Here are a few judgements that reflexively pass through my head when I come here:
Unforgiveably stupid. Like seriously lacking in intelligence.
But that’s why we come here right?
Because that’s the way the world views mental illness. Because as long as they can’t see a bloody, gory wound, you must be exagerrating about this supposed pain. You have no real reason to complain.
And I get that view. I mostly subscribe to that view. I don’t know what I have to complain about.
Yes, I lost my child this year. But the statute of limitations on wallowing in that is up. Not that I allowed much wallowing. A week after it happened I was journalling. A month later I was painting. Two months later I was back at work.
Three months later I had a breakdown and saw a counselor. A week after that I told her I was fine and she told me I was fine.
And now about two months after that visit, and five months after the world ended, here I am on Suicide Project.
That I keep coming back to this esteemed company no longer just saddens me. It scares me. I have started to wonder whether the darkness that leads me here might also lead other things to me.
I don’t mean in the supernatural sense (or do I?) (No. I don’t). I mean in the sense that this low energy, angry, frowny bullshit reflects and creates the storm clouds.
Is that a thing?
I know that happy is work. And sad requires little effort. It is the wave that you just have to let crash over you, while you try not to drown. And depression is when that wave hits you after you have swum far from the shore.
There is probably an analogy in there for how you need to just relax and the wave will carry you back to shore.
But what if I swam out too far this time? And my arms are tired.