Why do they care?

Why do others care if a person kills themselves? I'm not talking about parents, siblings, other, extended family, or others who know and care about the person. I'm talking about those who are not otherwise invested in the person. People who don't know them from Adam (query: if you're talking about a girl is the phrase 'don't know her from Eve' appropriate? or do you just have to find something else? I've often wondered about this, lol). What makes them bother? Why do they care if I die?

I ask these questions not because I am suicidal at this time. That is to say there is no intent. Heaven forbid the thought leave me alone for just one day. Restarted a couple of antidepressants yesterday so it's been even more fun these past 24 hours. Actually it's those antidepressants that bring me to the point of entry. Because yesterday I had strangers go out of their way so that I could be able to have those meds.

I went to the free clinic in town yesterday. I didn't expect much to come of it. As a matter of fact I rather expected to waste their time. But I had to try. Out of work again I have no way to pay for antidepressant medication. The best solution to that would be to get another job. I need another job, for more reasons than just medication. Student loans. Rent. Basic existence for myself and the boys (the cat and dog). The problem is... I don't know if I can do it. I want to. I need to. I need to finish growing up. I need to become an adult. But since that last sever MD episode (that anyone who has kept up with this blog is more than likely heartily sick of hearing me reference) I haven't felt capable. Fragile. It's the best word I can come up with. It's a word that I hate, at least when it is being used to describe myself. But when I was 'properly medicated' (on antidepressants and feeling blissfully Normal) I could do things. I know it sounds stupid but 'life' was possible again. All of it. A job. Exercising (I'd love to lose weight... a substantial amount, if I am to be honest). Going back to school. All of it. And now... nothing. Not when I'm not medicated. And it's just getting worse. Further into the Pit I go. And if I go too far, this time, I do not believe I'll make it out. So I went for help, believing that they would have none to give me, and OK with that. I spent two hours there and surprisingly enough most of that time was talking to someone, not just sitting in an exam room waiting. During that time I talked to a doctor (I think she's relatively new as far as volunteering there because I've never seen her before) and a mental health worker (at the risk of sounding ungrateful I will say to that 'joyous days'... but I mean, honestly, do I have to enjoy talking about all this crap? Because I'm not sure that is ever going to happen). They in turn talked to an NP who is apparently there 'all the time' and the guy who runs the clinic. And at the end of the two hours I was told by the guy who runs things (nice guy, from the whole three minute interaction we had) that the clinic would cover it (thankfully the two together, because of a discount the clinic gets at one of the local pharmacies, only added up to $27 so I don't have to feel too badly about it... I probably will, but I don't have to, lol) and left with an Rx for 200 mg sertraline (once daily) and one for 150 mg bupropion twice daily. Ah and a referral to comprehensive mental health in town, despite my telling them that they won't take me. That's alright I'll just suck it up, go talk to them once, and then present myself at the clinic again in two weeks to tell them that comprehensive once again told me no.

They didn't have to work so hard at it (there was a lot of phone calling before they decided the clinic would cover my meds). I'm not sure why they did. Why did they bother? What made them care? *shakes head* I don't know I'm making myself sound awful, I think. I understand helping people. I like people. So... I mean, I do understand... but I don't *is confused* Why do they care if I am depressed. Why do they care if I hurt myself or think of suicide daily. I mean, enough to bother, They didn't have to call around. They didn't have to do any of it.

And as I sit here, a huge mess of suicidal and self injurious ideas, thoughts in the form of images >.<, the tiniest part of me wishes they hadn't bothered(OK, not really but lord do I wish it would stop).

Is it stupid, that I don't understand? I should, I think. I don't know why I do not.

"You have a lot of scars... it's just something that you do"

He didn't mean anything by it. I actually think he was trying to be understanding. And odds are his telling them those things was a big part of why mental health didn't come and harass me that day in the emergency room (they didn't even call like they had said they would, much to my relief, if I'm being honest). All that aside though... "I told them you have a lot of scars [...] it's just something you do"... I think it was that bit which unsettled me so much. "It's what I do" or "It's just what I do" are phrases I have used several times in the past... but never about my SI. About my music... about my caring for people... I've said it about those things. To have the phrase I use when talking about positive things in my life, positive aspects of my character, be used in reference to my self injury... and especially by a medical professional... I wonder how many doctors have treated SI like that. Again, I'm not saying it was bad... it's just strange that he used that phrase.

I can't do anything about the scars I have... heaven knows if there was a way for me to get rid of them I would (I stopped counting before I got to my legs... with 300+ scars on the rest of my body I figured I didn't need to count the rest... it's enough to say 'a lot'). But I can stop adding to the ones I already have. I just don't want hurting myself (a phrase I don't care much for but it's what is) to be just something I do. So I'm trying to stop. I've made it eight days so far and it has been anything but easy. But I've made it eight days. I made it nine months once before... here's hoping I make it past that this time. Maybe I'll make it from now on...

The First Step To Recovery Is To Admit that You Have A Problem... Part II

It was his 'you have a lot of scars, and it is just something you do' comment, and the nurse coming in with the water and the antibiotics. At least I think that is what it was. *shakes head* To be honest I really don't know. I do know that I have never before felt this way after having a cut seen to.

Unsettled is actually a very good word, thanks Han :) (strange to talk to someone directly in my blog, lol). As to why... yeah, I just don't really know. As I said about I believe it centers mostly around the interaction I had with the doctor regarding Comprehensive and, even more strangely, being given my first dose of antibiotics while I was there. *shakes head* I think it might have hit me then, that there really is 'a problem'. But how much sense does it make that an ER visit where I mostly dealt with two very kind, understanding individuals (and didn't have to talk to mental health) would be a time I 'realize' that something is wrong with the behavior that landed me there in the first place (my cutting)? *shakes head* And probably most unfortunately is that... I think that is what was so unsettling (realizing that something is wrong)... but I don't know if there is much I can do about that realization. Because I cannot seem to take it much farther than that... and while I am still feeling unsettled (really good word choice, thanks again Han, lol) and I am pretty sure that is why... I cannot... I am not sure that I really want to stop. *shrug* I don't know. I really don't. And that seems to be the most unsettling part of it all.

The First Step To Recovery Is To Admit that You Have A Problem... Part I

So what the hell is the second step?

Maybe that isn't a fair question. I'm not even sure I've fully admitted that there is a problem. But I came one step closer this past Saturday.

I try and avoid the emergency room whenever possible. Now, I can hear you telling me that, yeah, so what? Most people try and avoid anything that might send the to the emergency room. But just hold on a minute, that is not exactly what I meant. Because as those of you who have read my blog before will undoubtedly know I sometimes engage in a specific behavior that could very easily land me at my local ER.

I cut.

And unfortunately I was careless enough this last time to cut just deeply enough in just the right spot that my normal method of care was not enough.

As I said I try and avoid the emergency room when at all possible. This is because it can sometimes be more trouble than it is worth (*trigger* at least, more trouble for a person with a penchant to take a razor blade to their skin). So I have become very adept at taping even the most gaping of wounds closed. This most recent one was no exception. Taping it closed was no problem. But keeping it that way proved more difficult than I had anticipated.

(This next section could trigger so please tread carefully)

It's on the side of my calf, about 4" long and 3/4" - 1" at it's widest point. It is not my longest cut, nor is it my deepest one; it is, however, the deepest one of any real significant length. I made the cut Monday night of that week. On Wednesday I tripped and only caught myself just before ending up on my knees. Unfortunately it bent my leg in such a way that it split the cut wide open. I wasn't thrilled about it but mostly I was just happy that I didn't bleed all over the carpet so after I got it taped back together it was no big deal. I contemplated going to the ER to get it stitched closed but because it was almost 48 hours since the original cut the odds that they would stitch it closed for me, as far as I knew, were slim to none. And since I didn't really relish the idea of owning up to the fact that I had intentionally inflicted such a sever cut upon myself (not that owning up to intentionally inflicting any sort of harm to ones self is ever pleasant) I abandoned the idea pretty quickly. On Saturday I showed up to work before the gal with the key did. It's been pretty hot here this summer (though not nearly so hot as you all in the East have been seeing) and that day was no exception so I found a spot of shade and sat down on the ground... and split the cut open again in the process. It was then I decided that, 'old' cut or not it was not going to stay closed without being stitched up. So I used what I could find at work to cover it until my shift was over (scotch tape and a tissue, not ideal but it kept any dirt out of it) and when it was I drove myself to the hospital.

Needless to say I was not looking forward to that visit.

(This is just a 'blanket trigger warning' as I can foresee several times that I may need to warn in the following section)

I think she phrased the question something like 'How did the cut happen?'. We'll go with that because she put it in such a way that, seeing as how I cut myself intentionally, I found it slightly amusing. In answer I chuckled and said 'How did the cut happen? Ah, well, I cut myself intentionally.' To her credit the nurse didn't really bat an eye; she simply asked me what I had used. When I told her that I had used a razor blade the nurse who was dealing with my blood pressure and pulse (no idea why they both had to be there, he showed up first but I got the idea that she was supposed to be doing it), without even looking at me, asked if it had been clean. I've seen him before when I have gone in for self inflicted injuries and I really appreciate his 'business as usual' attitude.

The gal led me back to a room and though I had come prepared with a book (thankfully I had one in the car) my wait for the doctor was very brief. I have to admit I often feel a bit of frustration at being asked by the nurse and later the doctor how I came to have these injuries. Why in the world do they ask at intake if the doctor is just going to ask again when he shows up? The answer is that, more often than not, the doctor has in fact already spoken to the nurse and knows exactly how I got the injury. It seems they most often just want to hear you say it for yourself. I haven't quite figured out why but that has been my experience with it. He didn't ask me why I had cut myself, just looked at it, listened to my explanation of exactly why I had used scotch tape and a tissue to cover the wound, and then told me, on his way out of the room, that I needed to be in a hospital gown. Great. I was less than thrilled with this as I've got scars pretty much every where (I actually started cutting on my legs as it was easiest to hide there; the since I always wore blue jeans no one would suspect anything) and I don't care who you are or what your profession is I do not want to show them to you unless I absolutely have to. Apparently the fact that did not want to wear one was something to be noted because after I tried to persuade the nurse that the leg of my pants would go up high enough (needless to say that didn't work) I heard her tell the doctor that I did not want to wear a gown. Big deal. I had not refused so why tell him? Because it was rather strange behavior, that's why. Anyway I kept my long sleeved shirt on under the gown so I was spared from showing off those scars at least.

If the doctor found it odd that I was still wearing my shirt underneath the gown he didn't say anything. He came back in and put the head of the bed down and told me to lay back. Wonderful. You never really think about how vulnerable you are in such a prone position until you find yourself in an already uncomfortable, mortifying situation. He took another look at the wound and asked me if I was depressed. I laughed a bit and told him that I was taking antidepressants. He started to ask me if I was depressed right at that time but then seemed to take my antidepressant answer to mean that I was not and did not finish the sentence. He didn't really look me in they eye throughout much of the process. I did not, however, get the impression that he was angry or frustrated with me. He was hard to read actually. He was almost as nonchalant as the male nurse (who when he came back in to irrigate the wound carried on an undemanding conversation about the small town that I work in, bless him) but there was something underlying that I could not clearly identify. This I know for sure, he was very kind. You hear horror stories of ER (or A&E for my friends outside the US) visits where doctors and nurses are rude and clearly upset that you would waste their time by intentionally hurting yourself to the point of needing medical attention. Thankfully I have never had such an experience.

He asked me, as he was numbing the area before the nurse came back in to clean the wound, who my counselor was. I told him I did not have one. He asked about my primary care doctor. Again, I told him I did not have one (I go to the free clinic in town). He mentioned mental health and said they would help me, if I wanted. I told him that they would talk to me and as I do not have health insurance and cannot get medical through DSHS they would then tell me there was nothing they could do for me. He deduced correctly that I had dealt with them before.

When he came back in to stitch up the wound he told me, almost apologetically, that he had had to call mental health. He told me that he told them he believed me when I said I was not suicidal (good man he didn't even question what I meant when I answered his 'are you suicidal' question with 'Not at the moment') and that I have a lot of scars, that this is just something I do (it was at this point he told me that it was probably not the best coping mechanism), and that he did not think they needed to go down to the hospital to see me. They did however, want to talk to me and so he had had to give them my phone number(they never did call, thank God). He told me all this so that I would not get a surprise call later. I told him that I would not have been surprised at all but thanked him for telling me none the less. It was some time around then that I told him that when I had dealt with them in the past I had come away with the impression that they do not really listen. They come in with a preconceived idea and in the case of someone who SIs that preconceived idea is Borderline Personality Disorder. 'They label you', he responded gently.

It took him the entire time but when he had finished stitching my wound closed he decided (after talking it out, with himself, I think) that I should probably have some antibiotics despite the fact that there was no infection present. I told him not to bother prescribing them as I did not get paid for another week and so could not afford them as it was (to be honest I couldn't have afforded them even then I barely make enough to afford my antidepressant and pay my electricity bill, forget anything extra). He said they would give me some. He left to write up my paperwork and in a few minutes the nurse came in with a glass of water and a couple antibiotic tablets. On his heels was the doctor with a small bottle of the same tablets and the instructions to take one every 8 hours until they were gone (I was given a larger dose to begin with). The nurse dressed the now closed wound and then brought back my discharge instructions. He told me, in a matter of fact way, to watch the wound and take my antibiotics and sent me on my way.

I went away much calmer than I had been when I got there; the experience had been much easier than I had anticipated, thank God.

Yet a couple days later I would realize that my worsening mood was correlated with my ER visit and I would try and figure out exactly why that was, seeing as how it was not nearly as stressful a visit as I thought it would be (and I hadn't had to talk to mental health, for which I was grateful).

A Thought or Two

There has been a lot of drama on one of the online support communities I belong to. A lot of drama. I myself experienced a broad range of emotions; from livid, to 'just' angry, hurt, confused, and violated. And while it has left me a bit worse for wear I also came away from it with a small bit of insight regarding my SI. I'm not entirely happy with what I came up with but still, I'm sure it is a start in the right direction.

I cannot remember whether I burned or cut over this unfortunate situation. To be honest my SI has been a bit more frequent than usual, as of late and while I can usually tell you about the recent ones (when I did them, maybe even why) I've just not been together enough to retain that I guess. The method is not important anyway, so much as the feeling behind it and that feeling, was anger. OK sure, that sounds reasonable, right? Well, as reasonable as it gets when discussing reasons for intentionally hurting yourself which, after all, is not in and of itself reasonable. But I digress. What is strange about this particular reason is that it was not the anger I was feeling toward this particular individual that sent me for my tools; rather it was anger toward myself and the feelings I was having about the situation (the anger, the hurt, the feeling of violation...). And since then I have noticed that, what triggers me most are feelings of frustration toward myself frustration, more often than not, about feelings that I decide are unreasonable. Negative. Bad. Now, the 'experienced' part of my mind, the psychology student in me, is not at all surprised at this. I've ran across this idea more than once between the reading I've done on SI and the talking I've done with my online friends who engage in similar 'activities'. But it has taken me quite some time to apply it to myself.

I'm sorry, I'm thinking 'out loud'. I used to write better than this. Believe it or not I am the same person who wrote those posts in 2008 ;) I'm going to have to stop writing or I'll just feel worse about myself, lol. *shrug* Ah, well, what to do...

Sometimes...

Sometimes I wish I was back at the bottom of the Pit. The very bottom where I cannot be bothered even to take my own life. Even as I write that most of me is screaming on the inside 'How can you think that?! Have you forgotten what it felt like? The Hopelessness, the Darkness, the Emptiness? The Despair, and the Helplessness?'. The answer is that, no, I have not forgotten what it was like. There is a considerable amount of fear attached to those memories, to the thought of 'going back'. I have said several times before that not only am I not confident that if (when?) I find myself in another sever major depressive episode I will be able to pull myself out of it but that I believe, with almost 100% certainty (statistically speaking there is no 100% ;) ), I will not make it out, that I will kill myself. But... if I could just go straight to the bottom of the Pit... straight there and, maybe, straight back out to the top again...

I don't know. I cannot remember that time clearly enough... I cannot remember my thoughts well enough. I don't know if I was just incapable of actually committing the act of suicide or if my brain was so thick that even the suicidal ideation couldn't penetrate. I suppose, when I wish sometimes to be at the bottom that I am hoping it is the latter; that it wasn't just that I couldn't be bothered to kill myself but that I was so out of it, that my brain was so muddled that the thoughts couldn't even get through. But even as I write this I am almost sure that the only thing that kept me from killing myself was that I could not even be bothered, that it was too much effort, that the thoughts were still there but I was so out of it I couldn't do anything about it.

But if it was that way, if it wasn't lack of suicidal ideation that kept me from killing myself but the simple fact that I could not even be bothered to do that... if the thoughts were still there... I remember my brain being very sluggish. I wonder if that would be preferable to what I am experiencing now. Because I have the feeling that those thoughts did not 'sting' as badly as they do otherwise, possibly because my brain was so sluggish, so thick. Because they're bothering me more as of late. I'm so tired of it. I don't want to see it in my head anymore(because that is what the 'thoughts' are like really, pictures... distorted, somewhat abstract maybe, but pictures none the less). I'm so tired of it. I'm so tired of telling myself that I will not do it, especially when the only reason I can come up with half the time is 'I won't do it, I have no reason to, after all.'. That's not a good reason. And most of the time I have one or two other reasons, family, friends, my pets (the pets most often, lol)... But I think I might be a little worried. Because I am feeling like I could act impulsively on it. And while I suppose the worry is good because it could mean that I don't want to die... the truth of the matter is that, for the most part, most of the time... I don't care.

Book: Cutting, by Steven Levenkron (which is a totally cool last name, btw ;) )

So I went to this insanely huge book store a couple days ago (it takes up an entire city block and is something like 4 stories high!!) and, being the psychology nerd that I am decided that the section I really wanted to spend my time in was... you guessed it, the psychology section. I spent money I shouldn't have on two books, Out of the Shadows, by E. Fuller Torrey, and Cutting, the book in this blog title. As you can probably tell from the title of this blog I decided to read Mr. Levenkrons book first.

My first idea as far as writing about this book goes was to just tell you all what I think about it. Which I will do. But I've run in to a bit of a problem there because reading this book is a bit harder for me than I thought. Truth be told (and here is yet another example of my extreme idiocy) I really didn't think it would have much of an effect on me at all, at least, not negatively so. I think that I foolishly thought I could read it simply from the point of view of one who is interested in and knows something (hey, that BA has got to count for something ;)) about psychology and seperate from it the fact that I myself am a cutter. Unfortunately I have learned that, at least as far as I am concerned, this cannot be done. All that to say I am not sure how much of the book I am absorbing this first time around. I think I will try it again (probably after I read the other book) and see if I can get more out of it because I really would love to 'weigh in' on it. But right now I haven't got much to say about it. But here goes.

I took issue with several small parts, probably some generalizations he made, before I managed to remind myself that generalizations always have to be made because, lets face it, while not everyone fits perfectly in to such 'categories' there are enough similarities between individuals who engage in similar behaviors that it's really only natural (I would like to take this opportunity to apologize as it seems my grasp of and ability to use the English language has gone down hill as of late... if it is of any consolation it probably bothers me a lot more than it does you ;)). And seeing as how I already know I don't fit 'perfectly' in to the 'cutter mold' (I started rather 'late', for one thing... actually that is the biggest one *shrug*), I decided to give him a break (kind person that I am ;)... sarcasm and humor, sarcasm and humor *shakes head* If you would like that last little bit to be explained you need only ask, lol, though I feel like I said something about it some time ago... who knows. I do not care for his use of 'self mutilation' though. I suppose it paints the problem in the correct light and shows how bad it really is but for what my opinion is worth (and I realize that is not very much) I much prefer self injury (self harm in a pinch but that can encompass so many different things that are not self injury and really are separate disorders or problems in and of themselves... not to say that there is not room for co-morbidity but...). Other than that I think it is a good book. I am very glad he wrote it. Actually what I am most glad about is that I now know that there is at least one person out there who knows something about this 'problem' so many of us share, this 'shame' we live with. And not only does he know something about it (heck, I'm not even half way through but I'm gonna go ahead and say that he knows a lot about it ;))... he cares. And I get the feeling that he doesn't, somewhere deep inside even, think we are all 'freaks'. It's nice to know that somewhere out there there is someone who is not afraid of us and what we do to ourselves. It's very nice.

*shakes head* Poorly written but it says what I wanted it to I guess. *shrug* Que pouvez-vous faire? (What can you do? or, more literally, What can you make?... guess the saying doesn't translate exactly, lol)

I don't know if I can go back...

I don't know if I can go back. It's probably just the poor timing as far as this whole mess is concerned. I was already feeling shoddy. And then... then you jumped all over me for deleting a thread. How was I supposed to know that it is not kosher there? Especially when the same feature is standard on just about all message boards and no one yells at you for deleting a thread on those. All you had to do was tell me that it isn't something that is done there. That's all. Very easy. One, maybe two sentences tops. Instead you immediately started talking down to me. And then when I expressed confusion, not at what you were telling me, I never once disagreed with you there, told you that you were wrong... I was just confused as to why you were jumping all over me. But instead of listening to me, instead of reading and processing that... you saw something else. I suppose it was my fault, in some ways. I definitely shouldn't have been so sarcastic as I was. I bite, when I'm feeling lousy and then someone pokes at me. And instead of trying to bring you back to what I was saying... well, yeah, I just got sarcastic. I didn't try and explain, I responded to what you were writing which had very little to do with the point I was trying to make, the confusion I was feeling. And you started reacting to my attitude, my sarcasm. And you started getting mean. How many times did you allude to the fact that you think I am immature (references to 16 year old's, 'wondering' why you would have to be explaining this to an adult)? How many times did you accuse me of deleting that thread as 'punishment' or insinuate that I had some malicious intent when I told you time and again that was not the case? You called me a liar at least once (used the word 'feigned' though I cannot remember the rest of the sentence and I cannot bring myself to look through any more of that mess to find it). You made me sound like a horrible, insensitive person and I am not. You were mean.

I don't know if I can go back to that. I don't know... You hurt me, very badly. I... I can't figure out what I want to say but... I don't know.

The Realization

It hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks; a realization so unwelcome, so unexpected, and so devastating that, once it fully sank in, I felt something akin to grief.

To fully explain I must first give you some idea of how this revelation came about. The problem is that, in order to do so I'm afraid I have to make myself sound like a stupid, jealous, unreasonable child (which may unfortunately be pretty accurate, from time to time at least).

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She was rude and inconsiderate of anyone's feelings other than her own. Tactless and critical she had been driving me nuts the previous few days (despite my best efforts to not let her get to me. We were on a mission trip for crying out loud!). Worse still her behavior toward a mutual (married) friend was irritatingly inappropriate. She seemed to always be sitting by him and she flirted with him constantly. And I was jealous. I knew it. I knew it, I hated it, and I couldn't seem to do a damn thing about it.

One night while observing the interaction between these two and (silently) reminding myself not to be an idiot, that ton of bricks came crashing down on me. What I was really jealous of was how comfortable the relationship between the two seemed to be. How she seemed almost to take for granted that he cared for her. How easy the (platonic) intimacy was between the two. I realized how much I wanted to have the same certainty in my relationships. The same easy intimacy.

And I realized that none of that may ever be possible.

It feels impossible, at any rate. I'm not sure I can. I don't even think I know how. And I can't figure it out any further because I don't understand it. I can't explain it any further, can't take it any farther in my own head... so how am I supposed to fix it?

A Preface

*sigh* There seem to be so many things I cannot explain. So many feelings I cannot quite put words to. Understandings that I can take no further. Worse, the harder I try the more frustrated and unhappy I become. But I'm going to try. I am going to stumble around these most pressing of topics and then post them here, on my blog, in the vain, desperate hope that someone will read and understand. That someone somewhere can at the very least point me in the direction I need to go to figure this stuff out And before anyone states the obvious, no, therapy is not an option. Believe me if I could afford it (I have no health insurance) I am desperate enough now that I would already be looking for a good therapist.

Please, don't ask that of me...

She basically asked me to give her permission to kill herself. To let her go. She says all this at the same time she asks me to not talk to our mutual friend. So I had no one. (I'm a terrible friend. I did tell our friend. She just kept on and I couldn't do it. Unfortunately it just made things worse for our friend. I didn't mean it to but I should have known)

She keeps saying it doesn't matter. That we shouldn't care. But it does matter. We do care.

All three of us are so stressed. We're all so touchy. For the most part, none of us want to burden the others. It's no good for any of us but we are all three so alike it is no surprise.

I wonder how much SI will go on because of this? I hope for my friends, none (especially for the one as, well, we just never know with her now). For me... maybe some burning, I don't know. The good news is, I guess, that I'm pretty numb feeling right now so most of this is only having so much effect. Burning... it probably isn't necessary (which is good because I don't have much in the way of first aid supplies here).

Another post from another forum

Once again I wrote this on a thread I have on an online SI/SH community. As you can tell it's just a reaction to some folks in that community who are causing some problems amongst the other members.
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I cannot stand the melodrama! The attention-seeking! Some of us actually have these problems you people are just using as ways to get the attention you crave! This is serious stuff people. Life and death stuff. Its stuff that incapacitates some of us so much that we can hardly get out of bed. Stuff that haunts us while we are awake and stalks us in our dreams. Life, for some, really is a living nightmare. And you, you who are out only for attention, you take up space much needed by others. You monopolize support that others need more, sometimes desperately so. You can counter, I suppose, that if the support is so desperately needed than your sniveling posts should not be any sort of hindrance. But the problem is that while the rest of us speak honestly from the heart, from the very depths of the emptiness inside, you are master manipulators, saying just the right thing to get the maximum amount of attention, which is, after all, really all you are out to get in the first place.

Do you understand the damage that you do, however inadvertent it might be? Or is it that you just do not care? Because the rest of us, those of us who really are suffering, we could do with a little less of your drama, I think. Especially when you expect us to be the ones to satisfy your need for attention. And being those who actually experience and understand that which you only fabricate, we provide that attention. We are, after all, the perfect audience. We know what you are talking about and are sympathetic to that which you pretend to experience. Because we have been there. We are there. We live it day in and day out. And after all, why would we automatically assume you are just using us when we ourselves are there for a purpose. We are there to offer and receive support. And that is what we do. We support. We support you because we understand the need for support. And while you are getting the attention you crave from those of us who have so little to give emotionally... we keep hurting. We keep seeking support that is no longer there. Support that has been wrung from those who have the least to give and therefor have nothing left to give those of us who really need it.

I Wish I Knew Another Language (actually a rant of sorts)

I wrote this as a post on an 'online community' I am involved in and the thought 'What the hell, may as well post it on my blog. Not like too many people read it anyway ;)'

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That is, I wish I knew another spoken language I'm pretty proficient in ASL if I do say so myself but you can't really write in a signed language). Don't worry I'm getting to the "ranting/venting" part. It's just that some times I would really like to go off in said 'other language'. I've no idea why. Perhaps it is a privacy thing since the people I associate with tend to speak only English. Alas, as I do not know any other language I guess I will have to go off in my own native English.

I hesitate to write this but what else do I do? See, I've got no one to talk to. At least, no one to talk to about such things. Not right now. Hopefully again but right now that person with which I would usually confide in, and, lets face it, whine to, well that person has their own problems to deal with right now. They would probably kill me if they knew this (which is why I hesitate to write it as they are sure to read this) but that's just the way it is. I will continue with my feeble efforts to not dump my problems on them. I wish I could keep them from them entirely but it's just getting too hard. If it happens (just did tonight :pinch:) try to put a bit of a humorous spin on it but... it's very obvious... whatever.

I know that after I write this I will feel as if all I have done is complain. I will tell myself that there are so many people with much worse problems than I and that I am simply melodramatic. That I just need to pull my head out of my ass and get on with life like everyone else. But for the moment, I will allow myself to just write.

I took a nap this afternoon. No big deal people take naps all the time and Sunday afternoon seems to be a favorite time. So really what I did was become a cliche. I slept from some time after noon until five this evening. Honestly the only reason I got up then was because I had to feed the boys (the cat and dog) and take the dog out. Were it not for that I am sure I could have slept straight on through till Monday morning (with minimal interruption in that sleep).

It's just...

I feel awful (huh, didn't take long for the first chorus of 'You're so Melodramatic' to start running through my head). I hate blaming this all on the lack of meds but the fact of the matter is that when I ran out of Wellbutrin things started to get a bit worse and when I ran out of Zoloft as well *shrug* here we are. My sleep pattern is awful, my appetite is almost nonexistent (which unfortunately does not keep me from eating :pinch:) and I don't want to do anything. Lord, sometimes I can't even be bothered to find the remote for the TV so I can watch a show I usually like. I have to make myself do things (it took me three days just to get my tiny apartment sized kitchen clean!), things I usually enjoyed, responsibilities that the thought of shirking would normally cause me to balk. And if asked to do something additional... well I can usually guilt myself in to doing it (babysitting, for example, which I usually enjoy as I do love little ones) but I spend the time leading up to whatever it is I have agreed to do just dreading it, knowing that I am just not up to it.

I went nine months without cutting. It was not always easy. Some times the only thing that really kept me from doing it was how far I had come. I've cut twice now and if you want to honest truth... well, I'm not sure I really care. I can't really tell you how I feel about it. Mostly *shrug* I'm just numb.

I hate this. I really do. I hate that I seem to be dependent on these meds. That, I think, is what I hate the most. I know that statistically I am screwed (my last major depressive episode having been my fourth which means that, statistically speaking, my odds of having another one are as close to 100% as you can get). I know that. But I don't want it to be true. I don't want to do this for the rest of my life. I'm only 26 for crying out loud 'the rest of my life' could be a LONG time yet.

And yet, who knows. The longer I go without my meds the shorter my life expectancy could become *shrug*.

Я трахающий ненависть это! Моя голова - такой беспорядок, что я не могу даже бросить пригодное качество! Я ненавижу это, я ненавижу это, я ненавижу это!

Ah good ol' translation programs *sigh*.

How do I say goodbye

How do I say goodbye, my friend
When it is clear that your time has not come
How do I ask you to stay
When I understand too well the emptiness, the hopelessness that you feel
How do I let you go
When I know my world will be that much more empty without you

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I hope I've written this prematurely. She lives literally half a world away (well, more or less) which, as she pointed out, means I cannot tell anyone of her plans. In two weeks my friend who has talked me through my depression as I have hers is giving up. There is nothing more I can think of to do. I've tried everything I know how. And so I sit back and wait, ferverently praying I will not recieve the Facebook message or email telling me that I have one less friend in this world. And that, hard as I tried, I was unable to help her.

So Very Tired

I'm tired. S0 very tired. And I hate this.

I hate feeling like this.

I hate that the smallest thing makes me tearful. I've been watching a borrowed set of the only season of FireFly (a kind of sci-fi western) and I cannot tell you how many times I've come close to tears in just the first two discs alone.

And Lord, I'm so crabby it's not even funny. I hate it.

And the worst part of it is... there's only so much I can do about any of it. I've got no health insurance. I can't afford either of my meds (even $10 for the cheapest, for crying out loud). And while I could exercise it won't have the effects won't be as immediate as I would like. Not that restarting my meds would be immediate... if I could have stayed on them...

*sigh*I'm just so very very tired.

(and a little bit sorry for myself, sheesh *rolls eyes*)

“If there is a worse place than hell, I am in it. What shall I do? […] The bottom is out of the tub.”

Preach it, brother Abe. I find it slightly ironic that the above quote comes from a man who also had a history of sever depression and was know at times to have been suicidal. But that is really neither here nor there.


Just one hour shy of nine months no SI. I'd really like to make it to nine months. And ten. And eleven. And a year. Now, realistically speaking I'll more than likely make it to the nine month mark (I can't do just one thing at a time and since I am currently playing around on FaceBook and YouTube it's entirely possible that I will make the nine month mark before I finish this blog entry). That knowledge does not make things any easier, however. Because the reality is is that I desperately want to take that razor blade, the one I've saved for just such a time, and draw it across my wrist. Not to kill myself. I'm not to that point yet. Just to hurt. To bleed. (lord, you would not believe how badly I want that.) And I already feel bad enough. I was already having a hard enough time resisting temptation. It's been some time now since I've had my Wellbutrin and about a week since my last dose of Zoloft. I hate that I'm so dependent on them. I hate that, relatively speaking, it has been such a short time without either of my meds and this is what happens. I go, almost instantly, back in to a depression. I'm exhausted in spite of the fact that I am sleeping, on average, at least 12 hours most days. I hardly eat (which I've actually found beneficial as it seems that avoiding food keeps at least a couple of the withdrawal symptoms at bay). I spend an inordinate amount of time staring vacantly ahead. And now I am faced with yet another difficulty.

How do I do it? How do help her from half a world away? When I know how she's feeling and understand the fear so well, the fear that this time things won't get better. When I have felt the hopelessness myself. When she does not want to hear me. She has already made up her mind, you know. Something like a week to take care of things and then 'everything will be fine'. I tried everything I could think of, what little that was. Mostly I told her that I loved her.

How do I sit helplessly by and watch my friend fall apart and eventually take her own life? How, when I feel this bad already, do I do that and manage to hang on to my own?