This blog has been a long time coming, because I’ve wanted to write this all for a very long time. The hardest part to overcome in writing is myself. I am my own worst critic to the nth degree, and I get discouraged easily. I want to make a change- but I also need to see some result of my work, or else I get discouraged and give up, because the illness wants me to. It’s always there, whispering over my shoulder, insisting I’m not good enough, nobody cares, I should just kill myself.
From my LiveJournal, September 8th, 2010:
I guess you’d have to live with this nefarious beast in your head to understand what it’s like to constantly have suicidal ideation. The constant thoughts are painful; maybe you should die, it says. You are a terrible, rotten person who has no business being alive, who is worthless and has nothing to offer. What’s the point of living when you’re such a loser?
Just fighting with that voice is exhausting, let alone try to do it while holding down a steady job, try to smile and pretend nothing’s wrong when inside your head you’re waging an epic war with a self-destructive beast that plans to go out with a bang and take you with it. This is not a symbiotic relationship, no; this is a parasite, wriggling through your thoughts and dredging up past mistakes and embarrassments to torment you, shoving every bad thing you’ve ever done in your face until you want to cry and beg forgiveness, even if that person won’t have a clue who you are or what you’re talking about because it happened in kindergarten. You want to vomit, you want to sleep, anything to get rid of that insidious, saccharine-sweet voice that is always there, sometimes quiet as it gathers its strength and other times hollering through a bullhorn next to your temple.
It’s funny, I often realize that while I have long-term plans, I don’t really see myself accomplishing those things. I don’t think I’ll live that long. I’m often surprised that I’m still alive at all.
I’m going to bed lest I do something terrible.
That voice is far, far too common in my head. When I’m having a downswing, pretty much any rejection (real or otherwise) sets it off. I think the best way I’ve ever explained it, though, was in this entry.
November 23rd, 2010:
The thing about suicide is, when I’m feeling well, it doesn’t even show up on my radar. I feel good, and all is good in my world. When I no longer get the right amount of sleep, and/or feel like warmed-over slag, all of a sudden suicidal thoughts are my only companion. They whisper, they yell, they are always present, regardless of what I’m doing (or trying to do, more often.) The worst part is when I catch myself listening, waiting for them to make a decent offer, put the right spin on it, like buying a new car or computer- surely there’s an even better offer coming? They’ll keep sweetening the deal until I can’t bear to not take it. It’s like my own in-head Billy Mays infomercial, except instead of ending up with random junk I don’t need cluttering up my house, I’ll end up dead. (Just five easy installments of $19.95 plus shipping and handling! Call now, and we’ll double the offer! Operators are standing by!) And at my weakest, I really do want to give in and make that call, because the guilt of being such a disappointment is bearing down on me to the point where I feel I’ll break any moment.
Guilt, disappointment, rejection, failure… I wish the litany would stop, but I don’t know how.