Tuesday, August 19, 2014

I'm going to try to work with the crazy.

This post is full of possible triggers. Protect yourself as you need to.

This tweet is the end of the story as of Tuesday, 11 August.


I am not the biggest Robin Williams fan in the world.

But like with the deaths of Kurt Cobain, Alexander McQueen, Hunter S. Thompson, L'Wren Scott, Elliott Smith, Aaron Swartz, Wendy O. Williams, and Greg Giraldo; I have a difficult time dealing with the suicides of people far more talented, popular and wealthy than I am.

I mean, if these people can't find a reason to go on living for one more minute, what's my reason? 
What have I got to keep going for?

A little over two weeks ago I had to take my spousal unit aside and tell him that I was thinking about being dead.

I wasn't suicidal, per se, I was just at the point where if I didn't wake up tomorrow I'd be pretty okay with that.

"...I noticed myself wishing that nothing loved me so I wouldn't feel obligated to keep existing." - Allie Brosch - Hyperbole and a Half

It's the second step down the spiral of depression for me.

Before I turned 16 I had more dead peers than I had dead relatives.

I had all four of my grandparents and a great-grandmother. My parents are still living, as are all their siblings, and their children.

But I had 4 dead friends - 2 by suicide. 2 were murdered.

By the time I was 18, that number had doubled. 1 more suicide and 3 auto accidents.

I am having a very difficult time accepting that no matter how hard I work, it's never good enough. We've been teetering on the brink of bankruptcy for over a year. I really don't want to get into how we've managed to keep our plates spinning, but it can't last for much longer.

The past year has not worked out like we originally planned when we moved back east. That seems to be the nature of plans. This plan was supposed to make things better. Instead every thing is worse.

I first tried to kill myself in 1989 with an overdose of everything I could find in my parents drug cabinet.

I don't remember anything other than laying down in my bed. The next morning my mother was furious at me for drinking underage, after school, because I had come home, went directly to bed, and then proceeded to throw up for hours.

I would rather my mom think I was a terrible, irresponsible, rebellious teenager than know I was suicidal and had failed.

I was just immensely upset that I was still alive and absolutely disgusted with myself for failing. AGAIN.
I was so useless, I couldn't even DIE right.

It's difficult to have a conversation with someone who doesn't really understand how mental illness works, and is really confused because they thought that I was "over that". 

Like it was a phase, or had something to do with my level of maturity.

Trying to explain a broken brain to someone who doesn't understand can be an epic exercise of shame and self-loathing.

The second time I tried to kill myself was in 1990.

The rope broke. When I tried again, the branch broke.

The next day my mother was furious with me for trying to hide the "hickeys" on my neck.

I would rather my mom think I was big ol' slut than know I was suicidal and had failed.

I was so worthless, it wasn't something I think she should be worried about.

When I finally got it all out that I was quickly descending into depression and he, the love of my muthahfuckin' LIFE, needed to know that it was like a weight had been lifted.

Not keeping secrets really helps.

My mental health had to stop being a secret (or a big hairy lie I kept telling people) in order for me to start getting well.

It has to remain out in the open for me to deal with changes as they come up.

Suicide attempts obviously weren't the answer to my problems.
I was going to stop with the all-out *dramatic* attempts to kill myself.
I had a death wish. 

I regularly mixed drugs I knew were a bad addition to the copious amounts of alcohol I managed to consume.

I did drugs that I could not and didn't care to identify, though this happened less often.

I routinely got into cars with, entered the houses of, and had sex with strangers.

I was voted "Most Likely To Be Found Dead in a Dumpster" by my friends.

I was first hospitalized because of my mental state in 1988.

I lied to every doctor, nurse, social worker, and occupational therapist they had.

According to my mother, there was nothing wrong with me. I was just a bad, selfish, irresponsible, rebellious teenager that would grow out of it.

My parents never missed an opportunity to remind me of my badness, selfishness, and irresponsibility.

Whenever depression becomes an issue (again) that's the mental narrative that begins.

I am bad, selfish, and irresponsible.

As it gets worse, it will become bad, selfish, irresponsible and attention seeking.

The last time I decided that I was going to die was July 12, 2004.

I had my plan. I was going to wake up in the morning and go at a certain time because, while this method was fool proof, it would inconvenience a few people, so I wanted to make that as least chaotic as I could.

I went to bed that night feeling like I was finally going to be free.

Here's the thing about crazy.

It's just crazy. 

It's no more selfish than cancer, or MS, or any of the other myriad of diseases and conditions that can fuck up your life and kill you. It's not attention seeking. It's crazy.

A friend of mine put this on Facebook: 

""Suicide is the coward's way out" 
translates to "My pain in mourning your death (is/will be) greater and more important than your current suffering which drove you to this place, so in an attempt to avoid future pain on my part, I will pile more shame on you and on all other people who contemplate suicide. You think you're lesser than me, and I think you're right."

There is absolutely no judgment or slur or negative thing you can say about me that I haven't already said to myself a thousand times.

There are more days in my life when I have felt worthless and that my life does not matter than there have been days that I have felt that I have worth and that my life means something.

On July 13, 2004 I was woken up, not by my alarm, but by a knock on my apartment door.

I didn't die because two people from the internet - One in Birmingham, Alabama, and the other in Sunderland, England sent me a bouquet of Stargazer lilies.

And then Margaret Cho told me I didn't have to die because I had failed.

So I went to the doctor the next day.

It doesn't matter that you love me now, or ever. Someday, depression is going to kill me. I know this. I have a plan for this.

It isn't going to kill me today. It's not even going to kill me soon.

Your love isn't going to save me. And as crazy as it may sound to you, and as angry as this may make you, my love for you isn't going to save me forever.

It's saving me right now. And that's what matters.

Right now.

I am only alive today because of Canada's strict gun laws, floral delivery, and SLUT PRIDE.

Which brings me around to that tweet.

A little over 2 weeks ago, I hit bottom and bounced.

I told my husband my dirty little secret.

I pulled out my notes from cognitive behaviour therapy.

I started writing again. I started adding structure to my completely unstructured days. I stopped thinking about it.

For a while.

“Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough.” - Jean Paul Sartre

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