When pills and therapy aren’t enough

I stumbled upon this a few moments ago, reading a couple of the blog posts about suicide. Like so many others, I consider it and I empathize with all of you. My “name” is Xinite.. I’m 27, schizophrenic, bi-polar, clinically depressed and am on three different medications for these- an anti psychotic called Abilify, an antidepressant called Mirtazapine, and sedative for PTSD- Xanax. I’m still depressed. I still break down. I still hear voices. I’m still paranoid. I still feel crazy. I took Zyprexa until I gained 40 pounds and had disgusting, traumatic nightmares every single night and, even then, I still felt scared, paranoid, broke down, got depressed, and wanted to die.

It’s 6:20 am for me, and I haven’t slept for two nights. I took half a bottle of Melatonin and spent 3 hours in the bathroom throwing it all up.

All my life I’ve wanted to die. I did all the tricks. I started cutting everywhere- I still have the scars. I stabbed myself in the stomach. I took an entire bottle of Midrin every few days for weeks until my mother caught onto my abuse. I drank detergents and household cleaners, even a little bleach. I banged my head (and still do) against walls, with hard and sharp objects.. I have a dent on the right side of my head and I often think that that’s why I’m so dumb and incapable. For the earlier parts of the last two years, I picked at my skin all over my body to the point of infection, and did nothing to heal myself. I started using drugs, any I could get my hands on, and overdosed on dex, meth, and Xanax and had to be rushed to the hospital.

This morning, I’m typing with bruised and bloody knuckles, a pounding headache, and scars on my arms. Like so many of you, I want to die. I’m too cowardly to slit my throat. I want a gun and am in the process of saving up for one, but at the same time, I also think it is best that I cannot afford one right now.

I think about the few people who care about me. And I do mean few. In my desperation and misery all night long, no one was there to call me back, text me, talk to me, or hold me. My boyfriend was in the next room, well aware of my habits, but sleeping soundly. He has to work, after all. He didn’t hold me, cuddle me, love me. He went to bed with me in tears after he called me “a viper”. Probably something he picked up from his sister who hates me because I can’t be happy, empty, mechanical, and worship her brother.

I’ve been to more than five therapists, a psychotherapist, and a psychiatrist. I take my pills everyday, I listened and spoke to therapists for years and I am still miserable, I still date and befriend cold-hearted, selfish, abusive and loveless people and I still want to die.

I’m obviously sick and to the world, there is something gravely wrong with that. I feel better off not being in it, and the world would feel better off without me, too.

I’m home alone all day. I “see” my boyfriend for a couple hours of silence and no physical contact in the evenings. No “I love you” or kiss before bed. No cuddling, no sex, no “sleep well”.

My life is pointless. I want to die, quickly, and preferably with little pain. I want to die with all of you so I don’t feel alone anymore.