Last day at work for the year today.
I don’t want to seem like I’m obsessed with myself, but I probably am. I feel so alone and unloved. No matter where I am or who I’m with I’m always alone.
I feel unsafe. I’m listening to Breathe Me by Sia and it makes me want to cry. But I can’t cry.
I keep playing death over and over in my mind on an endless loop like a song I can’t get out of my head, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet. The councillor asked me the other day if I actually want to die, or if I just want my pain to end. This time, I don’t know the answer. I think about it non-stop. I don’t know why I would actually want death rather than an end to pain, but somehow, the idea of ending my pain seems pointless. Suicide is just taking control of the one thing in life nobody has control over. Does it even matter? My cells have replaced themselves countless times since I was born. I’m not the same person I was years ago. Maybe the person we are is just a gradual progression of births and deaths until the big one.
I feel like there’s nobody out there who cares, except those for whom I’m a constant disappointment. I can’t talk to anyone about how I feel. Not really.
Today is the end of the world yet again. Maybe that’s kind of fitting.
5 comments
I think it’s in the Therapist’s Handbook that they ask you whether you want to die or to have the pain end. I’ve argued with mine about it. I think I’m used to the pain now, MOST of the time, and making it go away is impossible so I’d just be setting myself up for a series of distractions from pain followed by OOOMPH!REALLYINTENSEPAINCUZIFORGOTABOUTITFORAWHILE pain which is worse than what I have now. So… yeah, like you said, pointless :\
Darn those Mayans for giving us false hope about the problem being solved.
Haha, yeah, damn those Mayans for making a calendar that overflows today. Thing is, I think I can be happy with the right drugs. Well, I felt happy or at least relaxed for a little while while I was in the hospital a few months back. I think it is possible. It must be. Not everyone is unhappy.
It still seems pointless though. If I’m happy, I’m naïve, if I’m unhappy, I’m cynical. Either way, there’s no meaning or compassion in life. Not really.
“If I’m happy, I’m naïve, if I’m unhappy, I’m cynical.”
Me too!
If only the happiness were real. I feel like drugs can only give a fake kind that’s not really satisfying. But that might be the depression talking.
No, I know exactly what you mean. It’s like trying to reassure yourself by believing something you know in your heart isn’t true. I’m superficially normal, I laugh, I tell stories, I make jokes. Inside, I’m empty. The drugs might make me happier, but they can’t make it real.
Yeah. I can’t even be bothered to go through those motions anymore, except where it would be too odd not to laugh politely (like at work). I despise having to be fake and would rather be alone than have to fake being normal… but I’m supposed to go be fake because it will supposedly make me feel better? I resist.
I can say “I KNOW” something, and people will say “you can’t possibly know that,” but I DO know it. My rational side can admit it is a FEELING not a FACT but the heart’s belief in it as fact is much stronger.