"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
Friday, March 5, 2010
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/
Sunday, February 28, 2010
It would be so nice if something would make sense for a change
"Had a quick glance at my discharge letter. Lots of medical mumbo jumbo, though luckily having friends in medical school means it wasn’t too hard to figure out, and the things they didn’t know Google did! The letter sheds no light on why they thought I needed a chest x-ray, so that’s still pretty baffling, as is the fact that it talks about depression/low mood when I told every doctor I saw that I was feeling okay.
I didn’t try to kill myself because I was depressed, I tried to kill myself simply because I was too scared to be alive. The paranoia, the peculiar experiences, they don’t depress me. Maybe they should, but they don’t. They tire me out, yes. They terrify me, yes. But I am still able to laugh. I am still able to enjoy things. I am not depressed. I was a depressed teenager, I know what it feels like, and I know that this is not it. If only someone would listen to me, aftter all I do know myself better than anyone else.
The elusive crisis team finally paid a visit today, was a waste of time as expected – the woman they sent was here for all of five minutes, she asked the standard questions, seemed pleased when I told her I hadn’t had thoughts of harming myself (lies) hadn’t been scared by books/television/music (lies) and was taking my medication regularly (more lies). She complimented me on my hair and my dress though, so she gets bonus points for that, it’s nice to know that the effort I put into actually getting out of my pyjamas today was appreciated! She did suggest I should get out of the house a bit more, seeing as I haven’t left since I got home from hospital, but that’s not going to happen. Leaving the house is too stressful and if I’m honest, too much effort. I’ve got an appointment on Tuesday, which will probably take all my energy; I won’t be leaving the house before then. The meeting is actually with both the crisis team and the Early Intervention service, and she thinks that as long as I’m fine on Tuesday I’ll be discharged back to them. I will be fine. I am fine. Or at least, I’m really good at pretending, so either way I won’t have them to deal with anymore.
It’s not that I don’t want to be honest with the crisis team; it’s just that I can’t. Admitting to certain thoughts/feelings would make a hospital stay unavoidable, and I know any length of time spent as an inpatient would be detrimental to my mental health. Besides, spending time in hospital wouldn’t stop me from hurting myself, it might delay it, but the outcome would remain the same.
I am considering asking for a change in key-worker. My actual key-worker is on maternity leave, and has been since about November, I think, I know she’s due back around May. The man who has taken over from her, I have only met once, which isn’t particularly promising considering the amount of time she’s been gone. He is a nice enough man; it’s just that I don’t feel I’ll ever be able to open up to him. He only works for the Early Intervention Service a couple of days a week, so it’s really hard to catch him, and well, I just don’t think we ‘click’. I think I would feel more comfortable talking to a woman; apart from my CAMHS psychologist I have never really worked well with a man. He’s not going to be in the meeting on Tuesday because he has lots of ‘crisis stuff’ to attend to, so maybe I will bring it up with the psychiatrist then and see what he thinks. I probably won’t have the guts; I always feel terrible for upsetting or offending anybody – one of the reasons I didn’t tell my psychiatrist how bad things were getting was because I liked seeing him smile thinking he’d done a good job!
In other news, I’m getting a little obsessed with everything Alice In Wonderland in the lead up to the release of the film. Tomorrow I am ordering the most beautiful Alice inspired journal, a pocketwatch pendant, and a tea party charm bracelet. Happiness!
‘It would be so nice if something would make sense for a change.’"
Source: http://thesunshinediaries.wordpress.com/
I didn’t try to kill myself because I was depressed, I tried to kill myself simply because I was too scared to be alive. The paranoia, the peculiar experiences, they don’t depress me. Maybe they should, but they don’t. They tire me out, yes. They terrify me, yes. But I am still able to laugh. I am still able to enjoy things. I am not depressed. I was a depressed teenager, I know what it feels like, and I know that this is not it. If only someone would listen to me, aftter all I do know myself better than anyone else.
The elusive crisis team finally paid a visit today, was a waste of time as expected – the woman they sent was here for all of five minutes, she asked the standard questions, seemed pleased when I told her I hadn’t had thoughts of harming myself (lies) hadn’t been scared by books/television/music (lies) and was taking my medication regularly (more lies). She complimented me on my hair and my dress though, so she gets bonus points for that, it’s nice to know that the effort I put into actually getting out of my pyjamas today was appreciated! She did suggest I should get out of the house a bit more, seeing as I haven’t left since I got home from hospital, but that’s not going to happen. Leaving the house is too stressful and if I’m honest, too much effort. I’ve got an appointment on Tuesday, which will probably take all my energy; I won’t be leaving the house before then. The meeting is actually with both the crisis team and the Early Intervention service, and she thinks that as long as I’m fine on Tuesday I’ll be discharged back to them. I will be fine. I am fine. Or at least, I’m really good at pretending, so either way I won’t have them to deal with anymore.
It’s not that I don’t want to be honest with the crisis team; it’s just that I can’t. Admitting to certain thoughts/feelings would make a hospital stay unavoidable, and I know any length of time spent as an inpatient would be detrimental to my mental health. Besides, spending time in hospital wouldn’t stop me from hurting myself, it might delay it, but the outcome would remain the same.
I am considering asking for a change in key-worker. My actual key-worker is on maternity leave, and has been since about November, I think, I know she’s due back around May. The man who has taken over from her, I have only met once, which isn’t particularly promising considering the amount of time she’s been gone. He is a nice enough man; it’s just that I don’t feel I’ll ever be able to open up to him. He only works for the Early Intervention Service a couple of days a week, so it’s really hard to catch him, and well, I just don’t think we ‘click’. I think I would feel more comfortable talking to a woman; apart from my CAMHS psychologist I have never really worked well with a man. He’s not going to be in the meeting on Tuesday because he has lots of ‘crisis stuff’ to attend to, so maybe I will bring it up with the psychiatrist then and see what he thinks. I probably won’t have the guts; I always feel terrible for upsetting or offending anybody – one of the reasons I didn’t tell my psychiatrist how bad things were getting was because I liked seeing him smile thinking he’d done a good job!
In other news, I’m getting a little obsessed with everything Alice In Wonderland in the lead up to the release of the film. Tomorrow I am ordering the most beautiful Alice inspired journal, a pocketwatch pendant, and a tea party charm bracelet. Happiness!
‘It would be so nice if something would make sense for a change.’"
Source: http://thesunshinediaries.wordpress.com/
Saturday, February 27, 2010
The feelings dont stop
"i dont want to be like this but the feelings dont stop they get worse it is the reason my wife left me and my kids dont respect me
i cant enjoy any thing any more icant watch tv go out with my frinds they tell me i bring them down , i do want a real life but at this age i dont think there is hope for me , i been this way as long as i can remember my wife helped me alot and got me through a lot of bad times but she left me because she got tired of all the bs , now i have no one and dont want to live anymore"
Source: http://answers.psychcentral.com/Depression/i-want-do-die-but-i-cant-kill-myself-i-am-45-years-old-and-i-have-felt-this-way-all-my-life-but-now-its-getting-worse-/
i cant enjoy any thing any more icant watch tv go out with my frinds they tell me i bring them down , i do want a real life but at this age i dont think there is hope for me , i been this way as long as i can remember my wife helped me alot and got me through a lot of bad times but she left me because she got tired of all the bs , now i have no one and dont want to live anymore"
Source: http://answers.psychcentral.com/Depression/i-want-do-die-but-i-cant-kill-myself-i-am-45-years-old-and-i-have-felt-this-way-all-my-life-but-now-its-getting-worse-/
Friday, February 26, 2010
Somedays I wish that I were blind so that I didn't have to look at myself in the mirror
"Somedays I wish that I were blind so that I didn't have to look at myself in the mirror. I hate how disgusting that I am, and I hate how people lie to me and tell me how cute, sexy or beautiful I am. I can't see any of those qualities in me..alls i can see is my fat thighs..arms..my fat everything. I want to see my bones, free myself of this shell and become beautiful."
Source: http://momochi856.blogspot.com/
Source: http://momochi856.blogspot.com/
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