Trapped

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That’s how I feel. I’ve got nowhere where I can feel at peace. At least last year I could come home and not be treated like a nutcase who has to be monitored and can’t be left alone for a few hours. I had my own little space in halls where I could hide out for weeks at a time without needing to emerge to use the bathroom. I hate my new house. In theory I should like it, the people I found most intimidating in my halls apartment are gone but I feel like I’m a prisoner there. Going out of my darkened, creaky bedroom fills me with dread. I can’t stand to be around these enthusuastic life-lovers, there’s only so much excitement and happiness i can fake, and it isn’t much.

It’s difficult to keep up the pretense of enjoying being back at university; I hate the drinking and forced socialising that everyone else loves so much. I want to scream out “I almost died!” but I can’t. Things seem excessively trivial when you’ve spent the past weeks trying to convince various healthcare professionals that you are, in fact, sane and won’t try to kill yourself again even if that is a lie. I know how to dress it up and make them believe me, it’s no use flat out denying the thoughts never occur to you. “They’re at the back of my mind but I won’t act on them now I know what it’s like”, that’s what you have to sell.

It’s a cliche but I hate my life. There’s nothing I derive pleasure from. I’m never ever happy, I hate lying and saying that i am when it is expected of me. Lying here things seem so utterly hopeless, I can’t see a way out that I so desperately crave. There’s no way I’m trying the pills again, I don’t want to end up in a psych ward surrounded by crazies. There’s nowhere high enough to reliably jump from either here or my other city. Fuck, I wish I had a gun. All I can do to keep from breaking down is to hide, under the bedsheets, in my university cell, wherever people aren’t. I know I can’t do it forever and I hear the clock ticking away. If I make any attempt to escape now, it’d better work because I cannot afford to miss any university, financially or otherwise. I am trapped here, destined to either stay in pain or sucumb to being mental on a full time basis. I don’t think I can deal with either.

The Aftermath

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I adapted some of this from an apology email I wrote to one of the friends last night. It goes for everyone here who I may have upset.

It really wasn’t my intention to cause upset and sadness, though I undoubtably did, but to leave a least a small mark on the earth before I was about to leave forever (so I thought). I had been planning my suicide for months in advance and researched the most effective and pain free ways, gone to some trouble to obtain the drugs I needed and kept them in a bag beside my bed for a few months. I often felt they gave me comfort in some strange way. I knew I had a way out for when things finally became too much to bear, as it seemed they inevitably would. With each passing day I became more and more behind where I, and general society thinks I should be in life. More distant from normality. Drifting ever further from “happiness”, whatever that was. I had not felt true happiness or excitement, unspoiled by my dysfunctional brain for a long, long time.

On that Friday night, I finally had the opportunity to lie undiscovered and undisturbed for the 36 hours necessary for the lethal cocktail to do it’s job (I was unable to obtain an old ulcer medication which raises the level of the lethal drug in blood plasma and results in a quicker method of action).

I don’t know what triggered it, I have anterograde amnesia for a while after, the first week is just a blank in my mind and it gradually comes back to me in the days after I was discharged from hospital. Anyway, I can’t remember a particular event or person setting me off, in fact I’d just received some good news that I wouldn’t have to pay tuition fees for next year or 2010/11 either. Whatever reason it was, it compelled me to go and fetch my package of pills and I popped open the tic tac box I had earlier filled with 50 amitriptyline tablets and I began swallowing them 4 and 5 at a time. I didn’t think about death, any possibility of an afterlife has long since been extinguished from me. I didn’t even stop to think what I was losing, I just wanted an escape.

I don’t do many selfish things in my life, I go out my way to bend over backwards and accommodate others at the expense of my own happiness, social status, whatever. I’m self sacrificing because I have no other reason to offer people to like me. I had grown tired of this though. Even though I believe in a persons total sovereignty over their own life more than anything else, I still felt an undercurrent of guilt at the hurt I knew I’d cause my family, and possibly the people whom, with trepidation I call friends. At times I’d admonish myself for having such delusions of grandeur; who am *I* to think that anyone’d even notice I’d gone let alone mourn my passing?

On that night, my selfish side, or maybe my apathetic side won through. I shovelled pill after pill down my throat, organ donor card clutched in one hand and suicide note gripped beside it, hoping to offer my family some kind of explanation and assuage their sadness. I suddenly felt like I at least owed an explanation for my absence to the only people I called friends (rightly or wrongly) and in my last minutes before I threw down a blister pack of valium to knock me out, I wrote from the heart to you all. I had planned individual notes but reading them, they seemed inadequate. Maybe with one last action, I could represent a united me, a combined message from the man whose thoughts and actions were often so disparate.

My memory fades after that. I remember waking up, arms full of IV lines, blood being taken from every available surface. I wasn’t lucid enough to think about the fact that I’d failed, let alone how I’d been discovered.

I’m still not sure who it was that did the detective work but someone had the police sent to my house and they obviously found me sprawled about, note in hand and still quantities of illegal sedatives strewn around.

My family seem to have forgiven me, though I haven’t really had the chance to be fully emotionally open about it, I don’t know if I ever can. My mum just cannot see how things are from my point of view. Even after she saw the note, my sister read it first and she asked her “What was the reason he did it?” as if my deep and complex mental state could have become so bad because of just one problem that could be conveyed in a single sentence. It’s not like I can just say “I have terminal cancer”, a (linguistically) simple explanation that would probably at least give even the most ardent anti-right-to-die fanatic food for thought.

I don’t think there has been any long term damage done, but I am finished with antidepressants. They have done far more harm than good for me, and I’d seriously recommend looking into others experiences and the facts behind the medical trials before embarking down that road in a serious way.

I’m still here, I don’t know what to do know. I feel that I’ve had one option taken away from me, if I plan to kill myself again then it’s going to have to be a much more closely guarded secret and I might not be able to get the message out about it. Fundamentally my life has not changed much. I am considered more of a risk by the medical people, it’s been hard to get them  off my back. I’ve blown my shot at ever getting effective drugs prescribed for any condition in the future.

There is still a profound emptiness inside me, I realise it every time I spend time with or around other “normal” people. Sure they have their own problems, but they are at least functional on the level of practically every other human being. They can spend an entire day with someone without breaking down thinking about how unqualified they are to accomplish such a task, overcome by self doubts and realisations of their own uselessness as a human being which I would feel. I know I can never be one of them, forever destined to be an outsider looking in, and what I see makes me ever more depressed.

Spiralling

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This might not make much sense, sorry in advance. The last few days I have felt like I am spiralling out of control, one day blurs into the next I forget when it started exactly. I have been seriously considering reckless things that I shouldn’t be (not talking about suicide) and I’ve hit 4 of the symptoms of hypomania. Not that I am suggesting that I am bipolar, I’ve never had this before and yesterday I realised I forgot my meds 2 days in a row which probably didn’t help things.

I haven’t eaten a proper meal since last thursday, I’ve been getting through work on red bull, had to call in sick one day last week because on top of everything i had a splitting headache and terrible cold and I couldn’t take it.

I’m scared about what I might do. I had tried to convince myself to stop looking towards suicide as the answer, but if I wreck up my life even more I might not have any other option.

Last night I told the person I’m closest too about how I am feeling and what crazy things I had been planning to do and I think she should have been disgusted with me and never wanted to speak to me again but instead she just wanted to reassure me that it’s my illness. I don’t know if I can lay the blame of much more at the feet of depression, I have to take responsibility at some point.

What upset me most is that she said that she felt like she has been talking to a person with a terminal illness for the past few weeks 😦 I hate to think that that is how I am thought of, I don’t deserve any sympathy, everything wrong with me is my own doing and I don’t HAVE to die, it’s all self imposed. I feel guilty as hell.

this is an extract of some things i have written down for my therapist (still got to wait until the 17th to see him)


I am a wreck. I feel like I want to cry but no tears come, there’s nothing there. I’m so sick of being such a worthless excuse for a human and heading down the inevitable path of failure.

(cut)

I am so starved of affection and I crave it desperately even if it is not real. I long for someone else’s touch. It is so incredibly hard knowing you are disgusting and repellent to everyone and that closeness and intimacy are unattainable. I plan on killing myself soon, I’d rather my inevitable suicide be seen as a tradgedy and maybe a waste of potential than people wonder “what took him so long?”

I honestly don’t know what to do. What can I do? Call crisis? They can’t help, I’m too entrenched for half an hour with a stranger to make everything A-OK. How could I possibly explain everything that is wrong to yet ANOTHER person I don’t know? I don’t know if there is any help available for the chronically suicidal.

Hate

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I gave up on my plan last week, I was too scared to go through with it and be discovered. I need time alone to make it work. Some people tried to talk me out of it and I felt so guilty that they care about such a useless person as me. I don’t know why I should bother hanging around this shitty world, in this shitty life. I’m beginning to think I’m incapable of being happy, the only time the pain relents is for a matter of hours and then it’s back again.

Why should I want to live? Everyone would seriously be better off without me. The same could probably be said of a lot of people, but I don’t want to be here. I wish I could give my opportunities and resources to someone else who deserves them. I’m sick of myself and how weak and pathetic I am. Nothing can change, the damage has been done and I’ve fucked up everything. I threw away a life, I can’t deal with the consequences.

Psych Appointment

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I have the first of my stop-gap psychologist appointments for while I’m back home over the summer today. I really don’t know what to do, I’m an accomplished enough at hiding the truth about how I feel that I could get away without saying anything. The alternative would probably be undesirable. I don’t want to deal with the crisis team again. I can’t have them coming to my house and still be able to tell my mum that I’m ok. She’ll start crying again and wanting to come up with a magic quick fix and just flat out tell me that I’m wrong about myself. She has no idea.

5 pills in. 12 hours left until dosing time.

Escape Plan

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DISCLAIMER: I am fully aware of how easy I have things as a white, western, straight male with no physical health problems. I feel guilty every day because despite being born into lucky circumstances, I’m still a failure. I know other people have things much, much worse.

It’s been a while since I posted properly, I apologise for that. Life is wearing me down mentally and physically. I still cannot sleep like a normal person, I’m awake until the early hours of the morning about 50% of nights and then I’m fighting to stay awake the rest of the following day. I’ve stopped myself from sleeping during the day time and I walk a couple of miles each day to try and get myself back into a regular pattern but it just isn’t working. I have to drink caffeine to concentrate at work, even though I’m only in 4 hours a day.

My new job is several orders of magnitude better than my old one for many reasons. First of all it pays more and is much less demanding. Secondly, I don’t hate my coworkers and they don’t spend every day coming up with new ways to insult me. I’ve only had to endure minor taunting about how quiet I am so far. The thing that I prefer most though, is that it’s only part time. I struggle to manage even these small amounts of hours though. It reminds me of the fact that one day I will be forced to work full time, most likely with people who hate me and I just don’t know if I can stand it.

One month of this was enough to push me into my first serious suicidal mood back in 2006. The first time I wrote my family a note and looked up the most effective way to kill myself. Thankfully over circumstances forced me to leave that job but then followed over a year of depression, unemployment, worsening anxiety and isolation before another crisis forced me into returning to university. I know I’m not going to have that option again in the future (my life certainly won’t be worth living if I drop out again) not many people get a second chance and very, very few get a third and I’d be way too old.

I keep wondering what the point is. I’ve been like this since I was a child, as far back as I can remember I have always dreaded obligations, right from playgroup at age 3 up to going to work. I get the same sick feeling in my stomach, that I have to face the people out there makes me feel ill.

Is life worth feeling like that? What’s so good about life if you have no friends, no-one to share things with, nobody who loves you. Is it really worth me hanging around for 10,500 more of the worthless days? I don’t see why I should want to live, other than guilt.

Don’t read on if you don’t want to see vivid discussion of suicide

I keep staring at the motillium, I have it all planned out. 36 hours of anti-emetic regimine before the amitriptyline and sedatives. I haven’t ever told any medical professionals about my new found tendancy towards pills, they know about my plans to jump but I can’t let them know about this. They’ll want me to get rid of them and I can’t do that. I need my escape route, I’ve gone down that path of no return.

I think suicidal ideation is addictive. Once you have accepted that it is a viable option and your life isn’t really worth living, it’s comforting to have the escape plan in place. I find myself thinking about it every single day, despite what I have told doctors. I see little point in discussing it with them any more. They only have limited options at their disposal, sending the stupid, interfering crisis team round is not going to help me. I can’t relate my entire life story and expose my most deep fears to someone I am probably never going to see again. What good does it do? I’m rarely in an acute crisis anyway, my condition is chronic. 1 hour of chattering isn’t going to change a fucked up life around.

I don’t think I’m unjustified in considering this as a serious option at this point in my life. There’s nothing that gives me any real pleasure or happiness at the moment. I’ve gone through 2 years of crappy drugs that don’t work. I’m sick of being jealous of everyone for having a life, knowing that I’m not a real person and will never be accepted as one by the rest of society. I couldn’t deal with that anyway, it’s easier to be a weirdo, at least I have no image to keep up.

It’s very difficult to explain to people who desperately lonely and disconnected I feel from humanity. I’m sure most people reading this have had feelings for someone but never got to do anything about it and the pain of that. I have experienced nothing except that. A long time ago I stopped even thinking of myself as a person capable of relationships. I’m a hopeless cause, a complete write off. What reason is there to live like this? Would you want to be in this situation?

In answer to why I want to kill myself; There is nothing in my life that makes up for all the shit. It will only get worse from here, why prolong the “suffering”?

edit: taken first one