TRIGGER WARNING. I TALK ABOUT DEPRESSION AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS. IF YOU STRUGGLE WITH THESE, PLEASE GET PROFESSIONAL HELP.
I’m not an expert on the resources available, but I feel it would be irresponsibe for me to discuss this topic without also leaving some kind of link, and this one I’ve heard great things about: National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. You can call them at 800-273-TALK (8255)
The quarantine has had the effect on me of underscoring just how alone I am in the world. I have no connections. Nobody to video chat with. Nobody to check in on or visa versa. My roommates do. But not me.
Sooooooo, I must confess, I struggle with depression. Like, baaad. Like, suicidally bad.
I go to this place where I feel trapped in a world that’s only interested in flimsy, unimportant things, such as gossip and shopping, wealth and sex–and it leaves me cold. Or, people can only talk about casual things, and I don’t know how to have these conversations. I have trouble making meaningful connections with people. I feel like, I’m “a lot” to “deal with”. As if people have to gather themselves together in order to check in on me with a text or a call. I end up feeling unauthentic and shallow, disconnected and lonely.
Then I’m in a place where not only can I not connect, but I am some kind of burden to society, a freak of nature, a huge misfit, unable to be my true self with anyone, anywhere.
It’s at this point where I start to actually “plan”, if you could even call it that. I imagine distancing myself from everyone I know, going far away, being remote–nobody will check in on me for several weeks or months anyway, so it will be easier then.
That’s as far as I ever manage to get. But it does something to me. I can’t say I ever “come back” from these…episodes? I’ve had years of therapy, and it didn’t really help. It sort of helped. It felt like I was paying someone to listen to my problems, since I have no friends. That’s what therapy was for me. It felt lame.
Oh, I have attempted. Twice. The first time, I was 15, and I took a bunch of my mom’s Valium. It probably wouldn’t have killed me, which is actually worse. I got medical attention, was administered ipecac, barfed my guts out, and drank a lot of warm water to flush my system.
The second time, I was 23, and I was serious about it. I won’t go into extreme detail, except to say I took an entire bottle of OTC sleeping pills, which would have done the job. I planned to just slip away in sleepy peacefulness, but for a telephone call I made to a couple of family members to hear their voices one more time. I got the answering machine and left a message.
Here’s where shit got serious: my brother called me back. The phone was right next to my head. Not on a table. On the floor. I slept on a mattress on the floor, and the phone was literally next to my head. The phone rang 5 or 6 times, the answering machine picked up, my brother left a message, and he hung up–and the entire time I was trying to pick up the phone. I was unable to control my body. This scared me shitless. I managed to dial back the number, but by that time, he had already left the house again and I got the machine. In a panic, I just said over and over, “Pick up the phone! Pick up the phone!”
Nope. Too late. I knew I was going to die for realsies and I realized I for realsies didn’t want to die. Not yet, and not in this way.
I went to the ER, where I most willingly drank the ipecac, and gulped down all the water they gave me. When I finally did throw up (they kept asking me what I had taken and how much, and they were skeptical when I told them I took “32 pills”. I knew this, because that’s how many pills the bottle held) a giant ball of stuck-together pills came out with a giant CLANG into the metal dish they had for me. This was, for me, proof positive that I was accurate and not exaggerating. I remember giving the attending nurse a look that said, “See?! I TOLD YOU.”
This experience was truly terrifying for me, and there need not be much concern for me actually doing this awful action of killing myself in the future. But the depression still gets to me and I can’t seem to find a way to escape that particular beast.
Here’s the part where I tell you what I really think of the world and I reveal my belief of reality: we are trapped in a simulation. A game. It’s only partly what you make of it, so some people do get to have a grand old time. But there are people whose paths and life events are already chosen in some way. There are certain tasks one needs to perform, or challenges a person has to face to get to the next level.
I’m stuck on this level, and I can’t seem to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to do. It’s driving me nuts. I need to be more thoughtful about this kind of language: I don’t like that I can’t seem to figure out how to solve this level.
Sadly, this belief has ruined certain things for me, like video games and cosplay, because I’m already fucking doing that. I have this shitty, sickly, avatar, that’s tiny (but kind of cute), with multiple spinal injuries sustained early in life, so I’ve spent nearly my entire time on this mudball in serious fucking pain, and I can’t figure out how to make the world better, because I think(?) that’s my mission, but nobody gives a shit about what I have to say, because I’m too serious, and therefore boring as fuck, and my intensity is apparently too much for most folks.
I can’t help but think that if I were male and/or tall, these traits would be seen as charismatic. They’d be gifts.
But no. I’m just here, looking for the right NPC, or a talking raccoon to follow into the woods for a clue, or something that will help me have that “aha!” moment so I can figure this shit out and get past whatever it is that seems to be blocking me. Right now, I can’t even see it. I can only feel it.
And it suuuuuuucks.