I suppose I have a good life, relatively speaking. No history of abuse or neglect, my parents are together, etc. But all my life I’ve been consumed by thoughts of death and dying–simultaneously fearing it and wishing for it.
I was always a shy and awkward kid. I think at first I was disappointed by my inhibition, but three years ago, in eighth grade, when I “grew a personality”, as I say, my obsession with suicide really blossomed. I began to embrace my social ineptitude and became determined to make sure that people disliked–or better yet, hated–me, found me disgusting or rude or cruel, whatever. Because I was all of those things. Because I am all of those things. I am emotionless and cold-hearted, I have a single friend, I’ve never had a girlfriend, I have a weird personality, and really I am happy with all of that.
But over this past summer, my parents had grown increasingly worried that I had depression. I spent very little time with them, displayed blunted affect, had no appetite, had no motivation, etc. I kept shrugging them off until I decided, hey, might as well give therapy a shot. At that point I was seriously considering suicide. Most of my thoughts eventually came around to me insulting myself, telling myself how worthless I am, how useless, a waste, there are so many people better and more deserving than me, etc. And that brought me back to killing myself. In any event, I went to a therapist and was immediately put on antidepressants (go figure). After a few weeks I felt no differently, but my parents seemed to think otherwise, saying I showed slight improvement. Maybe it was a sort of placebo effect to them. I don’t know.
But slowly my suicidal thoughts began to gnaw at me more and more, until I decided I HAD to tell my therapist. I finally told her, but she didn’t seem worried that I would do anything. In actuality, I was probably a week away from slitting my wrists. At that point, school had been in for maybe two weeks, and one day I decided my parents should know about my suicidal ideation and I told them. They got really freaked out and called my therapist, who tried to get me to promise I wouldn’t harm myself for six months. I refused. So the only option I had was: Get taken to the hospital by my parents, or taken there by the police. I chose my parents.
I spent hours in the ER. My mom stayed with me the entire time, visibly upset. Eventually I fell asleep and, according to her, kept saying “I’m sorry” over again in my sleep. Another one of my problems: I’m responsible for everybody’s misfortunes. So finally I was given an ambulance ride (my first ever) to an adolescent “behavioral health” center. My shoelaces were removed. I was given a roommate. Every moment not spent sleeping was group therapy. Most of that time I spent sitting in a chair, not talking, just listening, and realizing–no, remembering–that I didn’t have it so bad. I was there for a week and began to truly believe I wanted to leave, but I since learned that that was just the role I was expected to feel. I said what I had to say to get out. I manipulated my parents. I see that now. I wanted to and needed to stay, but–just like the Stanford Prison Experiment–I had a part to play, and that was the mental patient determined to get out of the institution.
I was there for a week. A long week. I was let out apparently on the condition that I go to partial therapy and continue to take my medicine. And when I got home, I thought I was better. Things seemed to be changing that way, at least. I didn’t want to kill myself, but I still wanted to be dead. I kept that to myself. Anyway, I went to partial therapy for a week and somehow changed my personality to get out of there quickly. I had spent two weeks out of school–my grades tanked and didn’t improve much by the end of the marking period. School being one of the few things I enjoy in life–the educational aspect–this hit me hard. Or did it? “I don’t care,” a phrase I use to often, was slowly becoming my answer to everything. When are you getting a job? “I don’t care.” What about improving your grades? “I don’t care.” Are you even going to try? “No.”
I guess that’s me. Maybe I don’t have depression–that’s just my personality.
So things returned to what my “normal” was, save for no thoughts of killing myself. But last week, suddenly, I felt like I was completely different. Suddenly I felt like my only friend was leaving me behind. Suddenly I desired relationships. Suddenly I truly felt just how empty I was. And there’s the source of my problem. Because recently I’ve been growing more nihilistic–that is, I’ve been becoming obsessed with being remembered after I died, preferably as a horrible warning. I’ve become resigned to the only future that’s left for me: a murderer, a serial killer, a criminal. Because the only creative release I have–writing–well, I’m just no good at it, compared to… who? The professional, college-graduate authors? I feel so inadequate. I can’t do anything else. And now I feel I need to do anything to separate myself from every other human–to become inhuman, basically. I’ve never really felt this way before. And now, because of this deep and unexplainable identity crisis, everything’s come full circle: Now, once again, I want to kill myself. Nobody knows that though. It’s still vague and unintrusive thoughts, but dragging a knife down my arms is beginning to sound like a good idea right now… The thing that would scare me if I ever felt anything like fear, is that whenever I tell them I don’t want to take my medication anymore (I hate feeling dependent on something, including eating, that’s tied solely to an earthly body. It’s part of my fight to become inhuman.), they tell me that one of my conditions for leaving the psych hospital was taking the medication, and if I have to go back through something like that again, it’ll be radically different, state-run, much worse… Scared? No, come to think of it. It sounds like fun, like a challenge. How sick is that?
I don’t know. I don’t expect anything from anyone who actually took the time to read this unbearably long post about some unitnteresting 16-year-old kid who can’t get his act together and get real. To answer your unspoken question: No, I don’t think I have it bad. I know I don’t. Believe me.
I wrote this for me, as something cathartic. Please don’t read this. Don’t waste your time. There’s nothing of value here.