I have scheduled my death

I’d like to start off by saying that I realise that my post demonstrates just how very weak my character is. And then I’d like to just emphasise that by telling you that I have not really read other people’s posts on these websites as I anticipate they will have some sort of effect on me. I have already told one friend about my scheduled suicide, or ‘Consideration Day’ as he has happily called it, before he went on to tell me about his own suicide attempt- one of the funniest stories I have EVER heard- thereby making me want to give him a big hug and also spit my lungs out, laughing. Thus, I have not read other posts because I am selfish enough to be able to tell you that I don’t want to feel like I have to convince anybody that life is really worth living, when I don’t believe that myself. I wonder if I am supposed to be weeping bitterly as I type this- but being super-full of caffeine is probably helping with that. Moreover, I wonder if you will be able to tell how difficult this is to write; not because of the subject matter- death is the one thing you can always expect- but because I am trying to make this free- a ‘stream-of-consciousness’ if you will. That way you shan’t be bored, should you choose to read this. And too I will be able to demonstrate my capabilities for freedom and choice.

 

A confusing introduction, perhaps. But I shall elaborate.

 

I have an anankastic personality disorder (my name isn’t really Anna… just a way of amusing myself into staying alive). Anankastic personality disorder is also known as OCPD, though formerly I have been diagnosed by my ignorant GP as OCD (‘I haven’t heard of OCPD, so it doesn’t exist’) and Aspergers. But yes… OCPD. Should you choose not to Wikipedia it, it is a disorder that means I am obsessed with organisation and schedules. To other people, I am inherently organised. To myself, it drives me out of my head.

 

Allow me to be succinct: I have a schedule for: food, clothes (including underwear, tops, trousers, coats, shoes, scarves and all manner of other clothes), listening to music, watching DVDs, having a shower (including schedules for products to use in the shower), bags, pens, University organisation, even going to sleep. Some schedules are written down; my food schedule, for example, is stuck to the inside of my kitchen cupboard, but my clothes schedule is in my head. Keeping all of these schedules in check is my day-schedule.

 

Every day I wake up and follow my list which I have written the night before. I always start with ‘Get up, take pills, have breakfast etc.’ At the end of the list, it says to write tomorrow’s list. So I write tomorrow’s list and then decide to do as many of the things as I can scheduled for tomorrow, today. So I do those things and then have to re-write tomorrow’s list again. My psychiatrist calls this ‘dragging in’, which is a useful concept so this is how I will refer to it. But no matter how much dragging in I do, there is always a list to wake up and follow the next day, and then the day after. And then the same thing happens. I go to sleep, and then I wake up and follow my list. And then I go to sleep again and wake up and follow my list. And then all of a sudden it is the next day, week, month and I am still following the list. I do not move anywhere without my piece of paper in my pocket, so that I can check what I am doing next, even though if I didn’t write it down, I would probably remember. Have lunch? No. Not unless it’s on the list.

 

As undramatic and tedious as it sounds my (compulsive) list-making has me feeling completely trapped and while I realise that it is by my own actions, I have no other way of functioning. Just the thought of getting up in the morning and choosing what to wear completely baffles me; my actions are not based on want, they are based on logic and the list. Eventually I reach the apex of being able to drag in for that period and need to ‘reset’ or my mind cannot settle. ‘Resetting’ involves cutting myself; I know that if I am imperfect with these marks on my body, it serves as a reminder that it doesn’t matter if everything else is wrong (i.e. something on the list won’t get done) because I too am wrong. Thus, I am perfect with these imperfections.

 

Cutting, or more accurately resetting usually involved consequent relief or relaxation. But for the past few months, I reset but I never feel relief. There is simply no end to it anymore; I live simply to make and follow lists. I feel like a factory, and there is literally no end I can see to it that means I can wake up one day and do whatever I feel like doing. The endlessness of it all is truly awful; I do hope that you can understand. I asked my boyfriend, whom I must point out I love very dearly, what would the difference be between me dying now and when I was 80? He jokingly replied, ‘60 years’. But I simply cannot do this for the next 60 years- there is no pleasure in life. I cannot go out with friends unless I have pre-planned it, and even on the off chance I do find myself ‘out’ all I can think about is being able to tick it off the list, go home and reset to find some comfort. Not that comfort exists there anymore; and this is the great irony. I simply have nothing that outlasts the worry and frustration I feel doing what I do. Therefore, I need to know that there is an end or, I shall simply go mad- not that I’m saying madness doesn’t have its wonders. Simply, I can’t bear to live like this anymore- it might sound like an exaggeration but living has become ritualistic torture. Even if I am very tired or very hungry, I cannot stop nor can I eat until I have written it down or completed the tasks before it. Sometimes when I am dragging in, I take the tablets I am supposed to take on another day and therefore make taking them counter-productive, but if I have written it down, then I must take them. I know I do it to myself and I cannot do this for much longer.

 

Dragging in is basically doing future activities at present so I do not have to do them in the future; the aim is to give me more spare time that I currently only either drag more into, or schedule my leisure activities which is usually just watching SpongeBob (yay SpongeBob!) but even then it is just something I have to tick off the list. Thus, I have scheduled for  July 1 2010 to go through the rest of my diary (the diary acts as a pre-plan for the day lists) and complete all of the activities in it, no matter how difficult they will be to achieve. On the 2 and 3, this ‘completion’ will continue. Three days should be plenty in order for me to complete everything that I have scheduled for the rest of the year. Then on the third day, I have written to ‘consider’ suicide. For without future activities, I have no function remaining alive. And in death, I will be able to achieve the relief that isn’t just impossible for me to find in life, but for everyone else too. I do believe that anyone who can say that truly they are happy are just ignorant; and how I wish I could be that way.

 

Too the word ‘consider’ is important because it gives me the choice because by then, I might have been cured of my disorder and everything will be all wonderful and I will live on a llama farm and everything survives by love alone.  But then again… I might choose to take a large amount of pills too (the amounts and types carefully arranged, of course). Simply, time will tell and this matters hugely to me.

 

And so that is my suicide story; the story of how and why I have scheduled my own death. But what makes it difficult is the knowledge that the people I love will suffer. My boyfriend has also told me that should I choose to die, I need to leave him before I do so that it’s easier for him. However, in my head I’ve always been choking on my own vomit and gradually slipping away with him beside me. He says that he feels selfish asking me to leave him- the very thought of which scares me more than dying does- but I know that I too am selfish asking him to watch me die and do nothing about it. This is what makes it difficult. This is why the July 3 is merely ‘Consideration Day’. I know that infact suicide is the most selfish thing I can do because it will bring ME relief. But the thought of having the choice brings me a sort of peace that resetting no longer gives. Arguably, there is no relief in death- only nothingness. But nothingness feels better to me now than waking up tomorrow, taking pills and having breakfast… everyday for the rest of my life.

 

For anyone who is interested, below is listed my progression of tablets and why they didn’t work out (amusement value included):

Citalopram – Actually worked rather well, but the effectiveness wore off after two months or so

Sertraline – Gave me a tremor that made me spill hamster food all over my hamster. (Not that he was complaining).

Clomipramine – Made me so nervous that I couldn’t bear to leave the house

Fluoxetine – The stronger they are, the worse the side effects apparently. For this pill, self-harming increased, list-making trebled (these first two effects have still not subsided), shaking, nervousness, insomnia, nausea and good ol’ blacking out during sexual intercourse.

Diazepam – Did nothing to my mind but slowed my body down so much that I kept spilling things on myself. This was the final time I went to see my GP, because OCPD does not exist. Clearly.

Quetiapine – A medication my psychiatrist has prescribed. I will start taking this on Wednesday, or Tuesday if it comes to dragging in Wednesday. And then maybe all of this writing will have been for nothing; maybe everything will be better.

 

I do wonder if happiness under medication makes life really worth living. I am selfish enough to want to die before anyone else that I love for I fear being alone and also despise my own compulsive actions. So either this message will be the end of my life, or the medication will be the beginning of something better. For the time being, I am simply indifferent to which I would prefer. I simply wish for relief.

 

Thank you for your time,

 

Anna x