I’ve been fighting off my own severe depression for 29 years, rather successfully, with an attitude that depression isn’t real, and thoughts about ending my life are just me being weak and unable to handle problems. But this tactic worked better when I was younger with opportunity ahead of me and the “my future will be bright” keeping me going; now that I’m 29, over educated and underemployed, fighting off depression with sheer will is becoming harder and harder, and the suicidal plans come easier and are more realistic and acceptable in my mind.
It’s less than day to day now; it’s hour to hour. Yesterday and this morning I was very happy and talking to my coworkers about a big trip I have planned soon and bought a rib roast to cook. After work, I could barely talk to anyone and didn’t have the desire to cook–I didn’t even eat dinner at all, I feel like I don’t care about this stupid trip at all, that only a few hours ago I was so excited for, and I’m struggling to find a reason to even brush my teeth. I watched the all star game out of habit, not enjoyment, and found myself crying during it several inappropriate times. Hopefully in the morning I will be fine again, and I hope that feeling lasts for a few days at least this time. I know I have depression; many people in my family have it, but it’s seen as a weakness and those people are “lazy” and “don’t want to work.” I recognize otherwise, and I’m sure people will be saying that about me as well if I don’t do something about it.
The weight of reality is increasing my suicidal thoughts and it seems more plausible, where before, wide-eyed, childish ignorance kept it at bay in my adolescence and early adulthood.
It’s not that I don’t have friends or that nobody loves me; I have more friends than I can give attention to, and many people that care about me. I just have a mental disorder that none of those people know about, which seems to be tipping toward suicide.
You might say, “That’s easily fixed with drugs” but I disagree with that statement. That involves admitting my problems to a stranger, a doctor, and possibly his receptionist. And getting the Rx filled at a pharmacy, where some computer somewhere will have my name and that I’m taking crazy pills. And, lastly, my idea of a “fix” is not turning myself into a drug zombie who can keep the exhaust pipe out of his mouth “just as long as I’m on my meds.” I don’t see that as a real solution. What happens the week I can’t afford the medicine or can’t get the refill or whatever, and find myself on a drug slide suddenly. Anyway, I don’t want to be drugged; that’s not living.
I don’t feel sorry for myself, but I am concerned that the idea of suicide–something that I should see as unthinkable–seems to me to be an increasingly acceptable end to 29 years of mediocrity that I can’t blame on a bad economy forever.