blogspot.com/
Yeah, I was kind of an intense kid.
And it's funny in hindsight. Sorta. I mean, looking back on past troubles can often be humorous in a "Oh, what was I thinking? Why was I so upset about that?" self-deprecating kind of way. And there's something to be said for black humor. But there's also something to be said for depression.
Depression is an evil, elusive motherfucker. It comes in all different forms. Not everyone battling depression stereotypically retreats from the world, sleeps all day, drops out of school, misses work and all that. Sometimes it's this ever-present itch deep inside. It's a general ennui or Meh that dulls your senses and interests. It's not severe enough to draw attention to yourself, even to yourself. You might just think you're bored. Or lazy. Hell, maybe you are.
And maybe you think, "What do I have to be depressed about? I had a decent childhood. I have a decent job and a decent social life. There are people out there who have it much worse off than I do. I shouldn't complain." You feel guilty for being momentarily self-absorbed.
And maybe you try not to think about it too much, because what's the point? So you toss back a few beers each night or a few whiskeys each weekend, or maybe you smoke a few bowls here and there or just watch movie after movie to keep the numbness going. Or maybe to get rid of the numbness, you cut. Or fuck. Anyone. Just to feel something. Maybe you stop and start projects but can never finish. Maybe you're stuck and don't know how to move forward. So you wait. And wait.
And you might think, "Yeah, I had a pretty shitty father. And yeah, I was raped that one time. And sure I don't know of a single happily married couple that could serve as a role model for a good, worthwile, long-term relationship. And some days my self-esteem all over the place, but hey, that's life, right? Shit happens. Nothing's perfect. You live and learn and make the best of it."
And all those things are very true.
But something else is very true as well. It starts off as a tiny pea inside your brain, or perhaps in the back of your throat. You know it's there because it tastes slightly metallic and pinches from time to time. And if you let your guard down, it might retract it's tiny thorns just enough to slip down into your chest where it swells, warm and misty, and you hear it deep in your gut:
You don't have to suffer.
You shouldn't have to live like this.
There is another way.
There came a point in my life where I was so depressed I realized there were only two options. Get help or kill myself. Because the pain was so great I couldn't bear it anymore. I consider myself really lucky to have hit that point, actually. Many people never get that low, instead they hoover at this semi-tolerable level of depression. They can still go to work, still maintain relationships, still live for the most part normal lives. Perhaps they have bad spells, but they are so used to them by now they just chalk them up to a part of who they are. And worse, they believe that it's an integral part of who they are and they begin to pride themselves on it. "I'm dark," or "I'm a lone wolf," "I'm different," "I'm special," "No one understands me and I like it that way."
But are you happy? You might say sure. But hell, do you even know what happiness feels like? How would you if you have been dealing with this blah, this restlessness for so long?
I think I've been in this place for a long time now. It's not the sweeping, drastic, violent depression of years ago. But this might be worse. I'm ok enough to rationalize, to make excuses, to not be completely honest with myself. But two things have now become clear.
I don't want to suffer.
I don't want to live like this anymore.
I sat down on Saturday with my phone in my hand and a phone number in my other. And even though I've been through this before, even though I've promoted this and confidently helped others through it. Hell, I've even worked as a first-responder rape councilor myself. But no matter what your personal level of experience is with it, there is nothing, nothing that ever makes it any easier to make that phone call. To say those words. "I need help."
It has to be one of the hardest things a person can do.
And it has to be one of the bravest, strongest things a person can do.
Choose Light over Darkness.
I called the number and I made an appointment with a therapist. I did it."
Source: http://yourenotthebossofme-jsn.blogspot.com/
Monday, March 1, 2010
Death, please find me
"Maybe he’s emotionally abusive. But maybe I’m just as bad.
I can’t deal with how much I’ve hurt him. I can’t deal with being without him, with him refusing to talk to me.
Even if, somehow, he did manage to forgive me, where could it possibly go? Back to what we were before? No. He’s still married. And I still have a wonderful man living with me who cares about me and wants to patch things up despite what happened with this person.
There is no way past this. I want what’s impossible and every day is either numb self-delusion or the agony of staring reality in the face. I don’t want to forget him. I don’t ever want to forget that I was so happy, or trusted someone so much, or felt so loved. It’s unthinkable.
Apart from being universally hated and spat on by every other child in my school for ten years, I had a happy childhood. None of this horrible parental stuff, no abuse. It was just living like a social pariah at school, day in, day out, that got me into the suicide clinic when I was 16.
I have no self-esteem. No self-worth. No sense of honor or dignity. If I did, I’d leave this man alone to his family and go to the man who wants me. I’d stop cutting myself and knocking myself out with Ambien. I’d stop scaring the people who care about me.
I don’t want to wake up again. I don’t want the slightest chance of ever waking up to this reality again, and every single method carries that risk – along with the risk that you’ll have been discovered, have hurt everyone, and have made the reality That Much Worse than it was before.
Death, please find me. He wants me to have killed myself, and I can’t do it for him. Please make us both happy, and take me away."
Source: http://suicideproject.org/2010/02/i-dont-see-a-way-out/
I can’t deal with how much I’ve hurt him. I can’t deal with being without him, with him refusing to talk to me.
Even if, somehow, he did manage to forgive me, where could it possibly go? Back to what we were before? No. He’s still married. And I still have a wonderful man living with me who cares about me and wants to patch things up despite what happened with this person.
There is no way past this. I want what’s impossible and every day is either numb self-delusion or the agony of staring reality in the face. I don’t want to forget him. I don’t ever want to forget that I was so happy, or trusted someone so much, or felt so loved. It’s unthinkable.
Apart from being universally hated and spat on by every other child in my school for ten years, I had a happy childhood. None of this horrible parental stuff, no abuse. It was just living like a social pariah at school, day in, day out, that got me into the suicide clinic when I was 16.
I have no self-esteem. No self-worth. No sense of honor or dignity. If I did, I’d leave this man alone to his family and go to the man who wants me. I’d stop cutting myself and knocking myself out with Ambien. I’d stop scaring the people who care about me.
I don’t want to wake up again. I don’t want the slightest chance of ever waking up to this reality again, and every single method carries that risk – along with the risk that you’ll have been discovered, have hurt everyone, and have made the reality That Much Worse than it was before.
Death, please find me. He wants me to have killed myself, and I can’t do it for him. Please make us both happy, and take me away."
Source: http://suicideproject.org/2010/02/i-dont-see-a-way-out/
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)