I feel like I’m fucking losing my head here..

‎2am, right before bed, is the WORST time for me to sit on the edge of my bed and let my mind wander. Lately, it’s been especially difficult because I’ve been beyond stressed (who isn’t really), and I have been in “avoidance” mode to cope. At night, when it’s time to wind down, it all catches up with me and feels like a rush of lunacy. It’s overwhelming. I feel like I could/should walk myself into a 1980s D movie psychiatric drama and visit the ominous “hospital on the hill”, or something like that. Reality is far less dramatic, which kind of sucks, because I think the drama would help ease this all along. I don’t want to be an adult anymore. I don’t want to feel this way or have these thoughts. I want to start over. Reset button anyone? I blame my off kilter medications one minute and then my lack of responsibility the next. I feel like losing it but my current “circle” of acquaintances and co-workers haven’t seen me with burn marks on my arms. I don’t want to have to explain to people, all over again, that I’m inpatient and therefore unavailable. I feel like I’m losing it and if I try to say this to my therapist, she’ll want to know why. Why? Because I’m me?

My scars are fading…

I just found my quarter from last year. It’s what they give you when you graduate intensive outpatient at Baptist hospital. This would have been around the time I was getting out too, I believe. I had painted it with glitter nail polish and then super-glued it to a necklace piece that I searched every craft store around for, I cared that much about it. I cared deeply about the woman running the IO course. I was so attached to being inpatient, I didn’t want to let go. I still kind of fantasize about it. I think I’m going to bring my quarter to therapy on Thursday and show my therapist. I can’t believe it’s been a year.

It’s also been so long since I’ve burned, I don’t have any real noticeable scars, except to myself and to those who know where they are. When I’ve shown those who didn’t know me when I burned, they were surprised. I even got lazy and stopped using the oil and they still faded away, it’s been that long!
Temptation hovers every time I’m triggered but I am managing, somehow.

I can’t breathe

Extreme self loathing, depression, guilt, hopelessness, etc. I tried journaling and it didn’t help. I just took two klonopin to calm down a bit. I don’t want to wake up in the morning. I don’t want to do this same “song and dance” bullshit anymore. I am exhausted.

I’m sorry.

No one likes me because of, me.

So, I keep being completely invalidated, as a woman and as a person by people who I thought we potential new friends/acquaintances and it’s really taking a toll. I am trying to make friends and have a social life outside of my one (Chris), but it’s really proving to be hard. I keep thinking it’s me that’s the problem, because they’re all ultimately saying the same thing in the end: don’t take things so personally or don’t be so emotional/sensitive.
When I try to vent or look for validation from others, I don’t feel like I’m getting it. Maybe I am being too touchy? Then I tell myself that that is who I am and I shouldn’t have to change myself for others. I’m so confused. I want to be likeable but I don’t want to stray too far away from who I am. I feel like such a recluse at times because I just end up keeping everything bottled up instead of sharing so I don’t set anyone off. I’m sick of being ganged up on. My beliefs, my personality, emotionality; it all seems to be too much once people spend more time with me.

I’m a procrastinator and it’s all my fault

I am on week 9, the last week of my Math class, and I have my final due on Sunday. I am still behind, on week 4 precisely, and have so much makeup work to do. If I don’t pass this class, I will have to take it again and pay for it myself, out of pocket, which would be around 1200 bucks. Needless to say, I don’t have it. I do this every class. I procrastinate and don’t do the work and then I get so far behind, I am stressed and swamped the last week. I am even more worried with this being a math class because I’m horrible at math and feel like it’s a foreign language. If it were writing a bunch of papers, I would be fine, but… ugh. I’m so tired. Stress just makes me want to disappear into a hole.

i don’t want to live anymore….

Nothing I’m doing is working.
I’m depressed. I take my pills on time and I still feel like swerving my vehicle into a tree at random intervals.
I’m numb. I’m at the IDGAF stage right now. I am eating chocolate in massive amounts.
I yearn for sleep at all times. I want to cry but I can’t.
I hate everything about myself and how I feel right now. I hate that I’m a burden. The only way I can fix that is to disappear. I smother people with my problems.
I feel nothing but self pity and it’s like poison.
No one knows me.
No one knows how I feel.
No one one understands.
This is all bullshit.
Fuck my life.

Three klonopin later and I’m beginning to feel slightly numb. Good.

The “S” word. [ Trigger warning for talk of suicide ]

Taboo. It’s unheard of to talk about suicide when you’re mentally ill because it makes people nervous.

Shh! You have to whisper it.

Or better yet, don’t mention it. Act like it’s invisible and it doesn’t exist. If you’ve attempted to kill yourself in the past, it’s even more of a “no-no”. Talk about walking on eggshells and being made to feel invalidated!

I personally don’t treat it like that at all and wish the rest of society would begin to loosen the hell up and talk more freely about something that is most definitely a part of life; death, no matter how you arrive to it, it happens to us all.

Suicide. It’s just a word to me and the more I treat it like a word, the less power it has over my life. The more I push it away and act like it hasn’t been a major part of my life, the more it will push back and remind me that it’s still around the corner at any moment.

It’s funny how before I became severely depressed and before I first attempted to end my life, I never even thought of suicide. It wasn’t something I ever even contemplated or really turned over much in my mind. I never had friends who talked about it and it was one of those things you only heard of on TV or in the movies. Oh the joys of being improperly medicated!

I sometimes feel like these thoughts and feelings I have are so commonplace, that others must feel the same way. I do all the time.

Then I remember that they don’t. Most people don’t become suicidal after a small fight with their roommate over what to eat for dinner. Most people don’t think of swallowing all of their pills, plus their resevoir pills, just because of a silly spat over which TV show to watch. That’s when I came to realize that suicidal ideation is not normal reaction, it’s extreme and unhealthy. It can also be dangerous if not monitored.

After ten years of dealing with, surviving, and figuring out what makes me tick, I consider myself an expert. Does this knowledge make it easier? Sometimes. Does it make it hurt less or the thoughts not automatically pop into my head? No. They do all the damn time. I am, for the most part, stable. I also have a lot more work to do. Everyday is a struggle but I’m alive.

Suicide is taboo and talking about it openly should be encouraged, in the right settings. I’ve attempted twice, now, and been hospitalized four times to prevent myself from trying again. Do I think I’ll try again? Maybe. Hospital again? Maybe. No way to know for sure. Just have to survive each day, somehow.

I thought I was the one who was supposed to be difficult.

Well, today WAS going okay. I slept in, went and got lunch, got a couple things on my to-do list marked off, started work on my resume while Chris was working on a healthy dinner, and we had plans to go out to see a movie (for free) that we’ve been dying to see with friends later on in the evening. Suddenly, from in the kitchen, he screams that he needs help and I see bright orange and him running out and I realize it’s fire. Now, mind you, he’s a professional chef and knows what to do in the event of a fire but everyone panics when there’s a flame shooting out of a pan 6 feet into the air. Luckily, he threw the pan onto the ground, it didn’t ignite anything (or badly burn our cabinets) and he had the brains to grab the extinguisher. The kitchen filled with a white cloud and we both started choking on chemicals. I leaped into action to open the doors and windows, grabbed a fan, and locked the cats up. We’re all fine but dinner is destroyed and the night is destroyed.

So, resume creation put on hold, I automatically start cleaning up. Any sane person would start there, right? I grabbed the broom and started sweeping the weird sandy stuff from the extinguisher as I was choking on chemical crap. I told him to sit down for a few minutes but didn’t assume he’d disappear. I began wiping all of the cabinets and putting the dishes into the sink because they all needed to be cleaned again. Everything in the kitchen now had a white residue on it. Still, he was nowhere to be seen. I continued to sweep and wipe stuff down and started to get annoyed. Why was I cleaning up HIS fire? I know it was an accident but HE DID do it, not me. Why was I cleaning everything up by myself? This was seriously aggravating me and the fact that it had basically ruined the evening didn’t add to my mood. I was hungry, agitated, and now I was beginning to have racing thoughts about what to say and that’s a bad combination. I went to ask him why he wasn’t helping and he was on the couch. He said I should wait and let the dust settle. WAIT?! Um, no. I’m not waiting all night for anything. It’s late and I have stuff to do. This is not further stalling my plans. He then got pissy and walked away mumbling: “Do whatever then”. Um, excuse me?!

I cleaned that entire kitchen for over an hour. I asked him a second time if he wasn’t going to help and got no response. He was laying in bed on his computer, pouting. I still haven’t eaten anything and he’s yet to speak to me. I’m so sick of this passive-aggressive crap. I’m made to feel like I did something wrong and that I’m supposed to be guilty but the logical part of me knows I did nothing. This emotional black mail is what my mother did to me. It’s manipulation. I cannot take it anymore and will not. If I had the means to leave, I would.