#1 ·
Why a special thread? Is it because you’re just... special? Haha
No, I don't really think of myself as being that special. But I guess this post falls into that middle ground—it belongs to about half of the topics on this virtual therapy couch, yet somehow doesn't quite fit into any specific category. (If you guys know where it fits, feel free to categorize it.)
So, what are you going to write about?
Well... I mean... My second birthday is coming up soon. Five years since my failed suicide attempt. Obviously.
Looking back after these grueling five years, I wouldn't do it again. It’s true that when those thoughts creep back in, I do think about it, but I have so many little reasons why I shouldn't.
So, are things better?
No, actually, they're much worse. Except, I guess, I’m more mature now and I appreciate all the beautiful things in life, even if there aren't many. The biggest reason I don't want to take my own life is the people around me—my parents, my friends, and my boyfriend.
Ah, so you aren't dying to die.
It's actually the exact opposite.
I don't want to hurt the people I love, or who love me, in any way. Not intentionally, anyway. But I do dream about being on a plane that crashes—even though, honestly, I've only ever been on a plane once in my life. I wouldn't be so miserable that I’d wish for some nasty cancer to wipe me out in a year; I wouldn't mind a terminal illness or a fatal accident at all.
Why?
Because a part of me is constantly dying. I could easily conclude that I'm already dead, like I'm just a ghost wandering this empty planet, but I can't. Because, realistically, I am living.
Does all that make you suicidal?
Nope.
Depressive, then?
Maybe? I mean, no.
I'm not depressed. I have damn Borderline. My thoughts, my desires, my plans, my behavior... they're so unpredictable. Probably most unpredictable to myself. And I hate it, I really do. I hate how sometimes I'm so happy and I just don't give a damn about any problems. I hate how, during those times, all the important people in my life actually love me. Like I'm actually useful to them and myself.
That’s what I hate more than the endless sadness where there's no hope. Those times when I can't even pull myself out of bed, when I just sit there in silence crying... no matter how much anyone loves me, I just can't handle it. In those moments, I don't even want anyone near me. Just so I don't accidentally pass a bit of that death onto them.
What about psychiatrists? Medication?
I've cycled through billions of psychiatrists and tons of different meds. The result? Globally, it’s just been an even bigger mess. Because nothing seems to work.
But it does cause harm. Over these five years, I've realized that absolutely nobody can truly help me if I don't help myself. And I've tried to help myself a million times, and even then, sometimes it wasn't even useful. Because I'm just not a problem-solving person. I just pile them up. Then I ignore them and act happy. Then I add a few more to the heap. And so on, in circles.
---If anyone is reading this (and I can already see this might go on forever), you'll probably think I'm spoiled, oblivious, or just stupid. Maybe I am?---
I don't have a job. Because every single time I get employed, the same thing happens. Everything is great, everything is fine (not that jobs are bad, it's just me), and then—bam. I'll injure myself or get sick on purpose, by any means necessary, just so I never have to show up to that place again, do those tasks, or look at and talk to those people.
Often, I don't even have to try to become incapacitated; my psyche and my body just do it on their own.
I have a house and I have food because I have parents who wouldn't let me go hungry or homeless, despite their very below-average Social Security checks. On top of that, I do odd jobs for people here and there. You know, freelance projects. That person always exploits me to the max. But it's much more manageable than going through a real job with real working hours and something constant. Something that isn't just a single project. Actually, I enjoy the projects, and I eagerly await a random call from someone who thinks we're great friends and that I'll do everything for $17. Often, I don't even know the person.
(End of the monologue about work, because my train of thought was interrupted about 99% of the way through.)
???
There's even a reason why my train of thought was cut short. It's FINALLY late enough that I can take a cocktail of pills and overthink everything until the combination of medication and exhaustion finally lures me to sleep.
It’s more about mental exhaustion than physical, I guess. Because I spend my entire day hunched over a computer, eating and counting every single calorie, and then... well, I just end up purging those calories back out, and then I feel okay. (And look, I’m not saying I have bulimia. Not 365 days a year. Maybe there are 30 days where I’m bulimic, maybe 30 where I’m anorexic, and maybe 30 where I’m just... heavy. But seriously. Most of the time, I don't actually suffer from an eating disorder.)
Pills. Honestly, pills are probably at the top of my list of things I love most. At least during these times when I can finally take them, even though they don't really *work* anymore since I'm an addict and almost 100% immune to them. But, I don't know, some kind of semi-placebo effect still lingers.
Right now, I'm on Seroquel, Prozac, Lexapro, maybe some Valium... you name it. The meds change constantly because every time I switch, things get better... well, for a couple of days, anyway.
I am such a heavy addict! And I guess it would be fine if I didn't gain so much weight from them. And from all the food.
And then, once I remember that, I slip right back into bulimia. I realized a long time ago that I haven't been anorexic—not because I wouldn't want to be, but because I just can't stop eating. I eat all the time.
Wanting to be anorexic? That sounds sick!
Not in the sense that I want to starve myself or obsess over being twenty pounds overweight. It's just... I wish I wasn't dependent on food (like, abnormally dependent) and I wish I were thin. And okay, fine, I wouldn't mind if I just *was* anorexic. It sounds better than being "fat" or whatever people say, like, "You've filled out a bit... just in the stomach area. Look how thin your arms are." I know how serious anorexia actually is. I really do. But yeah, I'd want all of that.
So, basically: you're depressed, your moods swing wildly, you take it all out on yourself, you're an addict, and you probably have an eating disorder.
You could call it that. It works, I suppose, because I don't know any other way to describe who I really am. Because most of the time, I'm not even myself.
Are you going to get to a point?
Not really. I guess the half-point is that I want to die, but I don't plan on killing myself because I'm a stupid person, and, well, I'm becoming less attractive by the day. I'm someone who is more of a person when viewed as a whole, rather than separately, yet I don't have some made-up illness. There are hundreds of people like that, just drifting. Today I'm this, tomorrow I'm that, and by tomorrow night, who knows. The point is... well... I actually wanted to ask if anyone here has advice on how to get off these pills. But I guess it's stupid to even ask that when I'm sitting here eagerly waiting for midnight so I can go to the medicine cabinet and mix them up based on my mood.
I think I can finally say something that is pretty much a constant for me.
I find life incredibly difficult, but I get comfort from that artificial sleep—ten, twelve hours of it. That's why I abuse the medication; it lets me be peaceful for almost half the day. Completely, finally. Aside from the nightmares.
And then I wake up and suddenly I'm shoved back into reality, where you're supposed to be attractive, smart, have a career and friends, a successful relationship, and regular sex. A reality you could maybe have if you weren't *you*. But since you are you, you lack most of those things and instead you have a mountain of imaginary problems along with a few real ones. And you have to be "real" for half the day. Those half-days are a dead existence for three reasons: it's life, you are the problem, and it's the pills.
I have proof:
-I'm overweight because that's just life; it's just who I am, and I absolutely cannot bring myself to move or exercise for more than a week before I change my mind and decide I'm actually gorgeous and don't need that boring, exhausting workout. And lastly—the pills make me gain weight and leave me wanting to eat and eat.
-I don't have a job because that's just life—it's hard to hold down a steady job these days unless you really know how to play the game or have a great connection. Plus, because it's me, the moment I can't stand the routine anymore, I get sick for however long it takes and I just quit. And then there are the pills, which I can't live without. I HAVE to sleep a certain number of hours, and my job won't let me. So I skip them for a couple of days and I just completely fall apart.
-My relationships with the people around me are a mess. Almost as messy as my relationship with myself. I am constantly changing, and to keep certain people around, I pretend to be whatever they want or expect me to be. I play roles. BECAUSE that's apparently what some people need in life. And it's because I'm someone who is anything but myself. And I take pills. It's impossible that they don't have something to do with it.
-I feel... I don't know, just foolish and miserable and sad, yet somehow happy and exhausting and—well, foolish again. It’s like, when you're stuck in that headspace, life just kind of conspires to keep you there. And if you're feeling pathetic, you almost don't fight it, because honestly, leaning into the misery feels like the path of least resistance. So you're sad, then you're happy, then you're back to being sad, and in those low moments, you think, "I won't do anything drastic... I'll just be happy again, it doesn't make sense to give up." That's just me, I guess. And it's the medication. Because, truthfully, I'm not even sure if things would be this way without them. Probably not. I'd probably just be dead. I forgot to mention the main reason I can't stop taking them... it's because without them, that pain comes back. The pain that affects my happiness, my relationships, and everything else. Especially just... living.
So, what's your point?
Nothing. The end.
No, I don't really think of myself as being that special. But I guess this post falls into that middle ground—it belongs to about half of the topics on this virtual therapy couch, yet somehow doesn't quite fit into any specific category. (If you guys know where it fits, feel free to categorize it.)
So, what are you going to write about?
Well... I mean... My second birthday is coming up soon. Five years since my failed suicide attempt. Obviously.
Looking back after these grueling five years, I wouldn't do it again. It’s true that when those thoughts creep back in, I do think about it, but I have so many little reasons why I shouldn't.
So, are things better?
No, actually, they're much worse. Except, I guess, I’m more mature now and I appreciate all the beautiful things in life, even if there aren't many. The biggest reason I don't want to take my own life is the people around me—my parents, my friends, and my boyfriend.
Ah, so you aren't dying to die.
It's actually the exact opposite.
I don't want to hurt the people I love, or who love me, in any way. Not intentionally, anyway. But I do dream about being on a plane that crashes—even though, honestly, I've only ever been on a plane once in my life. I wouldn't be so miserable that I’d wish for some nasty cancer to wipe me out in a year; I wouldn't mind a terminal illness or a fatal accident at all.
Why?
Because a part of me is constantly dying. I could easily conclude that I'm already dead, like I'm just a ghost wandering this empty planet, but I can't. Because, realistically, I am living.
Does all that make you suicidal?
Nope.
Depressive, then?
Maybe? I mean, no.
I'm not depressed. I have damn Borderline. My thoughts, my desires, my plans, my behavior... they're so unpredictable. Probably most unpredictable to myself. And I hate it, I really do. I hate how sometimes I'm so happy and I just don't give a damn about any problems. I hate how, during those times, all the important people in my life actually love me. Like I'm actually useful to them and myself.
That’s what I hate more than the endless sadness where there's no hope. Those times when I can't even pull myself out of bed, when I just sit there in silence crying... no matter how much anyone loves me, I just can't handle it. In those moments, I don't even want anyone near me. Just so I don't accidentally pass a bit of that death onto them.
What about psychiatrists? Medication?
I've cycled through billions of psychiatrists and tons of different meds. The result? Globally, it’s just been an even bigger mess. Because nothing seems to work.
But it does cause harm. Over these five years, I've realized that absolutely nobody can truly help me if I don't help myself. And I've tried to help myself a million times, and even then, sometimes it wasn't even useful. Because I'm just not a problem-solving person. I just pile them up. Then I ignore them and act happy. Then I add a few more to the heap. And so on, in circles.
---If anyone is reading this (and I can already see this might go on forever), you'll probably think I'm spoiled, oblivious, or just stupid. Maybe I am?---
I don't have a job. Because every single time I get employed, the same thing happens. Everything is great, everything is fine (not that jobs are bad, it's just me), and then—bam. I'll injure myself or get sick on purpose, by any means necessary, just so I never have to show up to that place again, do those tasks, or look at and talk to those people.
Often, I don't even have to try to become incapacitated; my psyche and my body just do it on their own.
I have a house and I have food because I have parents who wouldn't let me go hungry or homeless, despite their very below-average Social Security checks. On top of that, I do odd jobs for people here and there. You know, freelance projects. That person always exploits me to the max. But it's much more manageable than going through a real job with real working hours and something constant. Something that isn't just a single project. Actually, I enjoy the projects, and I eagerly await a random call from someone who thinks we're great friends and that I'll do everything for $17. Often, I don't even know the person.
(End of the monologue about work, because my train of thought was interrupted about 99% of the way through.)
???
There's even a reason why my train of thought was cut short. It's FINALLY late enough that I can take a cocktail of pills and overthink everything until the combination of medication and exhaustion finally lures me to sleep.
It’s more about mental exhaustion than physical, I guess. Because I spend my entire day hunched over a computer, eating and counting every single calorie, and then... well, I just end up purging those calories back out, and then I feel okay. (And look, I’m not saying I have bulimia. Not 365 days a year. Maybe there are 30 days where I’m bulimic, maybe 30 where I’m anorexic, and maybe 30 where I’m just... heavy. But seriously. Most of the time, I don't actually suffer from an eating disorder.)
Pills. Honestly, pills are probably at the top of my list of things I love most. At least during these times when I can finally take them, even though they don't really *work* anymore since I'm an addict and almost 100% immune to them. But, I don't know, some kind of semi-placebo effect still lingers.
Right now, I'm on Seroquel, Prozac, Lexapro, maybe some Valium... you name it. The meds change constantly because every time I switch, things get better... well, for a couple of days, anyway.
I am such a heavy addict! And I guess it would be fine if I didn't gain so much weight from them. And from all the food.
And then, once I remember that, I slip right back into bulimia. I realized a long time ago that I haven't been anorexic—not because I wouldn't want to be, but because I just can't stop eating. I eat all the time.
Wanting to be anorexic? That sounds sick!
Not in the sense that I want to starve myself or obsess over being twenty pounds overweight. It's just... I wish I wasn't dependent on food (like, abnormally dependent) and I wish I were thin. And okay, fine, I wouldn't mind if I just *was* anorexic. It sounds better than being "fat" or whatever people say, like, "You've filled out a bit... just in the stomach area. Look how thin your arms are." I know how serious anorexia actually is. I really do. But yeah, I'd want all of that.
So, basically: you're depressed, your moods swing wildly, you take it all out on yourself, you're an addict, and you probably have an eating disorder.
You could call it that. It works, I suppose, because I don't know any other way to describe who I really am. Because most of the time, I'm not even myself.
Are you going to get to a point?
Not really. I guess the half-point is that I want to die, but I don't plan on killing myself because I'm a stupid person, and, well, I'm becoming less attractive by the day. I'm someone who is more of a person when viewed as a whole, rather than separately, yet I don't have some made-up illness. There are hundreds of people like that, just drifting. Today I'm this, tomorrow I'm that, and by tomorrow night, who knows. The point is... well... I actually wanted to ask if anyone here has advice on how to get off these pills. But I guess it's stupid to even ask that when I'm sitting here eagerly waiting for midnight so I can go to the medicine cabinet and mix them up based on my mood.
I think I can finally say something that is pretty much a constant for me.
I find life incredibly difficult, but I get comfort from that artificial sleep—ten, twelve hours of it. That's why I abuse the medication; it lets me be peaceful for almost half the day. Completely, finally. Aside from the nightmares.
And then I wake up and suddenly I'm shoved back into reality, where you're supposed to be attractive, smart, have a career and friends, a successful relationship, and regular sex. A reality you could maybe have if you weren't *you*. But since you are you, you lack most of those things and instead you have a mountain of imaginary problems along with a few real ones. And you have to be "real" for half the day. Those half-days are a dead existence for three reasons: it's life, you are the problem, and it's the pills.
I have proof:
-I'm overweight because that's just life; it's just who I am, and I absolutely cannot bring myself to move or exercise for more than a week before I change my mind and decide I'm actually gorgeous and don't need that boring, exhausting workout. And lastly—the pills make me gain weight and leave me wanting to eat and eat.
-I don't have a job because that's just life—it's hard to hold down a steady job these days unless you really know how to play the game or have a great connection. Plus, because it's me, the moment I can't stand the routine anymore, I get sick for however long it takes and I just quit. And then there are the pills, which I can't live without. I HAVE to sleep a certain number of hours, and my job won't let me. So I skip them for a couple of days and I just completely fall apart.
-My relationships with the people around me are a mess. Almost as messy as my relationship with myself. I am constantly changing, and to keep certain people around, I pretend to be whatever they want or expect me to be. I play roles. BECAUSE that's apparently what some people need in life. And it's because I'm someone who is anything but myself. And I take pills. It's impossible that they don't have something to do with it.
-I feel... I don't know, just foolish and miserable and sad, yet somehow happy and exhausting and—well, foolish again. It’s like, when you're stuck in that headspace, life just kind of conspires to keep you there. And if you're feeling pathetic, you almost don't fight it, because honestly, leaning into the misery feels like the path of least resistance. So you're sad, then you're happy, then you're back to being sad, and in those low moments, you think, "I won't do anything drastic... I'll just be happy again, it doesn't make sense to give up." That's just me, I guess. And it's the medication. Because, truthfully, I'm not even sure if things would be this way without them. Probably not. I'd probably just be dead. I forgot to mention the main reason I can't stop taking them... it's because without them, that pain comes back. The pain that affects my happiness, my relationships, and everything else. Especially just... living.
So, what's your point?
Nothing. The end.