It was something of a mistake. It was alcohol depression that made me desperate and I stupidly revealed myself as suicidal, self-harming and paranoid (or not).
The saddest thing is that I can't kill myself.
I've been reading some things this evening by
Schneidman to try and help me.
He says that there are two questions to ask people who are suicidal (from this
blog).
- Where do you hurt?
- How may I help you?
I don't know the answer to the first question. I just want consciousness to end. It's not about the fight for the greater good or whatever bullshit I use to justify my existence. It's not about my broken heart. It's not even about contemplating losing that which I really love: skunk. Or the feeling that I have no friends. Really. I'm so used to those. Betrayal is the hardest thing but I suspect that I deserve it for having done it to someone else.
"All I do is suffer"
It's the text from someone else's suicide note (from the book linked to below). It resonates with me though it's not truly how I feel. I have thought those words before and recovered.
"I beg you to celebrate for me that I can be free of pain." is a plea for understanding and forgiveness I hope the reader remembers when my time comes. "don't feel you've failed" is the absolution I'd offer.
The second one question about what help I want is much easier to answer though. Kill me, please. I can't do it myself or it's going to take a lot more effort to do which I just don't have. My pathetic half-arsed attempts just make me look more the pathetic loser.
I think there might be some people who would like me to die because in my bad phases, when I get socially destructive and self-destructive, I turn into a monster (or reveal my true being).
There's a part of me that sees what I did as a self-death anyway. I've opened myself up for forced medication and not the fun drugs like antidepressants. I would guess that antipsychotics are on the cards if I'm not careful but I really don't care anymore. I'm so useless because of what or who I am and how I behave. Those along with my "self", psyche and personality could all be changed. I could no longer be and the "dead man walking" (as I felt like when I was on medication) can return. That thing at least was useful for work. The deranged, demented psycho isn't.
I've slept all day yesterday after that or as much as I could, and last night and a lot of today too. In the last few hours I've eaten something and I've started using my mum's laptop to read up on Shneidman's works to see if he can at least offer something and in one of what may be his last books I'm finding a sense of
normality in his case study of Arthur. (Please don't follow the link if you don't have resilience to academic language).
Yeah. I know this is depression. I haven't even reached for St John's Wort or omega-3 fish oils. I took 1 vitamin pill on Friday because I wanted to feel better. I'd even showered two days in a row on Friday.
I don't know what tomorrow brings but I don't care.
I'm not planning to kill myself. Don't worry about that. I've not been successful in killing myself on so many of the weak, pathetic attempts I've made. The scars on my arm are minor and it's just something for people to tell each other about to show just how much of a freak I am (don't worry...I forgive those people who revealed my darkest secret to other people in the office and in the pub). I can handle the paranoia though this week has cost me my laptop and, I think, wrecked all my camera equipment. More for people to laugh at me about.
Ever the freak. Ever the failure. And, worst of all, still alive.
