A Series of Unfortunate Events

My life right now feels like a series of days with events designed to add material to my suicide note.

That's fancy talk for nothing is working out. Everything is terrible Utterly, utterly, completely, constantly, absolutely awful. 

Lonesome

I know of loneliness.

I know about feeling so absolutely alone in the world that I actually feel hollow, like there is nothing inside, like I can feel my sorrow rattling around in an empty shell inside me. 

I'm so lonely I want to die. 

Every day. All day, I want to die. 

I can't make this stop. 

Even after all this time, it hasn't gotten easier. I've been alone so long, I should be used to it by now, but as I grow older, it's all at once harder and easier. 

I've also caused this. I have made it difficult for people to like me and isolated myself. I've spent so much time by myself, refusing offers of friendship and company that I don't quite know how to spend time with people. I actually don't even know very many people.

I'm currently going through one of my bouts of insomnia and every time I try to fall asleep, I'm startled awake by panic about being alone and running out of time. I'm 30. I've spent 3 decades on earth without really gathering up any people that could ease my loneliness. 

Unhelpfully, I am also deeply, painfully, unceasingly depressed.

A friend of mine recently told me in jest that I shouldn't leave her a suicide note. I said I wouldn't but in a split second, the joke had turned serious because both she and I could tell that I wasn't really joking and that the possibility of me killing myself isn't an outlier.

I'd really, really, really like to die but I don't know that I'm brave enough to try again after all these years. So instead I'm stuck in this odd, unhappy limbo of a life that is seemingly a content and fulfilled one for anyone on the outside looking in. Meanwhile I spend my time thinking about practical ways to acquire a car in order to knock off by using carbon monoxide. 

This is all very, very wrong.

It's So High, I Can't Get Over It

It's been more than a year since I wrote my last post.

In all this time, I haven't been able to get past it.

I'm still so very, very depressed.

I think I need help. But I have no one to ask. I have no way of asking.

All day, every day, all I think about is ending this. All this.

I go to work, go on holiday, go out to dinner, meet friends, pay bills, watch movies.

I do all the things that normal people do. But I can't enjoy them.

I am so anxious, I can't sleep.

I have migraines.

I can't cry. (I never could)

I just want this to be over. I am so desperate for this to be over.

I don't care which 'this' ends first, the depression or the life. One of it needs to end.

Nothing I do is making this go away.

I have nobody left that I love, that also loves me, that I actually like and that actually likes me. Not one person in the world checks off all four boxes.

Maybe I should take the step. End things. It's never as viable as it is now. In all the years I've thought about killing myself, it's never been as viable an option as it is now. It's been a year and a half. I just want it to be over. 

Depression

I created this new blog because...well because I wanted to write something my usual viewers, who also happen to be friends, wouldn't see. Why not write under another name? What if I write something truly brilliant? I would still like it to be under my name. My assumed name, anyway. I know that is a small, mean thought.

The people who read my other blog know me personally. Most of the time. So they think that it's okay to question me about every single thing I have written there. They don't afford me the detachment I crave.

I am also writing away from my usual space because it's possible that I am depressed. The last time I was this angry and suicidal, I was 16. It wasn't typical adolescent angst; I was indeed deeply depressed and nearly killed myself. So, fun...

When I was 20, I went through another episode of depression. It took on another form. I didn't leave home for months. I didn't shower, or change clothes or meet people. I just lay in one place, getting fatter, uglier, older.

This time feels closer to the first time. I am constantly angry. Every conversation I have with my mother leaves me seething. Every not-conversation I have with my used-to-be-best-friend because she won't answer my calls makes me livid to the point that I have to utilize all the patience I have carefully built up over the past decade to keep from flinging my expensive phone across the room just to watch it shatter to a million pieces.

My mother has lost interest in me. I have been begging her for months to come see me. She has refused because I don't make as much money as my brother. It's obviously not quite that simple, but that is how my anger-ridden, hazy brain sees it. So everyday now, when I speak to her, I hate her. I hate her silently.

My best friend has had her own battles with depression. In the process, she has left me behind without bothering about how I am.

I am not okay. I need help. I don't have anybody to ask. Sometimes, I wake up with a start with an image in my head. A blade slicing open my left wrist, slashing my tattooed skin so deep that blood spills slowly down. I don't find the image scary. I find it comforting. Like home calling to me in a difficult time. My rational brain knows that this is not healthy. Every time I hang up the phone with my mother or miss speaking to my best friend, I summon this image to my mind to comfort myself. Other times, I wake up with a single thought in my mind: I am alone. I will always be alone.