I’m thinking of plunging a knife in my gut or throat. I’m thinking of hanging myself. Overdosing. But pills just never work. Tried that already. I just want to die.
Someone please talk to me…
Hi. I'm Ylem. I'm crazy. Sometimes I'm super happy and smiling and laughing all the time and shit. Sometimes I'm super suicidal with a knife on my throat every two seconds. I cut. A lot. I love pain. Call me a Masochist in a non-sexual way. I also smoke a lot of weed. Like a lot of weed. There are a million voices screaming in my head every day. I want to die, but I also don't because of my family. I'm a mama's bitch and a daddy's whore and I'm proud of it.
Why am I so honest with my psychiatrist?
I tell the truth most of the time. They ask about suicidality, and I tell the truth. I don’t want to be here anymore.
They ask about homicidal thoughts, I say yes. Forgive me but there are people I so want to kill… Slowly. Painfully. Enjoy hearing them scream in agony. Enjoy watching them suffer. I want to look deep into their eyes as the light fades from them and they suck in their last breath. I hate them that much.
I always have a smile on my face. I’m like Ted Bundy. The charming psychopath. I told the doctor it’s fake. I’m fucking depressed. The smile is a mask I wear when I’m around people.
I finally said something about the confusion I have with my sexuality. I know I’ve said I’m bisexual so many times, but I’m still not sure. I’ve never been with either a guy or a girl. But I’m attracted to both. Not sure if I’m homosexual, heterosexual, bisexual, or asexual. I probably won’t ever figure it out. I’m so confused.
I’m honest about my cutting.
I should learn to lie.
So, Friday I had a very embarrassing panic attack at the hospital. I fainted and was taked to the ER. I was discharged same day.
I couldn’t handle the pain anymore, so yesterday I took a bunch of my sleeping tablets and antidepressants. I woke up in hospital today. I’m on a hospital bed even now as I’m writing this, await a consultation with a psychiatrist.
I’m fucked. Why didn’t I just die?
A broken soul
An empty shell
I tried to protect my heart.
I tried to shelter it
But now, it yearns for someone to break down the walls I built around it. It wants someone look past all the darkness and love. Someone to love me for me. I’m a fucked up mess. I want someone to care about me. I’m tired of pretending.
But then again, no one can ever love a monster. I don’t deserve it.
Even with medication I still can’t fucking sleep. What the hell?! My doctor keeps changing my medication, uping the dose and whatever… But I can’t fucking sleep!!
I just took my pills. I feel sleepy. I’m in bed. But sleep won’t come. What the fuck?!
I don’t think the medication is helping me at all. Nothing is helping me. Therapy sucks balls. My turn to friend won’t talk to me anymore. I’m in deep shit. I feel like shit.
I’m thinking of making an attempt. My doctor is giving me TCAs. It might just work. I need more of them though. I doubt the dose I have is lethal. I don’t want to fail. I want to do this thing once and get it over and done with.
I can’t take this shit anymore.
Is this thing I’m living even worth calling a life?
Where the fuck is this thing going?
Where do I see myself 10 years?
I see myself a depressed fucked up doctor slaving it out for my family that I love so very much, and still floating around in this world not even connected with my own body, just to keep them happy.
When the fuck am I going to do something for me?
What do I want for me?
I WANT TO DIE!!
That’s what I want for myself. I don’t want this thing called life anymore. It serves no purpose for me. I find no joy whatsoever in being alive. I don’t even feel alive, and I haven’t felt alive for years. I should have died years ago. Things would be so much better if I had ended this fuss of a thing when I had the chance.
I sound like a fucking broken record here. I’ve been saying this over and over again. But I’m still saying anyways. This is how I feel every single day of my fucking existence. I feel TRAPPED. I feel STUCK. I’m not alive for me. I’m alive for the people around me.
How I hate it. I hate it so much.
When will I be free of this pain?
I can barely look at myself in the mirror. I can barely recognize the person I see looking back at me in the mirror. I hate my life. I hate living. I hate breathing. I hate moving. I hate waking up every fucking day just to go through this same damn thing over and over again. I HATE IT.
Can I just die already? Please, someone just kill me now.
I knew this would happen. The whole week I’ve been too busy, my mind too preoccupied with school work to dwell on the pain. Now, it’s the weekend and I have all the time in the world to feel the pain. I feel like the walls are caving in on me. I hate this feeling. I thought I was starting to get over it, but I’m far from being cured from this. This is who I am. An empty shell. An empty void. I’m just empty. Nothing. I feel absolutely nothing. There is no need for pretense when I’m alone. There is no need to put on a mask. My happy person mask. There’s no need for it. This is who I am. This is what I am. Nothing can ever change the fact that I will always be nothing. I will always feel nothing. I will always feel empty.
10 days of not cutting. 10 days. Today will be the day I end this beautiful long thread of not making myself bleed. I cannot take the pain anymore. I need to bleed. I need the release.
Tonight is the night.
It’s morning this side and I’m on my way to the hospital. I haven’t been on here for a while now. I missed you guys.
Anyway, thought I’d share something that happened to me last Saturday.
My parents organized for our church members to come to my house and pray for me. My entire family knows about my condition now and they are very supportive. Anyway, so these guys were praying. In that moment, I had flashes of my brother and the people who killed them who were also proclaimed christians. I guess this fucked up my head a little and I had a panic attack. Church people thought I was possessed by a demon and they taking it out or something. It took forever for me to convince them to take me to our local clinic. Being a medical student and all, I got to the clinic, told the nurses I’m having a panic attack and told them how to treat me. They were pissed. They were like, who the hell does this little ***** thinks she is, telling us how to do our job. I hadn’t told them I am medical student then.
I was managed and I was okay. But now my parents seem to think I’m possessed by a demon and I need an exorcism. They are dragging me to church this Sunday. I will have to keep a clear head and make sure I don’t panic when they all pray for me then.
I find this very funny actually. I’ve been laughing about it the whole week.
I left home. I’m staying at the student resident now. I still feel like shit. I haven’t cut in 9 days now. I love my therapist. He is awesome. He was also one of our lecturers. I’m done with my psychiatric rotation. Passed the damn thing. Whew. One down, five more rotations to go and I will have the title of doctor by the end of this year. The rotation I’m doing now doesn’t even give me time to be depressed. I’m so busy, studying all the time, I have no time to nurse my depression. In fact, I’ve even forgotten about it, which is a good thing. Also the reason I haven’t been on here in a while.
Well, time for me to go to the ward and have the superior doctors make me feel like an idiot.
I’ll be seeing all you SP’ers when I’m able to catch a break. Again, I missed you.
Ylem is out!!!
Everything about me is one big fat motherfucking LIE!
My smile…. Fake as Fuck.
My conversation with people… Lies
Conversation with my family… Lies
I’M DYING people! I’m really dying.
I secretly cry in my room, wipe away my tears and have supper with my family like nothing happened.
My frown immediately turns upside down if someone asks if I’m okay.
I’m tired. I’m tired of faking. I’m tired of crying in silence. I’m just tired of everything. I’m tired of life.
I don’t want to be here anymore. But I can’t go just yet. I keep saying this over and over again. I keep repeating myself over and over again. But it still doesn’t sink in. No matter how deep and intense the urge to kill myself is, I can’t. I can’t end it. For the people around me. For my family.
This makes me feel stuck and trapped in this life I don’t want to live. In this world I don’t want to be in. I will have to stick around, keep faking and lying for a decade or more, just to keep the people around me happy.
I really can’t do this anymore. The pain is too intense. The pain is too much for me to take.
I don’t feel alive. I don’t feel anything. I don’t even feel pain anymore.
What the fuck do I have to do to actually feel alive? What do I have to do to feel human? To feel like I belong in this world? Because seeing blood doesn’t cut it anymore.
I fucked up really bad. I messed up my presentation. I had a panic attack in class. It was so embarrassing.
I had to leave school early. I was sent home so I can pull myself together. I have an exam tomorrow. I don’t know how I’ll make it through that.
When I got home to tell my parents I had a terrible day, that I couldn’t concentrate in class, my father threw a fit.
He told me, I don’t have the right to feel terrible. All of the problems in my family are because of me. I don’t have the right to say things are hard for me. If I want to quit school, I should just do it already, and stop whinning.
My brother died because of me. It would have been better if I were the one to die. Why don’t I just die already? He is tired of all the problems I have been causing for him.
He can’t wait to bury me. He already has a casket picked out for me. I should just die already.
I can’t sleep. I have school tomorrow and this horrible case of insomnia.
The only reason I’m still here is because of my mother.
Braai days are usually a family thing for us. They have been for a very long time. Actually, Fridays were always braai days at home. It’s been a while though since we’ve had a braai day.
Family and friends are all gathered up. I’m cooked up in my room as usual, making ocassional appearances to those who want to see me, then going back to my dark hole. I have an excuse. School. They are not questioning it.
Just remembered a braai day we had in December. I was depressed as fuck. I had an outburst and told my family I’m going to die. Ma was devastated. Pa told me to go ahead. He would bury me as he did my brother. He was drunk.
I ruined that one. I’m staying indoors for this one so I don’t ruin it for everyone.
Anyway, it’s yet another stupid family day to re-inforce the fact that I have to stay alive for these people as long as possible. I wish I didn’t care about my family so much. I’d have ended me a long time ago.
I hate how in every lecture or tutorial or every other patient I interview in this rotation, I feel like I am seeing me all the time.
Are you a victim or a survivor?
A question a psychiatrist asked in a PTSD lecture. Are you talking to me?
If you really want to die, take TCAs. Another thing a psychiatrist said in a lecture on psychopharmacology. Jeez people, stop giving me ideas.
Another psychiatrist said, in a depressed patient, the moment you hear hopelessness and worthlessness, suicide risk bells should ring. Shut up already.
Borderline personality disorder. They cut to feel something other than the emptiness. The pain is better than feeling nothing at all.
Stop talking about me.
I have most, if not all the personality traits for BPD. My doctor is hesitant to label me as such.
I don’t like being around people.
Asociality. Negative symptoms. Psychotic features. They tell me this the moment I detach from a group and sit by myself. I get tired of their constant yapping and need to listen to the voices inside my head.
“Stop being alone. You will die alone. You don’t have to live alone.”
I fucking hate people. Leave me the hell alone.
“You need antipsychotics.”
“You have Antisocial Personality Disorder.”
Okay? What makes you say that?
“You are a liar. Manipulative. You show no remorse or guilt. Very short tempered. You are extremely homicidal.”
I had nothing to say to this. I was really at a loss for words.
“Not the only personality disorder you have. Schizoid PD, Schizotypal, Paranoid and Dependent.”
“You should do drugs.”
I laughed. Worst advice ever. But yeah.
“No… Find a boyfriend.”
Can’t. I get too attached and it becomes really hard to detach. Have issues with interpersonal relationships. So I stay away from them.
“See… BPD. You are also very emotionally unstable.”
“Go to church and pray.”
“No, devil child.”
At this moment of our conversation, one stepped away at the mention of this part. Apparently, she didn’t want me rubbing off on her. I guess my fucked up-ness is contagious now.
“You are very interesting. I should take a psychiatric history from you. You would make a great portfolio case.”
Okay. You can go jump off a cliff now.
“You cut? You should get a tattoo over that.”
Not the reaction I expected.
I confided in this guy I trusted in a moment of a crisis. Thought he would understand. Boy was I wrong. I was so wrong.
All of a sudden, our topics of discussion are suicide methods. We are in class, and he starts making gestures on ways he can kill himself. FUCK YOU.
We are crossing the road, and the first thing that pops in his head is suicide ideation. GO FUCK YOURSELF ************.
This probably made no sense. But it’s been troubling me. Things people have been saying to me. They keep playing over and over in my head. Needed a way to let it out.
I have a presentation on Monday. Anxious as fuck. I have an exam on Tuesday. Hope I don’t screw up.
Also: Valentine’s Day: My boyfriend this… My girlfriend that… My wife… My husband this valentine. *****, shut the fuck up. I don’t give a flying fuck in the world.
And, tonight, the knife is on my throat again. Don’t disturb me. Might just plunge it in.
My cuts say just how much I despise myself. I can’t stand to look at myself in the mirror. I see a monster. A fragment and shadow of a person I used to be. Was I ever alive? I definitely don’t feel alive. I constantly need something to remind me that I’m alive.
I don’t know why my heart is still beating. It should have stopped a long time ago. I just keep postponing the inevitable. I will die anyway. We all will. So, why don’t I just end it now? I want it to end now. End it now before it gets broken and hurt even more.
It aches in hunger, in pain…
I’m starting to hate breathing. I used to love taking in a deep breath. I used to feel alive. Now, I don’t even feel human. I hate that to only feel alive, I have to physically hurt myself. I have to cut myself to feel alive. I have to make myself bleed to feel alive. Every single day.
I have no more fight left in me. This is all I am willing to give. All I can give. I don’t have the strength to go on. I’m hanging by a thread.
I will reach a point where not even cutting will make me feel something. There will come a point where this void and emptiness I feel inside will all be what defines me. I’m nothing but an empty shell.
It won’t leave my head. Maybe writing it on here will give me a bit of a rest.
Before my neighbours eventually managed to finally kill my brother, they had been trying for a few year.
In 2013, after yet another harassment from them when I was coming back from school, my mother told my brother about it. Of course, it pissed him off. He decided to confront them and ask them exactly what they wanted from me.
I was not home that day. When I got back, things were upside down, and there was so much blood. My parents were not at home. They had taken my brother to the hospital because during that confrontation, they hit him on the head with a machete. He survived that attack. I don’t know how. He surely should have died given the amount of blood he lost.
It was a Monday when he was attacked.
Friday of that same week, I was studying late at night in the living room. It was raining and a bit stormy. Then there was a knock on the door. It was my brother. When I opened the door, he looked like hell. He was beaten, bloody with a broken arm. A very horrifying sight.
Here’s what had happened. On his way home, he was stopped on the road by cops (My neighbours have police buddies. That’s what made it hard whenever we tried to report any of their harassment.)
They took him to an abandoned flat, 4th floor, placed a bag over his head and binded his hands together with rope. They sat him on a chair in an empty room. Hit him on the head with a gun. Wounds from the Monday incident were still fresh in that moment.
They took his phone from him and called his girlfriend by mistake, at which time he shouted for her to call my mother. She did. My mother didn’t know what to do. Whether to call the cops or what. My father was not home. He was working a night shift that night.
He said after the call, they were discussing who would kill him. At which time, they took off the bag over his head. He saw a window, managed to fight them off I don’t even know how, and ran for the window while his hands were bounded together. He jumped out of the window, from the 4th floor, hit a tree on his way down before he landed on the road, and broke his left arm.
He was helped by some people on the road and managed to make his way back home.
His arm was never the same after that. I remember chasing him around one time when he came home from work last year, a few weeks before he died, and I played too roughly with his arm.
This was not the only time they tried to kill him.
I hope to get a rest from all these memories now. I want to remember the good. Only the good.
Ngiyakukhumbula Mthombeni. Lala uphumule.
So, I went to see a doctor. Basically to just confirm what I already know. Major depression, anxiety disorder and PTSD. I told him I think I might have a personality disorder too, something along the lines of Borderline Personality Disorder, Schizoid Personality Disorder, or Avoidant Personality Disorder. I know I might be going overboard here, but I feel like I fit the criteria perfectly, for both BPD and SPD, actually. He said he’ll look into it with our upcoming consultations.
I always look at the criteria for all these personality disorders and think, “Fuck! This is so me.” Not that my personality traits cause any significant distress in my life. Okay, maybe just a little. But still. I doubt that I really need them addressed. I’m okay with the way that I am. For the heck of it, I also took an online personality test. I came out very likely for BPD and SPD. Maybe I might be. I don’t know.
Someone has been telling me that I might have Antisocial Personality Disorder. That one I really refuse to believe. I think he is joking, but he always insists. I refuse to believe I’m a psychopath/sociopath. Yes, I’ve shared with him my recurrent thoughts of homicide and all that, but I think that can be explained by the trauma that I went through, and the fact that I hate my neighbors. I hate them to the point where if something bad were to happen to them, I wouldn’t feel any remorse, I swear. This is because of everything that they put me through. Are these feelings wrong? I say Hell No! I’m entitled to feel this way. But, I doubt I’ll ever do anything about these thoughts. And besides, how can a person who can barely initiate a conversation with someone have ASPD? People with ASPD are charming, liars (I lie a lot, but the good kind of lying), disregard for other people’s feelings, other people’s rights, violent and aggressive(sometimes that’s me), have problems with the law and don’t have problems forming relationships with people. Maybe he sees something in me that I don’t see. But, I mean, come on… AM I A PSYCHOPATH PEOPLE?
Anyway, I’m glad I managed to negotiate my way into being seen as outpatient. I’m still functional. Not fully, but I manage. I could have really fucked up my school schedule there if he said my depression was severe and I needed hospitalization. If I told him I was suicidal beyond imagination.
I had to lie. I lied about my cutting. Told him the last time I did was about a week ago. I showed him my arm. The scars have healed on my arms, so he believed me. If I dared showed my thigh, that would have been a disaster. He asked me about suicide. LIED. I told him I’m not suicidal. I have more reason to be alive than ever since my family is dependent on me. Which is true for the most part, but even with that I still don’t want to be here. Anyway, bottom line is, he believed me. I’m not admitted, even though I’m admission material. I’m a definite risk to myself. The things I can do to myself when I get impulsive are very horrifying.
I also got initiated on treatment. I hate pills, but I’ll give them a try just for the heck of it. See if they work. I know antidepressants take a while to work. I hope I can keep my impulsivity under control until I can feel them achieve maximum effect. If they make me more suicidal… I’m gonna fuck someone up! (Kidding.)
He suggested PTSD support group. No! No! Hell No! I am reminded of what happened there every single day. I don’t want to be around people who went through similar shit and be reminded all over again. No Thank You!
Another problem. I need to tell my parents about this. I wanted to tell them before I went to the doctor, but didn’t have the courage. I’ll just show them the medication and have them figure it out for themselves. I really don’t know how to bring up this topic.
How do I feel today? Better than the past three days but still shitty as fuck. I still want to die. But, the knife is down tonight.
If my doctor knew I’ve been holding a knife to my throat for the past three nights, I’d definitely be in the ward right now.
Haaaa…. Psychiatry is something else.
(Sorry for the long rant.)
I made a friend in the last few weeks here on SP. A friendship forged out of mutual understanding of emotional turmoil.
The last time I talked to him, he was going through a very rough patch. He couldn’t deal with his pain and was on the verge of ending it. In fact, he had tried to make an attempt, but somehow couldn’t go through with it. I tried to talk him out of it. I doubt it worked.
I haven’t heard from him in over a week, and I’m really worried. I think I failed him.
King, if you are still out there, roaming the streets of London, I hope you are still staying strong. If not, then I hope your departure from this world was quick, painless and peaceful.
Your concerned suicidal South African friend,
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