I’m not quite sure if becoming a user of this forum is a means of an end or a coping method. At this point, it really couldn’t matter less.
One day, perhaps, I will fully disclose the ‘origin story’ (this phrase is funny to me, as if comparing the origins of my condition to the origins of a superhero’s powers); the entire tale of my descent into severe depression, my incessant and quite honestly obsessive thoughts of suicide that had lasted every day for a year, and my journey through psychiatric hospitalization. At one point, I had felt that these points in my life were important and shaped who I was. Now, they’re nothing but spaces in time where I can hardly differentiate each singular day, due to the chronic and burdensome haze that depression had draped over my mind.
All that aside, the real reason I had looked up this website, registered for this forum, and am now typing my very first in-depth post about how I ‘feel’ is simple, to the point of seeming contrived: I thought I was getting better. And as time will tell, and will always tell, I wasn’t.
Seventeen months. Seventeen months of not being able to go a day without desiring immediate death, imagining the ways it could happen, and hoping so strongly that it would occur soon. I have some good days of feeling suicidal, where such thoughts don’t occur as frequently and only at night; I also have the worse days, where I am unable to even drive to work without letting go of my steering wheel, albeit just for a moment, just to trick myself into thinking that if I really, really needed to, I could crash my car and end my life.
On the really horrible days, I find myself looking up ways to die on the internet. There had been moments of desperation where I even attempted to see if I could kill myself via Advil overdose (that was in the past, though, before I had been prescribed medication that I could actually overdose on. The first thing I did once I received my prescriptions was research how I could overdose on them).
The difference between the past and present, however, was that I could at some point, during my sulking and wishing for death, feel remorse for my thoughts and actions. “How could I put my family through this?” “Am I really thinking about ending my life?” Now, it’s more so that I’ve gone through months of desensitization. It’s not that I am no longer able to enjoy myself or that I can’t feel pain. If anything, it’s that I used to cry until my entire body hurt after having a serious talk or argument with my family about my depression. Now, I feel close to nothing.
My father told me that he didn’t believe I was truly ill today. Rather, he believed I was a liar, who finally got caught and just needed an ever bigger lie to cover everything up. Before, I would have been raging and angry, sobbing as I would try to argue with him. Today, I sat there in silence and stared at a wall until he was finished talking. I felt no yearning to argue with him; I knew I was always going to be the one who was wrong and there would be no fixing that. It’s as if years of attempting to argue with my father had finally dawned on me today and I had just suddenly gone mute. There was nothing left in me to say anything back to him.
Usually, I would be angry, argue, and then I would think about suicide and the ways to do it. Instead, I had immediately skipped the anger and retorts, and just thought about dying. I’m now considering what would be the perfect day to have before killing myself, which I’ll make another post about since I decided that if and when I do end my life, I won’t do it until I’ve had the perfect day beforehand.
I’m too tired to write much more. Hopefully whoever reads this may have some ounce of empathy.