my family betrays their desire for me to “be normal” and “feel better” with their actions. these are not the actions of people who believe in me. these are not the actions of people who think my illness and symptoms are legitimate. these are not the actions of people who truly care about my well being. i have no one but myself, and even then the one i have is the one i’m trying to kill. those who are not chronically depressed, who don’t feel the lurking sensation of death and negativity hiding behind every thought and action, those who can live freely and overcome their sadness and be brave, they will never understand the feeling of only having yourself to trust even when you’re constantly trying to kill yourself.
mom got mad at me for going to see a friend after work without telling them. understandable. told me that no one will ever be able to care for me for very long. told me she should take me to the hospital bc she thinks im getting crazy again and that there’s something really wrong with me. says i need to be normal like everyone else. says she she wishes she couldn’t worry about me anymore and that i stress her out too much. told me to move out bc she thinks i hate my family. told me to go die after she thought I had walked away.
things seem like they’re going quite well, except that i can’t escape an underlying feeling of dread and the desire to end my life. no matter how hard i try to be happy it will linger and oftentimes take over once the evening hits.
im not in the mood to argue today. im going to my friends birthday whether it makes my parents mad or not. i’ll deal with it later. all i do is work. I deserve to give myself a break. I’ll probably feel like shit later and want to die, but it’s not like that isn’t every night for me anyway
Hope is one of the cruelest feelings on earth. It tricks you into thinking that everything will get better, that the present isn’t as bad as it seems, and that those who made you feel like garbage have some redemption.
I really, really hate hope.
I thought my parents were beginning to understand me. I was more wrong about that than I have been about anything in my entire life.
My father wants the addresses of every single friend that I go see. He checks the mileage on my car to see how much I’ve been traveling and if it matches up with what I tell him. He comes to my workplace to make sure I’m there and not lying about being at work. He tries to come and pick me up from my friend’s houses if he thinks I’m not really there. He tells me he’s going to call my gym to see if I’ve really been going in at all. He’s also given me a curfew on 12am. Not really 12am. More like I have to be home before 12am, or else I get lectured. I’m 20. If this is what my parents think is going to cure my depression and suicidal tendencies, I have nothing to say to them.
My parents also say that they can’t sleep when I’m not home. So if I’m home later, they say that they need to stay up and wait for me, because “any normal parent wouldn’t be able to fall asleep with their child out of the house”. My mother also told me that she feels sick every day and dizzy because she doesn’t get enough sleep because of me. She says that she’s going to die younger than she should because of how much she worries about me. She says that she has “gone through the same thing as me” but that she was strong and “powered through it”, and didn’t have to see any doctors or be in a hospital or on medication.
They also told me that I should stop taking my medication unless I absolutely need it, because they don’t want me to depend on pills to be alright; they also claim they’re probably making me worse.
My mom insists I don’t need to see my therapist or psychiatrist unless my prescription runs out. I haven’t seen my therapist in almost 3 months; half of that is because I work so often, the other half is that every time I go to the therapist my parents will want the details of our conversation, while also berating me for going.
To add on to more ridiculous things my parents say and do, they also claim that I hate my family, and care about my friends more than them because I like to spend time with my friend after or before work a few days out of the week. It’s not like it’s summer and I’m slaving away at two jobs the entire time. Apparently, I’m not allowed to enjoy myself while I can. They’ve claimed that I have “too many friends” and that they believe I’m hanging out with dangerous people, even though my friends are the sort who could barely hurt a fly. The other night they wouldn’t even let me walk back to my car down the street alone.
My parents also told me I shouldn’t trust anybody. Except them, of course. Because they’re family. And family comes first. And education. Everything comes first before friends, to my parents.
I know your advice for me is probably along the lines of “move out”, “tell your parents how you really feel”, “just do what you want, you’re 20”, “you’re an adult, they can’t tell you what to do”, but the household and culture I live in is really complicated. I still do love my family, and my parents. But they make it so, so hard. I can never go to bed without thinking about killing myself. On my drives back home I constantly think about crashing my car. I’m always stuck between the feeling of immense guilt or justified rage.
It’s honestly tearing me apart and I’m at such a loss right now. A couple nights ago I was looking up ways to kill myself because I had been so upset that I felt convinced I should end my life that night. I ended up calling one of my friends (I was going to call the Suicide Hotline but didn’t want them to call an ambulance) and luckily they calmed me down. I still didn’t want to kill myself any less, but I knew it wasn’t worth it that night. I really don’t know what to do anymore.
I almost ended my life tonight.
I got into a huge argument with not only my parents, but my grandparents, who I believed understood me more than my parents did; I was also publicly humiliated in front of my friends, in a situation where my parents and grandparents ran out in front of my house, in front of the car my friends were in, all just to yell at me.
I had to tell my friends to leave immediately. My parents talked to me for two hours and tried to tell me that family is all I have. That they’re the only ones who will ever truly care about me. That my friends didn’t care whether I was happy or not.
The difference they don’t understand is that I’m more comfortable around my friends than I could ever be with them. I will never have that relationship of being best friends with your parents. I will never be able to say I had an amazing relationship with my family, except for my brothers. Not only did depression ruin so many things for me, in a way that I will never be completely normal or healthy, but so did my parents. The phrase, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions” will never be more relevant to me than in this situation.
I called my friend. I was going to call the suicide hotline at first, but I didn’t want them to call the police or ambulance on me. I talked to my friend for a little while, but as I spoke, I cried but my voice was dead. There was nothing in it anymore.
I truly don’t believe that I can do this. I may have not taken my life tonight, which I know many will try to commend and say that living another day is an accomplishment in itself, but eventually, I know it will happen. I went and took a walk around a lake today on impulse and the only feeling I had while I was there was an urge to drown myself. That itself is a sign.
I can’t live like this. I’m not truly living if I spend every day thinking about death. I know I will never be happy. I will never be normal. Nothing good can come out of this. I may still be young, as I’m 20, but I know this isn’t the life I should be living, nor the life that will have any sort of good outcome. I love my family, but they say I hate them. I love them so, so much. But they will never understand me. They will never understand my depression or anxiety. They don’t even believe it exists.
I’m going to reach my breaking point, and I know it will happen very, very soon.
No one will ever believe you, in all of truth’s entirety, until you’re dead. No one will completely understand the pain you were going through or how serious you were, until they find your body.
Not your parents, not your friends, not your doctors.
You only have yourself until you’re dead.
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.