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.
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.
