Bah

June 16th, 2008by yutz

I’m in my mid-thirties, I’ve got a decent career, money in the bank, girlfriend, no major responsibilities other than getting my current projects in on time, no major health problems yet, yet I think of suicide almost daily.

Nothing feels good. I’ve got the trappings of a good life, but I get no reward from it, which magnifies the day-to-day obstacles and makes them a thousand times worse. Most people’s status quo is to be generally happy. It feels like my status quo is to be in a state of despair, or panic. Socialization doesn’t feel good. Work doesn’t feel good. I’ve started taking antidepressants, and now sex doesn’t even feel good.

I can’t handle conflict. Everything feels like an incredible shock, making me fly off the handle constantly.

I can’t concentrate. Lately, the only thing keeping me working has been doses of adderall, but then it’s either no concentration at all, or too much. I don’t feel motivation to get things done until the last minute, which gives everything an edge of panic and uncertainty. I fear that I’m going to screw everything up irreversibly soon.

It’s a brain disorder. Somewhere, for some reason, something’s not wired right, and I don’t get the required daily maintenance dose of feels-good, even though externally, nothing’s really that wrong. Unfortunately, there’s really no cure yet. We don’t really have any idea what causes depression. SSRIs are a shotgun blast where a scalpel and a probe are needed. Their side-effects feel almost as bad as what they’re supposed to treat.

I doubt I’m going to kill myself any time soon. The only reliable methods are either petrifying (jumping off a bridge/building), or give you too much time for cold feet. (Handguns have a 30-day waiting period and background check. Rifles don’t but they’re too unwieldy. There’s too much chance of a slip, and a James Vance-like result) Plus, the body wants to live. Every time I look down from a great height I know this. Death will be oblivion, which is so unknowable that it’s scary. There’s no “what happens next?”, no “things will change” anymore. Just nothing. It’s like trying to break through a tough, fleshy, nerve-filled membrane. It doesn’t matter what’s on the other side because it’ll involve so much pain trying to get to it, but I think about it constantly anyway. It doesn’t feel like I have many other choices. I don’t like thinking about the effects my suicide would have on other people, which makes me hate myself even more. It would be nice if I’d never been born.

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