Why my amp? Because you wanted to make sure it hurt. To make sure I’d have 0 joy.
Replacement? Ha, far too broke. Official countdown begins. May sound trivial to most you but this is the cement truck that ran over a camel with a broken back.
The way my life has turned out makes everyday a battle for me. It’s not one of those stories where I have a recognized disability and with effort I am overcoming it while people are proud. Technically I should be a fully functional human being.
I suffer from the most basic aspects of life. I can’t make simple decisions or do simple things. A trip to the grocery store is even something hard, which I avoid and end up screwing it up.
One could wonder how can you screw that up. I get confused and trapped by numbing thoughts and then I resort to negative self defeating trains of thoughts until I take too long to do something, at which point I analyze and mark it as further evidence that I can’t do simple stuff.
Just wish it could end, there is too much to fix and I’m sooo exhausted
I’m sick of my sickness, don’t touch me, you’ll get this
I’m useless, lazy, perverted, and you hate me
Am I alone in finding a way to blame myself for every single problem, no matter how trivial? Honestly, everything is my fault. I’m sorry. Trust me, the guilt is like gravity to me.
She is perfect, and I imperfect. Things are as they should be.
So, some trivial shit happened about an hour ago:
*Nephew pulls pins out of board, I lose my shit and pick them all up*
Me: Mom, where do we keep the pins?
Mom: How about, instead o-
Me: Uh, I just want t-
Mom: YOU’RE JUST LIKE YOU BROTHER… AND YOUR FATHER!!!
Me: Mom, I just want to know where-
Mom: WHY, YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME!!!
At this point, no one would tell me where to leave them, so I just left them on the table, my sister comes into my room, throws them all over my bed, and yells at me for leaving pins where a toddler can reach them…
Like I said, trivial shit, but really, trivial shit is what gets people thinking.
So I started thinking about things, like how today, we were supposed to go out and have fun and shit, and how I’ve apparently single-handedly ruined it: I got up too late (no one told me what was happening), I shouldn’t have smacked my nephew for fighting tooth and nail (literally) to get in one of the cupboards, I was apparently rude to my mom, I left pins where a toddler can reach them, etc.
And I also thought about how everyone just leaves me in my room, how no one ever wants to do anything with me, how hardly any of my friends talk to me now because it’s not convenient for them, how my dad only ever talks to me when we’re arguing, he’s telling shitty jokes or he needs me to help him with something, how they get particularly mad when I leave anything around the house because it’s betraying my presence, how they’ve never introduced me to most of their friends, how whenever they’re angry at someone or each other, they mostly just take it out on me or make me pick sides, how everyone is reluctant to help me or take any of my problems seriously, how I’m always and invariably in the wrong, no matter how trivial or how serious.
How everyone generally just gets along better without me bothering them.
So I have a question: Really, who cares?
Pick your poison: I just get in everyone’s way all the time, I get upset about trivial shit (even if it’s not trivial shit), I should just keep everything to myself and pretend to be happy, because that makes everyone else happy, I’m an ’emo’ kid which means I must be a ‘******’ or a ‘*****’, I must like shit music and I probably worship satan, I’m transgender, which must mean I’m disturbed, disgusting, someone touched me when I was a kid, I’m going to burn in hell, I’m really just super gay and/or a drag queen, I just want to give up and die, which must mean I’m lazy, not trying hard enough, not good at anything important, I don’t have many friends, which must mean I’m a hermit, a sociopath, a creep, I’m creative, which must mean I don’t want a real job, once again, I’m not good at anything else, once again, I’m a ‘******’ or a ‘*****’, or I’m destined to be poor, I should get my shit together and pick up a trade (even though I’m already qualified for mechanics and hospitality), I’m trying to lose weight, which must mean I should do sports, I’m a nerd, etc.
TL;DR: I’m evidently a human punching bag and I don’t deserve to be anything else.
And that makes me sad, sort of.
My middle name is Maree, and I’ve had serious depression for about three-and-a-half years now. I believe the causes have an older age, but most of it is a bit foggy. Do I write “had” depression, as if it was an object? I had a hat that I used to wear everyday, no matter the weather, but now I don’t anymore. Or is it more of a condition: I’ve been depressed for three-and-a-half years, and the fact that it hasn’t let up tremendously shows it’s more that a bit of the blues.
I’m straying from the point. I don’t know if I even had a point to begin with.
I think there are layers to depression, with central issues surrounded by trivial factors that aren’t making a person’s day any better. For me, inherent problems range from an alcoholic mother to an irresponsible father to their bitter divorce to current (could you call 7 years current?) living arrangements with grandparents who are now exceedingly ill to the point where they may be in a nursing home for the remainder of their lives. Trivial factors that don’t really help include a Summer with no one to really talk with, an upcoming year with additional night classes to AP coursework and responsibilities at home, and an absolutely ridiculous crush-leaning-towards obsession over a teacher that I don’t need at the moment. Or ever.
I know this website was created with the intention of people sharing their stories as to how they overcame their suicidal thoughts or recoveries from suicidal attempts or severe depression that landed them into a unforgiving pit or perhaps a hospital.
I’ve never tried to kill myself, I’ve always been too afraid of the pain. I would pick up knives in the kitchen when no one was there and imagine sliding it across my wrist or neck- sometimes I’d imagine it so vividly I could actually feel a dull impression of a movement. I would bite my hands and arms instead of using razors, creating bruises instead of scabs. My grandpa is an antique gun collector, and I sleep on a futon in his old office, making it very easy to slip into the closet in the middle of the night and just press an unloaded barrel of a varnished pistol against my head, crying. There was one time when I was attending a 4-day state-wide theatre festival at a convention center connecting to a hotel that I was looking at the city from 30 floors up. There were a few other high school students (I don’t know whether to call them kids or near-adults) with me, exploring the top of the hotel as it was beginning to be nighttime. There was a skyline, with just a glass railing and a little ledge that went between me and falling. I almost climbed over. I didn’t, of course- just stared down, hugging the glass. I imagined the looks on their faces as they saw me disappear from their sight. Then I wondered if they would even notice at all.
That ended a little more than a year ago, all that. Except the biting, I sometimes do that when I get anxious, like an animal.
My time in serious depression was at a point where I couldn’t get suicide out of my head and I spent day after day in bed and a comatose-like state (I even stopped going to school, I had to be “homeschooled”, meaning not actual homeschooling but a year off doing what I have just described). I saw it as a rabbit hole I burrowed in and never wanted to leave. I nearly lived by Hamlet’s soliloquy, and almost lost the fear of what dreams may come to such solemn sleepers.
I got out of it, somehow. My mom, when she was sober, became a drill sergeant in her daily phone calls, and got me a counselor. She set up tight schedules for getting assignments completed so I could actually finish some classes and return to public school the following year. She pulled me out of the hole by the tail, no matter how much I was kicking and screaming.
Because of her, I had an alright year last year. Started in a new school, got great grades, went through one day at a time. Some stress here and there, my usual doubt and lack of self-confidence gave us a start, but nothing nearly as bad as the few years previous (especially the “homeschooling” year).
Well, she’s not with me right now. She’s drunk again. Every time I try to call her nowadays it seems she’s always drinking.
She’s been an alcoholic for a long time, since I was born. But she quit drinking when I was in her belly, and that makes me love her more. And I hate her for that.
I know this isn’t a forum or webpage for children of alcoholics, but I know I’m not the only child of an alcoholic who feels guilty for some reason or another. Who gets an epiphany as to why their parent might drink. Who wonders why they should even have their existence. Should I write “have” like it’s an object? Or should it be considered a condition?
I’m starting to get those feelings again. I don’t know if I want them or not. So I watched an ASMR video in order to bring me some level of meditative peace, which they are known for bringing… and the guy said to talk to someone if I’m feeling this sort of way.
And so I’m typing to strangers.
What a strange world we’re in today, huh?
I really don’t ask for a lot out of life.Â I mean I’ve wished for a lot of things, sure, and who hasn’t? I know that I don’t need a lot of luxuries in life.Â Â But is it really too much to ask for a little stability in my life?Â All I want to be able to do is go to sleep at night without being anxious about where I’ll end up sleeping and if I’ll eat tomorrow.Â It’s the reason I ended up suicidal in the first place.Â Not the self-esteem issues, not the loneliness, not any failed relationship, not school, not work.Â Hell, I do great in school.Â I wish life was more like school, where if you do what you’re supposed to do, you’re guaranteed something good. None of that trivial shit is my problem.Â I just don’t want to end up stuck in poverty, never making ends meet for the rest of my life.
everything seems trivial. My job, my life, my relationships, I feel like it’s all meaningless and trivial. I’m an excellent faker, at enjoying myself and being happy. What I really want to do is go and slit my wrists open again, hurt myself, end this empty life that I know isn’t going anywhere joyful. A philosopher once said “happiness is a small desk with a very large waste basket.” who the hell wants to live like that? Not me. I don’t care if most religions say my ass will burn in hell for eternity, I just want the fuck out of this place.
Which brings me to a question: is it possible to stick a needle into you ulnar artery and have the blood simply drain this way?