Some of my thoughts have been causing me physical pain. It's a deep, cold tightness that grips my heart like a vice. It makes my stomach feel raw and empty. It feels like something is trying to rip my soul from my chest.
My exhaustion will not wane. The pain just gets worse. It's loss. Loss of a thing that I still possess.
But why? Why is this chemical reaction in my brain causing this physical ache in my heart - an ache caused by no more than an emotion? Why do I have to suffer this phantom pain from something that hasn't happened? What purpose does this serve?
You know what it feels like? It feels like guilt. That heavy weight on your chest. A feeling of loss and guilt that has no basis in reality.
Yet it brings me to tears.
Why?
Why?
...
Showing posts with label I want to kill myself. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I want to kill myself. Show all posts
Saturday, 3 September 2016
Friday, 2 September 2016
I'm Not Good Enough
Take from this title what you will. I'm not spouting the opinion that I am a victim and that world just doesn't think I live up to expectations of me... this goes far, far deeper than any of that.
I understand my life and live on the basis of a subjective realism. Basically, I have that paranoid feeling that everything outside of my own head might not be real. What if all the people I perceive are figments of my own imagination? What if everything I have ever done has no real meaning because I'm just dreaming all of this whilst being used to power Machine City (extreme example but you get where I'm going with this). This begs the question: why do I feel like I'm not good enough?
Paranoid delusions aside, what do we mean when we say we aren't good enough? What is that feeling that makes us perceive ourselves as failures to the rest of a societal norm?
I'm not going to wander down the philosopher's highway today because I don't have the energy and, quite frankly, I'm not sure it would make a difference.
My point is, I am sitting here, thinking about those nights when I don't want to wake up in the morning and wondering to myself; "What am I trying to prove?"
If I am sitting here in a broken mind, thinking about ending my own life then what does it matter if I have lived up to expectations or not? Why do I care about who likes me, what I look like, where I'm going to live one day, who is judging me... if it doesn't really matter?
This is a phenomenon known as cognitive dissonance, the ability to hold two contradicting points of view at the same time.
Because, for a long, long time, I haven't wanted to carry on. I've wanted to just sink into the sweet darkness and forget. To face that infinite blackness before I become nothing but compost. Some days are better than others and I think that there might just be a reason, some raison d'être to this whole confounded existence...
I cherish those days. I hold them close because I know that if I can feel like that for a day, I can feel like that for a week... and maybe a month... and maybe a year... and maybe one day I will be happy again.
I understand my life and live on the basis of a subjective realism. Basically, I have that paranoid feeling that everything outside of my own head might not be real. What if all the people I perceive are figments of my own imagination? What if everything I have ever done has no real meaning because I'm just dreaming all of this whilst being used to power Machine City (extreme example but you get where I'm going with this). This begs the question: why do I feel like I'm not good enough?
Paranoid delusions aside, what do we mean when we say we aren't good enough? What is that feeling that makes us perceive ourselves as failures to the rest of a societal norm?
I'm not going to wander down the philosopher's highway today because I don't have the energy and, quite frankly, I'm not sure it would make a difference.
My point is, I am sitting here, thinking about those nights when I don't want to wake up in the morning and wondering to myself; "What am I trying to prove?"
If I am sitting here in a broken mind, thinking about ending my own life then what does it matter if I have lived up to expectations or not? Why do I care about who likes me, what I look like, where I'm going to live one day, who is judging me... if it doesn't really matter?
This is a phenomenon known as cognitive dissonance, the ability to hold two contradicting points of view at the same time.
Because, for a long, long time, I haven't wanted to carry on. I've wanted to just sink into the sweet darkness and forget. To face that infinite blackness before I become nothing but compost. Some days are better than others and I think that there might just be a reason, some raison d'être to this whole confounded existence...
I cherish those days. I hold them close because I know that if I can feel like that for a day, I can feel like that for a week... and maybe a month... and maybe a year... and maybe one day I will be happy again.
Wednesday, 31 August 2016
LIMBO - To Die Or Not To Die?
NOTE: This post contains bad language and dark imagery. Reader discretion is advised.
WARNING! This post deals with the topic of self-harm, suicidal thoughts and suicide. If these are triggering subjects to you, please leave this blog.
For a while now, I've felt that I'm in some sort of Limbo. You know, that inexplicable place between what is and what isn't? It's like floating through life, where the whole of the world is a dark Gaussian blur, and you can't fall into that dark, sweet oblivion but waking up is impossible. It's like a longing for a non-existance, a release and relief into nothingness.
I've had suicidal thoughts for a long time.There are the regular, short, lucid moments in unipolar depression when you just start to wake up to how ridiculous you're being and you manage to get out of bed without expending a week's worth of effort... but those always give way again like a floor of rotting timber.
... and then you start to fall. It's slow and dark. It has an eerie whine and a pulling grey void that consumes you. Eventually... inevitably... you hit rock bottom.
That's just after the razors and the alcohol and the pills. It's that moment when you are trying to stop the bleeding or finish vomiting and you realise that this is it. This is what you're leaving behind. A bloody mess and the silhouette of a desperate soul.
It's not fucking worth it.
SO, you clean yourself up, stagger in to bed, sleep it off and awaken feeling better... and you maintain this until the cycle begins again.
It's exhausting. It's painful. It's chronic and debilitating. All you want to do is fall asleep and never wake up.
That's me. That's where I am.
I'm so tired.
But I'm lucid enough to write this post. I'm alert enough to realise that my thoughts are ridiculous. I'm me enough to know that this isn't where it ends.
But I have things to do. I can't sit here and cry forever. So I am going to get up, dust off the demons and move on... while I have this little bit of strength.
WARNING! This post deals with the topic of self-harm, suicidal thoughts and suicide. If these are triggering subjects to you, please leave this blog.
For a while now, I've felt that I'm in some sort of Limbo. You know, that inexplicable place between what is and what isn't? It's like floating through life, where the whole of the world is a dark Gaussian blur, and you can't fall into that dark, sweet oblivion but waking up is impossible. It's like a longing for a non-existance, a release and relief into nothingness.
I've had suicidal thoughts for a long time.There are the regular, short, lucid moments in unipolar depression when you just start to wake up to how ridiculous you're being and you manage to get out of bed without expending a week's worth of effort... but those always give way again like a floor of rotting timber.
... and then you start to fall. It's slow and dark. It has an eerie whine and a pulling grey void that consumes you. Eventually... inevitably... you hit rock bottom.
That's just after the razors and the alcohol and the pills. It's that moment when you are trying to stop the bleeding or finish vomiting and you realise that this is it. This is what you're leaving behind. A bloody mess and the silhouette of a desperate soul.
It's not fucking worth it.
SO, you clean yourself up, stagger in to bed, sleep it off and awaken feeling better... and you maintain this until the cycle begins again.
It's exhausting. It's painful. It's chronic and debilitating. All you want to do is fall asleep and never wake up.
That's me. That's where I am.
I'm so tired.
But I'm lucid enough to write this post. I'm alert enough to realise that my thoughts are ridiculous. I'm me enough to know that this isn't where it ends.
But I have things to do. I can't sit here and cry forever. So I am going to get up, dust off the demons and move on... while I have this little bit of strength.
Wednesday, 30 September 2015
I'm still alive.
So this is it. This is me taking a step into the online world (and not for the first time, might I add), baring my soul to the public for the sake of... whom? Me? You?
I have written a few blogs in my time. They were of a mediocre quality, the everyday monotony of a life painted in high-gloss. That's just not what I want. You probably won't find those blogs anymore... maybe my fictional blog will still be there though.
The fact is, I want to erase the lies. I want to expose the truth. I'm going to tell my story. Maybe someone will find it useful, someone sitting in their bedroom, tears staining their pale cheeks while they enter "I want to kill myself" into Google's search engine. I've been there. I've done it. I may still do it again in the future. The point is, I am alive today. I've won the battles for 21 years. I still have something left to give.
Let me give you the timeline.
I don't remember much that happened to me before the age of three. Not many people do. I know that that was where it all started.
AGE 3:
I came home from playgroup stuttering. Two psychiatrists, one hypnotherapist and three psychologists later, all we know is that something traumatized me, but it wasn't sexual. My parents took me out of that playgroup and I stopped stuttering.
AGE 5 - 10:
I was given the label "shy". I never participated in any school activites. I went to a Montessori school. I had freedom. I had friends. But small things triggered some kind of fear. I liked to be by myself but I was terrified of being alone.
AGE 11 - 13:
I changed schools. Montessori to "regular" private school. I experienced uniformity for the first time in my life and I hated it. I couldn't cope. I refused to participate, I struggled to make as many friends as I had lost and for some inexplicable reason, there was a social hierarchy.
Once we moved far away, I went to a school where I was a minority. I've experienced racism. But I don't hold it against them. It's their parents that taught them to hate me.
Eventually, I couldn't cope. I refused to go to school. That's when I did something that I would regret forever.
Let me pause here. At the age of 13, I finally had a name for what I felt. I finally knew why all I wanted to do was sleep. I knew why I cried every single day.
I was suffering from clinical depression.
From here, the story gets complicated. I learnt many lessons in my life and I hope to share them over the lifetime of this blog.
Until then, stay strong. Remember that you are not alone. It's a long struggle... but it's not the end.
You are loved. There is hope.
~ Alexandra
I have written a few blogs in my time. They were of a mediocre quality, the everyday monotony of a life painted in high-gloss. That's just not what I want. You probably won't find those blogs anymore... maybe my fictional blog will still be there though.
The fact is, I want to erase the lies. I want to expose the truth. I'm going to tell my story. Maybe someone will find it useful, someone sitting in their bedroom, tears staining their pale cheeks while they enter "I want to kill myself" into Google's search engine. I've been there. I've done it. I may still do it again in the future. The point is, I am alive today. I've won the battles for 21 years. I still have something left to give.
Let me give you the timeline.
I don't remember much that happened to me before the age of three. Not many people do. I know that that was where it all started.
AGE 3:
I came home from playgroup stuttering. Two psychiatrists, one hypnotherapist and three psychologists later, all we know is that something traumatized me, but it wasn't sexual. My parents took me out of that playgroup and I stopped stuttering.
AGE 5 - 10:
I was given the label "shy". I never participated in any school activites. I went to a Montessori school. I had freedom. I had friends. But small things triggered some kind of fear. I liked to be by myself but I was terrified of being alone.
AGE 11 - 13:
I changed schools. Montessori to "regular" private school. I experienced uniformity for the first time in my life and I hated it. I couldn't cope. I refused to participate, I struggled to make as many friends as I had lost and for some inexplicable reason, there was a social hierarchy.
Once we moved far away, I went to a school where I was a minority. I've experienced racism. But I don't hold it against them. It's their parents that taught them to hate me.
Eventually, I couldn't cope. I refused to go to school. That's when I did something that I would regret forever.
Let me pause here. At the age of 13, I finally had a name for what I felt. I finally knew why all I wanted to do was sleep. I knew why I cried every single day.
I was suffering from clinical depression.
From here, the story gets complicated. I learnt many lessons in my life and I hope to share them over the lifetime of this blog.
Until then, stay strong. Remember that you are not alone. It's a long struggle... but it's not the end.
You are loved. There is hope.
~ Alexandra
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