There is no other way to say it.
There is no other way to say it.
I wish I could tell you I don't want to talk to you.
I wish I could say to you that what you told me in October hurt so bad.
I wish I could explain in a way you'd understand that what you said was the reason I quit talking to you.
There's only one other person on the face of the planet that I love the same way as I love you. And I made a promise a long time ago that if I chose him, I had to leave you behind...
I'm sorry N.P. but I can't answer your texts. I can't answer your calls. I have to be dead to you, and you have to be dead to me.
Please believe me when I say this kills me.
I miss you so much.
There’s never once been a time when I have looked myself in the mirror and said the five words that seem to adhere themselves to a mental illness diagnosis:
“I want to kill myself.”
Not when I felt like I had my first psychotic break down (or my second, or third, or fourth), and certainly not when I reached the lowest part of my depression. And yet, if you asked me if I had ever attempted suicide, my answer would be yes. Multiple times. Had I ever thought about it? Yes, multiple times again. Daily, even. But not once had I ever thought those five words.
One of the first lessons someone with a mental illness diagnosis learns is that there are often no black-and-white situations. The line between correct diagnosis and misdiagnosis isn’t a mile wide, it’s a hair’s width. We learn to see things on a spectrum, on a scale. And yet, in this most prevalent of litmus tests for depression, these five words seem to be a yes or no, black or white area.
I’m here to disagree. Vehemently.
All too often, there isn’t a life versus death attitude that accompanies mental illness. It’s much more layered, a muddled grey than it is a color dichotomy.
There’s often more desperation and anguish in the expression than the pointed action of “I want to kill myself.” And what’s worse, the other phrases, which carry just as much weight and sincerity as that one if not more, aren’t even given a second glance. They’re completely brushed off and put aside because, after all...
...everyone feels like that at some point, right?
“I don’t want to live anymore.”
This sentence, much like the litmus tester, is one I’ve never spoken aloud, but I can remember a few times when I mentally said it to myself in the mirror, the tears running down my cheeks with both fists balled. It was the point where the depression took over and I’d absolutely had enough. What I was really saying was that I don’t want to live a life where I’m constantly feeling used up, depressed and frustrated.
“I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.”
Life presents itself with some fierce challenges sometimes. Fighting a battle against yourself is a long, tiresome journey of epic proportions. Being able to rest for just a few moments seems like the most luxurious perfection and it can feel like after years of fighting yourself, you have earned a permanent reprieve. This is my own personal indicator of depression, because what I’m really saying is that I’m tired of constantly fighting a battle that no one even knows I’m in and I need a goddamned break.
“I wish I was never born.”
This phrase often comes close to “rock bottom” when I’m clinging on to the walls of hope and love with bloody knuckles, waiting for someone to throw me a metaphorical rope. I feel like the one to blame for everything that’s wrong. If I were better, different, gone, life would be better for everyone and everything. What I really mean is that I’m tired of watching everything fall apart no matter how hard I try to keep it together, and feeling like it’s all my fault. I want the painto cease, not my life.
“I just want it all to stop.”
Variations of this one seem to be spoken to the friends or family who got a little too close when I’m emotionally vulnerable. I don’t want them to worry about me or involve themselves unnecessarily, but I want and need them to understand that I’m in pain. I feel overwhelmed by life: the things that have happened, will happen and are happening. What I’m really saying is that I need life to pause without negative consequences so I can take a deep breath, pull myself together and invest in some serious self-care, because I'm not okay.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
This one is the rock bottom, end of the line sentence that creeps up at the worst moments of my battle with depression. There’s no hidden meaning here, it’s very much self-explanatory. At my very lowest point, this was the phrase that played on repeat in my head. At that moment, I couldn’t exist as I was, I couldn’t live the life I had. My last words on Earth would have been these five, because they were the ones that matched the heartache. I didn’t want to die, but I could no longer live.
In the end, not everyone experiences depression or suicidal tendencies in the same way. But no matter what you mean or what phrase you use, the implications are 100% real. Being stuck in the grey areas of suicidal thoughts is no less painful, and yet it’s much less talked about, making it that much more dangerous.
There isn’t just one way to live life, and mine is an existence riddled with agony and pain from all the trauma I've endured thus far. And there isn’t just one way to cry out for help...
My cries are the loudest when I'm silent and withdrawn.
Why the fuck am I awake...?
...I ask myself as if I don't already know the answer.
So difficult to get up on my own, but to adapt to Josh's schedule? Fucking cake walk.
I passed out at 11:30pm. Woke up for no reason at 6:45am, it's been an hour and I'm still fucking awake. Can't fall back asleep, my mind is racing, and I've already shed an eye full of tears as I lay here tortured by my own thoughts of him leaving me all those months ago. Almost 18 months now... fucking Christ, stop counting!!
I know I'm still REALLYfucked up, and even though random stranger Dispo guy made my day better yesterday, I'm still stuck in this awful depression that came on like a plague the minute Josh didn't come back Thursday night.
It's a horrendous feeling to be laying in your ownbed, in your ownroom, in your ownhouse and notfeel like you're at home...
...but would give anythingto go there.
I feel like I'm gonna puke again.
...I feel like I'm gonna be sick.
Jesus fucking christ, it hits in waves. I knew after this week, at some point he wouldn't come back, and I tried to prepare myself for it but it's like re-living him leaving all over again which makes me nauseous and shake and fucking feel like I'm having a goddamned panic attack.
1 year 5 months 19 days 22 hours 7 minutes...
12, 866 hours...
...since the day I died.
Dec 7th, 2014
...how long before I'm okay?
I'm dying inside. The crippling weight of how I feel is paralyzing, and it just hurts so goddamned bad to miss somebody that 10 minutes ago, was right next to you.
How am I so sure that he's my soulmate... but I'm not his?
That moment when your head is swirling
with ribbons of words that your heart desperately aches
for you to string together into sentences
that you can pour out of your soul
into black and white descriptions
of your thoughts
...just to get some peace. Sweet momentary release of the emotional torture that plagues you, crushes you... ..slowly killing you.
But the crushing depression that cripples your fingers, paralyzes your lips and sends your speeding freight train of erratic thought to a screaming halt as you drop to your knees, sobbing. It leaves you curled up in a ball on the floor in the middle of the night, screaming the pain of your heart into the cold hard tile as you pound your fists out of defiance onto the geound.
Your words become juat as erratic as your thoughts. Like someone flipping through the channels on TV, pausing for only a moment at each nostalgic frame before charging off to the next agonizing memory. The tears burn your swollen and bloodshot eyes, but they keep falling, cascading out of the jagged rift the one you love tore open in your heart. Your ribs hurt from sobbing, throat sore from wailing, hands bruised and bloody from beating on the bathroom floor. The blade only brings momentary peace, and after 4 cuts is cast aside out of frustration because the physical pain can't surmount the emotional hurricane you're drowning in. So you lay there on the floor, bawling to the point you get sick, and only then after dry heaving into the porcelain bowl do the cries soften to whimpers. Can't throw up food if you haven't eaten... You collapse with your back against the wall and look down to broken nails and purple palms, utterly ashamed with yourself as you acknowledge and assess your current state. But then without pause, more words rise from the depths of buried memories and tumble through your ears, causing a pain more great than if flesh was stripped straight from the bone.
"Weak." "..fold so easily." "Stupid." "Pathetic." "..not attractive."
And it wells up like stagnant vomit as the searing pain rips through your heart, choking you of breath and crushing your chest again as the torturous cycle begins itself anew.
Nobody believes me when I say I'm not okay. I don't think they know to what extent this pains me. To live every day like this, in constant anguish. Because its getting harder and harder to persevere. More and more difficult to tell myself to stay alive, and mean it.
...with all these black swirling ribbons tying up my mind.
I hope you never know what it’s like to wake up and wish you hadn’t. Not because you’re tired and you want another few minutes of sleep; not because you’re hungover; not because it’s Monday and you don’t want to go to work.
I mean you wake up, and you realize tomorrow came — and it’s not a good feeling. I mean you wake up and you open your eyes, only to close them right away and silently will yourself away from it all. I mean you wake up and you are disappointed that you didn’t, by some miracle, die in your sleep.
Quite simply, I mean waking up is just a reminder that you haven’t escaped your life yet. You’re still here. And I hope you never understand what it’s like to wish you weren’t here.
I hope you never understand what it’s like to be unable to get out of bed. Not physically — because physically, you are capable. Your legs work. Your heart is beating. But I hope you never understand what it’s like to be unable to move simply because your thoughts are crippling you. I hope you never understand what it’s like to be held in place, stuck there, battling with yourself within your own mind. Swing that leg out and touch the floor. Take a step. Get out of the bed.
I hope you never understand what it’s like to forget what happiness feels like. I hope you never feel like there’s no way out of your sadness. I hope you never get overcome by numbness. I hope you never experience that feeling of pure emptiness. I hope you never feel like there is nothing good, or bad, coming around the corner. I hope you never feel like you can’t imagine there being a future for you.
I hope you never need to rely on people to remind you to eat.
I hope you never need to rely on people to remind you to sleep or to be awake.
I hope you never need to rely on people to remind you to take your multiple medications on a daily basis.
I hope you never, ever need to rely on people to hide all the sharp knives in the house so you can’t get hold of them to hurt yourself.
I hope you never, ever need to be checked on every time you take a bath, just because there’s a chance you’re trying to drown yourself.
I hope you never know what it’s like to not be trusted near open windows.
I hope you never have to convince yourself not to jump in front of the train as it approaches on the platform.
I hope you never understand what it means to be afraid of opening the front door and stepping out into the real world.
I hope you never have to force yourself to appear normal and happy when all you want to do is run and hide, and never come out.
I hope you never understand what it feels like to worry that everyone in the world is against you.
I really hope you never understand what it means to feel completely alone while you’re surrounded by people.
I really, really hope you never understand what it means to want to end it all.
I do hope you understand that you can’t always understand.
I do hope you understand that you don’t need to understand.
I do hope you understand that you can’t fix everything.
I hope you understand that no one thinks you can, and no one is expecting you to.
I think you do understand that no one knows the battles other people are fighting.
I think you do understand that we all have our own stories.
I think you understand that we don’t need to understand each other to support each other, and to love each other, and to wish the very best for each other.
I think you can see that all anyone has ever wanted is to be accepted.
So, stand by me. Lie next to me. Sit with me. Talk to me. Stay silent. Hold my hand or smile at me. Tell me you’re with me and that everything will be okay, someday. It might not be now. I know that. I might be hurting for a long time. I might be numb for a long time. I might be happy for a long time, and I might feel myself falling down the tunnel again.
So just tell me you’ll stay with me and you’ll protect me from myself, because that’s who I’m most afraid of.
Tell me you’ll hang out with me until the storm passes. And then, once it has, hang out with me some more.
You don’t have to understand me. I don’t want you to know what this is like, because I know it’s awful, and that’s enough. I don’t want you to know it for yourself.
I just want to know that you’re here with me. And at my side is where you want to be.