Hello there. I’ve been around this site for a few months now. I see people are quite nice around here, so i guess i’ll be telling a few tales regarding how i got to the point i am at now. Perhaps what i say will fall in non-deaf ears for once.
All you really need to know about me is that i was diagnosed with Asperger’s at a relatively young age, therefore, talking with strangers, making friends and socializing is border-line impossible for me. Really, the only time i’ve made friends was in the last year of Highschool, and we haven’t even met in person since (At least, i haven’t had any invitations from any of them). Plus, it’s not like i would ever confess any of my real emotions to any of them. Have never had a girlfriend, either. All i really have is my family, and even then i don’t see them as trustworthy, per say.
For years, i’ve only had myself.
“But why don’t you trust your family?” You might be wondering. Well, it’s a long story (17 years+ long, actually). It’s probably best to keep it for another day. Maybe. Without going too deep, my father and mother have had a broken relationship ever since i remember, him having severe anger issues, and her depressive (And from the way she acts sometimes, what i could only asume are also phsycotic/hysterical) predicaments. None of them take any sort of medicine for those problems as far as i know. My older brother is barely at home, so i scantily know or interact with him. Oh and my grandma pretty much lives with us as of late but she is senile, thinking my mother is the devil and is just sad to look at, to be honest…
Needless to say, i consider myself to be pretty lonely. My only sort of companions are my three cats, that i sometimes seriously consider as the only things i love (Other than God and Christianity, really. More on that later). I’ve always been a secluded guy.. Specially now that highschool is over and i don’t go out unless i’m forced to. Some days i sleep until 3 pm, still unbearably tired. Others i wake up in the middle of the night and can’t sleep for the life of me. Regardless, i feel drained for the rest of the day. That’s how i’d describe my mood most of the time nowadays. Drained.
Every gram of happiness that i used to have for the things that enthusiased me, that i love, that inspired me, that kept me willing to go forward, all of them… they’re gone.
Now it’s just the void.
Most of the time i’m just waiting for death to come to me. I would’ve brought it upon myself already, if it weren’t for three things, mostly. These are the fear of going straight to hell, as Christianity proclaims, the dread of knowing that my family will crumble for sure (I might not feel much for them, but I know they love me, which only makes me feel worse about my selfishness and ingratitude. Last thing I’d like is to do is being a massive dickhead and ruining the holidays) and the fact that, wherever I might end up at, I’ll probably end up missing my cats.
To circumvent these flaws, I resorted to cutting. As odd as it may sound, it lost its effect on me rather swiftly. Which leads to today: In an outstandingly retarded move worthy of the Darwin awards I tried stabbing. Four times straight, nonetheless. And probably the worst part, it was in a very visible section of my right leg.
So yeah. Good (?) news is, it felt amazing. I utterly enjoyed watching torrents of my blood dripping on (And from, haha…) my leg, and gave me the endorphine rush cutting simply couldn’t. (By the way, if you are concerned about how I really, REALLY should seek help from a professional considering I got a kick out of doing this, I’ve already tried. Haha, ha. Details later). Bad news, now I’ve got four gaping wounds that I need to cover up with pants until they are somewhat less noticeable. It is not going to be easy, and if they’re seen by anyone, specially my mother, histeria will go rampant in my home, and worst (Best?) case scenario will be me landing in some phsyc ward or taking some pills that will have God knows what side effects. And don’t worry. I’m not in danger and the bleeding stopped some hours ago.
Would a porpusely non fatal self wound getting infected by accident count as voluntary suicide? Oh, wonders… Hopefully not.
This is turning out to be way longer than expected. I guess I should carry on while I still have it in me. Heh.
Now, about those details. By know you probably think I have more than just asperger’s or some form of depression. Personally, i believe it myself. Funnily enough, I had already told my school counselor I’d like to stop living and she didn’t give a flying f*ck.
Some time ago my parents actually noted some changes in my mood and personality apparently worthy of a phsycological revision. Not surprisingly, it looked like I had depression. Lets call the one who diagnosed me of this “Arnulfo”. I initially thought he was extremely nice and comprehensive, he gave me a glimmer of hope to retrieve my long lost happiness. But he sent me to an actual phsyciatrist, and I told her everything. How I felt at the verge of suicide most of the time, how I was a glutton for pain, both physical and mental, my self admittedly gross and worrying fondness of self harm and my own blood, my emptiness, my loneliness… All I had inside of me, in hope I would get the help I craved, the treatment I so dearly desired, my hope of joy.
Do you know what she said once I was done?
Oh, I crack up every time. Quite the knee slapper, haha. OK, OK, here it goes:
“Well, =My Name=. I don’t see any need for any further treatment, just keep taking your sleeping pills and you should be fine. Don’t worry, it’s probably just the mood fluctuations of being a teenager”
After that, she calls my parents into the office to give some , ejem, “final advice” before taking the next concerned family in need into her office.
That’s it. That’s the punch line in the joke that is myself. Me.
My last hope… vanished right in front of me. Just like that. Oh, boy…
“But you could still tell someone else about how you feel and seek help elsewhere” I hear you say.
This was my wake up call, except I hadn’t realised it at the time. I deluded myself into thinking that a person with a PhD had no reason to be wrong or outright lie to me about such matters. I kept forcing myself through the years, grinding to achieve joy and with the hope of the pain ending sometime. No such luck.
A few weeks ago it was so abhorrently and numbingly awful that I called the suicide hotline for my city.
No one picked up.
Then I realised. No one at all seems to really give a f*ck about you. Maybe your family, but that’s about it.
I’ve gone and rambled on for far too long now. I despise myself. I only feel contempt and hatred towards me. I’m so ungrateful. I don’t deserve the loving family that I got. I’m disgusting. Four new dents prove so. Four new embarrassments for one giant knobhead. I’m the worst. God, forgive me if I were to die by my own or another hand. I beg you. I’m sinful. Let me purge in purgatory, but please don’t let me fall in the depths of hell. Please. I repent.
I’m so, so sorry. Moments like this, days like this, are the ones that really do make you wish the wounds get infected.
Sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes. My first language is not English. I don’t know where to put this in, seeing as it is pretty much everything I had in me, I guess I’ll put this in General or something.
Have a better day than I did.
“Si tienes un amigo, tienes un tesoro”