Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Suicide

Over the course of the past few months, I have been more depressed than I have been in a very, very long time. Upon telling my husband, the very reasonable question is asked:

"Why?"

Even when I assign physical reasons - the struggle I've gone through recently, at work, with Ladylike Gaming, with my personal life and how no matter how hard I claw and scratch and fight and climb nothing seems to change - it doesn't seem like enough. My entire life has been an unrelenting ebb and flow between logic and emotion. Emotion is natural to me. Logic has become second nature through years and years of practice. It was a necessity, otherwise I wouldn't be alive today. Rest assured, I'm not being hyperbolic.

As you may have read earlier in this blog, my first attempt on my life was rather young - the age of nine. To read the whole gruesome tale (some of my better writing, as well), go here. My desire to end my life did not end there unfortunately. The evidence of one of my last attempts remains as a thick scar, several inches long on my upper right thigh that will remain with me until my flesh exists no longer (another story I detail here). The good news is after that, I freaked myself out so thoroughly I haven't made a "serious" attempt since then - which was back in, oh, maybe 2007? Nothing but good ol' near-alcohol poisoning, reckless behavior and drug use since then. After getting married though, I've been pretty even keel and I'd like to thank one part Nicholas, one part antidepressants and one part learning decent coping mechanisms (thanks CBT!)

Lately, though? I had forgotten what it felt like to want to die so desperately. I've been sleeping 12 to 16 hours whenever I can get away with it, alternating between binge eating and starving myself. Only recently I've been forcing myself to socialize and truth be told, each attempt has been riddled with drinking way too much I'm so full of anxiety. Fuck, I'm borderline about ready to start cutting again. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I upped my antidepressants recently, in a desperate attempt to Get A Handle On My Shit. Sweet texts from concerned friends make me start sobbing. If I don't have at least one glass of wine a day, I feel like I'm starting to come unhinged. Xanax and I are approaching a first name basis. I don't really know what I'm trying to accomplish with this post. Some semblance of control over my quickly derailing life?

Spring can't come soon enough.

1 comment:

Say it, don't pray it.