Tag: depression

Venting 4

Last venting was not from today. In fact I wrote it weeks ago. I am now posting again, because, I need to. Vent.

Here is today venting.

“On days like those… I wish I could take enough sleeping-pills to never wake up again. Just resting peacefully…no more judgements, no more obligations, no more human needs.
“

Well, I did. I tried. Yesterday night, I tried to kill myself.

I persuaded my dad to give me his Lexomil (Bromazépam) – he was not hard to persuade, eh, he’s all too happy to give his drugs to someone else. He told me “it’s powerful, take only a quarter!”. Ah. I took a whole pill and still felt fine.

When I tried coming home on Friday, no one was there to greet me. I was alone at the station. I had to take another train to come close to the town where my parents habit.

When I told my mother I needed new medications because I was a mess, she ended up angry and told me she was fed up with me.

I did not have to courage to ask my girlfriend on a date. What is wrong with me.

Yesterday night, I took way too many pills. Sleeping pills (half a tube), Lexomile (four pills), and painkillers. I then went out to search for an open shop, see if they were selling alcohol. I was not really conscious of what I was doing, I’m aware of it now. I was swaggering on the streets, defenceless. Just wanting to have some beer to accelerate the stuff.

I didn’t find any. I went back home, feeling like shit. I found weird things there on the bed, latex gloves, and remnants of pills wrappers. I don’t really know what happened next.

I woke up hours after, naked in the bed, with a different pair of underwear. My computer was shut off. Books were piled up on the floor. I don’t remember doing any of it, but it must have been me.

I couldn’t eat all day. Pills have left an horrible after taste, I tried drinking but it gave me nausea so strong I nearly puked. Tonight I cooked a kilo of pasta, and in a rush of eating disorder I gulped it all, and then stayed in pain in the toilets for an hour. I have troubles breathing, and walking straight. I still went to my afternoon classes.

I don’t know how to deal with this. I tried to kill myself, I was so close! I am ashamed of myself, and I can’t tell anyone. But the worst is…that I am actually disappointed. I felt bad yesterday, yes, but not that much. If I had died, it would have been peaceful.

That’s all I want. And I failed. Like I fail at everything else.

And now what to do? Trying again? Calling a doctor? I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. I can’t stop running, but I am already on my knees.    

Venting3

I can’t talk to anybody. I want out. I want out so desperately. I’m no good for them, I’ll never be. I want to drink myself to death, use as many sleeping pills I have to just never, ever wake up. I am not brave, not even brave enough to invite my girlfriend out. Why? Why am I like this? And at the same time, why doesn’t she invite me? Does she think I’m a bore? Is she scared she’s not gonna like me anymore? Is she even liking me in the first place…

I can’t do it anymore, I just can’t. I stopped taking meds, all at once, because, let’s face it, they were not working, and they were just placebo anyway. And still I’m blaming my lameness on that? Dude, wake up, you are lame, whether you’re on meds or not. So let’s just stop filling my body with these nasty stuff. I want to die. I want to die so badly. I’m always having dizzy spells, I’m drunk almost everyday, and if not drunk, using sleeping pills…

I will never be free from this… I will never be free – I may go on a vacation, go on a trip, live on my own, or live with people, it’s always stuck to me, it’s always talking to me… I am no good. I will never escape, if I don’t stop taking meds now, I’ll never stop anyway, because I won’t heal. I won’t ever go to someone to talk it out, and even if I were to do it, it wouldn’t help. Because no one cares. No one ever cared.

Everyone about suicide: “If they are in a crisis, call the line blablabla”… Why? Just so we are left hurting? Why is it better to see our hurting bodies and minds than see our corpses? Because when we are corpses, we can’t produce anything anymore? We are not USEFUL, anymore, mmh, society? You want living corpses, corpses that can amount to something, not real corpses, right? FUCK YOU. Fuck you for letting us hurt so much, so long, and presenting that as “the good thing to do.” FUCK YOU.

Venting2

Today was a shitty day. I had no envy, no courage, nothing. I was…empty. I didn’t want to get up, I didn’t want to take my meds, I didn’t want anything.

I just accomplished my daily tasks, carefully placed reminders that I have things to carry out. A language course on the Internet. A shower. Dirty dishes. A phone-call from my mother, admitting that, no, I couldn’t go to class, again. Some made-up excuses why. A book. Plants.  

I’m functioning on auto-pilot. As a good robot, I don’t eat. I don’t eat until my bones feel cold, my head heavy, and my eyes blurry. I end up crouched on the floor, clutching my stomach, tears on my cheeks, pitifully whining.

I can’t win against that enormous pain. I eat – I suffer. I don’t eat – I suffer. It’s an endless cycle. The stress that is devoring me whole.

Except that not eating is more acceptable for me, because it makes me loose weight. People take that as a hint of good health. When you are big, even loosing 1kg is taken as extraordinary good news – when in fact it’s because you couldn’t summon the will to keep fueling yourself. Or worse, because you were actively trying to diminish what was left of you. 

You can’t disappear, your life is slipping away, so you control. You control the only sign of humanity in you: the limitless need to eat and defecate. You control sleep, you force yourself to binge on sleeping-pills and then stay awake. It’s the only thing keeping you sane. Being high on fucking sleeping-pills. How pitoyable. 

And then, at the end of the day, people insult you for what you are. They exclude you, they think you do not belong. They decide not to come to a social event because you said you’ll be there. 

On days like those… I wish I could take enough sleeping-pills to never wake up again. Just resting peacefully…no more judgements, no more obligations, no more human needs. I wish I could say I was staying alive for the sake of the people loving me – but their love feels fake in my dementia, and in fact, it’s only my own cowardness that is pushing me back to sleep…to face another day.

Venting1

I’m so happy I’m soon going to the psy… I’m so full of things, I feel like bursting. I feel disgusted by myself, I’m so unuseful and awful… I harmed twice since I came back to my place, and I just could not get out of my bed today, and yesterday as well… Pff…

Today I stepped out of my apartment, shaking of lack of nutrition and on the verge of anxiety attacks because there was just so many people. I kept repeating “No one is looking at you, no one is looking at you” under my breath, probably sounding like a maniac. I got controlled twice by security agents, it made me almost cry. 

But most of all I am lonely. All the time, all the time, it just never stops. Loneliness is eating my brain and all my happy thoughts. I cannot talk to my friends, I don’t want to bother them. I get the feeling they wouldn’t care if I did, anyway. Because when you are always feeling miserable, telling so to people tends to bore them. They take your sadness, tiredness, weirdness, for granted. They think it’s normal for you to feel that way. 

So they choose not to answer. Or they belittle it. It’s something they refuse to sympathize with, because it’s tiring to love someone who is depressed and anxious. 

I’ve got a girlfriend, a family, many friends. But I feel so lonely. I feel abandoned. I feel restricted to a bubble where no love can enter. I feel like all the words said to me are not sincere, I feel like no one cares about me, at all. I feel like the only person on Earth – and it’s stupid. I’m stupid.

I mean, I must be, if I’m actually writing all of this on a blog no one visits. It’s like I’m screaming pain into the wind, in the hope some human ear may catch a bit of it. 

Anyway, that is the purpose of this blog. I can’t keep writing to myself, or I’ll turn insane. 

Two more days to go, before I can verbally unleash this at someone, who is paid to listen to all that shit and give me more pills. Let’s hope it will actually lift my spirits.