say something

I know I have not been good about updating this blog. Not that it really matters but I needed to record a few things that happened 2 weekends ago just for my own records.

It started Friday night, two weekends ago. Though technically I had been spiraling down for a few weeks before that. I had neglected watching my sleep habits and was not getting enough rest, add some added stress with work and it was the perfect recipe for a spiraling disaster. I know this would happen, but every single time I don’t see it coming.

So anyway, by Friday I was staring down at the deep dark hole depression enjoys creating for me. I felt alone and broken and that night I started the drinking. By then I hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days so the alcohol hit me quickly and I wished so much I could just die. So I did what I tend to do when I’m not thinking straight, I mix a bunch of meds from my “emergency” stash. I really just wanted to be able to sleep for a good bit but I also wish I wouldn’t wake up. Saturday and I awoke after a good 18hrs of sleep. I didn’t feel any better, I hated myself and I started drinking again. By nightfall, I had doubled my recipe and went back to bed. 26hrs this time. Rinse repeat except I had to be up for work Monday morning. By then I was not only unwell mentally but physically. I don’t know how I managed to get to work, work and get home but somehow I did only to drink again and down more mixtures. Tuesday morning I woke up, stumbled out of bed and somehow passed out while getting dressed. I came too, texted work that I’d be late and once again somehow got there. I managed to hold myself together and left work early because I knew I would end up passing out again. I got home, drank more, took more pills and slept through the entire Wednesday only coming to for a bit to tell Z I wasn’t well. I started to feel better physically Thursday and desperately messaged my therapist who once again said something about me not keeping positive blah blah blah so I told her to fuck off in my head. Friday I was able to eat an actual meal and started feeling better physically. It took a little longer for the dark cloud to lift but I started to pay more attention to my sleep habits and being on routine with my medication and I started getting some relief.

I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m somewhat pissed that I half assed tried to kill myself and waste a bunch of pills in the process from my stash. I could have done a better job by ingesting that entire amount in one night rather than over 4-5 nights. That was just stupid.

I wanted to journal this so I can remember how easy it is for me to slip back down without me or anyone noticing. Some people commented that I seemed not myself and that they were glad I was better. I said thanks but really I wish someone would have pointed it out to me during that time. I don’t know if it would have helped but I lose perspective so quickly that by the time I realize I’m drowning, its too late and I can’t do much of anything.

Maybe if someone pointed out that I wasn’t myself I would have been able to get a grasp of my reality, or maybe I’d have just been pissed off that they were being annoying and ignore them altogether. I don’t know. But I just want to say that if you notice a friend, coworker, anyone acting somewhat differently, ask them if they’re ok… or tell them you see them struggling and over some help, or even a friendly, hey how you’re doing. It may not make a difference but maybe it might and that maybe could be a matter between life and death.

I’m somewhat better now and seem to be managing myself alright. I am eating and sleeping and keeping myself clean so I guess I can’t complain.

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not my past

I ate a meal today, a whole fucking meal and I hate myself for it. But I’m also pretty proud of myself because I fought my mind this time and won a little. At least my body got some food because I’m not sure when I can win this fight again.

I really don’t know what to say except that my self hate right now is at a ridiculous level and I am fighting the urge to cut myself with the razor staring at me. It’s one of those big ones that will make a nice cut to cause enough pain that I can numb everything else that I’m feeling. I am typing this to distract myself but I keep stopping to look at it. The yellow handle taunting me, calling my name. My brain telling me to do it, that I deserve pain and why the hell did you eat all that food?

I am NOT my past. I am NOT a scared little girl anymore. I am NOT being punished for existing. I know this for a fact. I am long removed from the days where I was taunted and beaten. I have grown up and I am stronger because of it.

or am I?

why do I even bother?

that empty feeling

I’ve been struggling with food lately and a lot of old memories have been intruding my thoughts. Maybe writing about it will help..

Growing up, my mother was always on a diet. She would try various diets, some to where she hardly ate and was always grumpy. She always criticized her body and would tell me how I inherited her genes and would be fat if I don’t watch myself. Just as she criticized her body, she did the same with mine. She put me on various diets since I was 7. She brought me to the weight loss clinic she frequented when I was 10. Whenever I got sick, she’d tell me that it was a good thing because I’d lose weight. She’d comment on my body to her friends where I could listen. How my butt was too big, my stomach not flat enough… I could never live up to her standard.

So by the time I was a teenager, I hated my body and headed towards the path of an eating disorder. I counted calories, exercised as much as I could, skipped meals. Eventually that led to binge eating and purging and abusing laxatives. I’d spend so much time in the bathroom running the shower as I made myself throw up or cry in pain because I took way too much laxatives. I’d pass out and blame it on the heat or that I wasn’t feeling well. No one noticed, no one really cared anyway except one person who informed my mother that she suspected I had an eating disorder. After which I was confronted by my mother about the call and then laughed at because I was too fat to have an eating disorder. Therapy never really touched on my eating habits and I never brought it up.

You’d think after having lived 38 years, I would have this shit under control. Yet here I am still bouncing from starvation to overeating to starvation. I’m pretty sure if I don’t die by suicide, the stress I have put on my body all these years will kill me. And truthfully I really don’t care. I like the empty feeling, like I have control of my life. I berate myself for eating or feeling hunger. I punish myself by withholding food. I push myself to go just one more hour without eating and then it ends up being days. I survive on diet cokes and powerade zeros (for electrolytes of course!). I’m always cold even in this scorching summer heat. My heart beats wildly and I have to stand from sitting very slowly or I’ll pass out.

I’m so embarrassed I’d never admit how much I’ve been struggling with food to anyone. It’s one of the few things I hide from Z and my therapist (and since we do phone therapy, she can’t see how much weight I’ve lost). I’m sitting here typing this while my body screams for food and my mind tells it to shut the fuck up. I know this will eventually kill me if I keep it up and I’m willing to accept that consequence.

 

 

quit fighting

I have been having a difficult time with food again lately. I can never find a healthy balance. It’s either eat junk all day or not eat for days. Right now I’m back in the not eating cycle and it’s fucking me up. I know I need to eat, I know I feel sick and weak because I need to eat, and I know that eating will probably make me feel better but my brain fights my body on this. And then when I do eat like I did this evening, my body ends up rejecting it through both ends (sorry TMI) and now I feel even worse than I did before. My stomach hurts and I feel like death warmed over.

My heart is pounding and it feels like it might just jump out of my chest. Waves of dizziness keeps hitting me. I can’t sleep and I can’t stop shaking.

Will my body just quit fighting and give up already. It would be relief to be rid of this burden of living.

Why do I keep fighting the urge to just kill myself and end the pain? It’s not like my life or death would make any difference.

for what?

I have been trudging through each day. Somedays are easier than others to fake that I am alright. No one truly knows how much my brain fights for me to die. Everyday I fight that thought. The days are easier. Work takes up a lot of my attention and when I’m busy the thoughts intrude a little less. But it pops up at random times like when I’m in the copy room making copies, or taking a bathroom break, or when I force myself to drink some Gatorade because I can’t eat. Is life this exhausting for most people?

But if I compare where I am now to where I was less than a year ago, I’d say I’ve come a ways since that relapse. I really thought that that was the final time I’d fall. I don’t feel the desire to drive my car off the road, or swallow a bunch of pills, or hurt myself in various ways. I just have a brain that constantly tells me that I should be dead for the good of everyone else.

This road life has given me is lonely and difficult. I desperately wish I had someone I could be open with that is not a person I pay. I hide a lot from Z because he tries to be supportive but doesn’t quite understand it. It upsets him that he cannot fix me so I mostly lie that I’m doing alright. My family know nothing about my mental illness. In their mind, I had a case of teenage hormones and am now grown up. My mother… well she’d just tell me it was my own fault. I am insanely jealous of  women who can share their souls with their mother. I was just a punching bag for mine and I do not trust her with any of my secrets.

I guess it’s my own fault that I have pushed everyone away and isolated myself so much that everyone gave up. I’m on my own and the loneliness is excruciating. Life is excruciating. But yet every day I keep fighting.

… but for what?

depression is a thief

I have been cleaning and decluttering my home for the last couple weeks. A few days ago I found my childhood and teenage journals (oh the horrors!). I ended up spending several hours reading through them and in some way reliving parts of it I had forgotten and parts that I’d rather not remember.

My early journals were a mixture of childlike entries about what I got in my Happy Meal and how much I wanted to die. The sadness I felt for young me… writing about why I couldn’t understand that desire to die, that death will bring sweet relief. I was raised Catholic and I wrote about my conflict about God and why pain and suffering would be allowed. I truly believed that if I did and said the right things, that God would stop punishing me for whatever I had done wrong. I wrote about my parents fighting, and how I’d never be like them.

My teenage journals were filled with a new crush every couple weeks. I was always “in love” but never loved. The desperateness of wanting to be loved seeped through every page. I could see how my depression evolved from childhood into the hormonal teenage years when suicide become a very possible solution. I wrote about self harm, starving and purging and abusing medication (just because there was a chance I could die, not so much to get high). There was my diagnosis, my mother’s refusal to accept the diagnosis and the struggle to keep living. Then there was the entry on the night I tried to end my life. It was shorter than all other entries. I actually had a good day, spending time with my cousins. No one would have suspected that I would go home that night and swallow as many pills as I could.

It saddens me that my entire life has been riddled with depression and the desire to die. Yes, there were happy moments but for the most part depression has robbed me of so many things. Then there was the record of the constant emotional abuse from my mother. I thought it was interesting that I never really wrote about the beatings I would get. It was always a hidden secret. I was made not to tell and I actually obeyed. I wrote many times about how I knew my mother was reading my journals and hence changing to a new one every couple months (which is why I have so many of them).

My environment and my genetic predisposition to mental illness meant the perfect storm. But despite that, I also see how lucky I’ve been, how much good there has been in my life and how I wish I was able to truly enjoy life as it was meant to be. Unfortunately, 38 years later from my birth, I still struggle with the same shit. I still have days where I would so rather be dead. I have days where the weight of my past weighs me down and I struggle to breathe as I crawl my way out. I truly thought I would be “better” by now.

But for some of us, there is no “recovery”… mental illness is a lifelong disease that I will have to fight. And for the most part, despite falling down many many times, I believe I have come out triumphant simply for the fact that I am still alive today.

But the fact remains that I have lost so much and I’ll never get it back.

 

there is no hope

I talked to my therapist about what happened Saturday. I had contemplated all day if I should tell her everything, bits of it or not at all. When we started the session, I talked about other things but also how I have not been doing well. Then I brought up the drinking, how I drank too much and paid for it on Sunday. I didn’t bring up the pills I took at first because I was reluctant to open that can of worms. But she started asking if I had a drinking problem. I don’t. Truthfully I don’t like drinking to get slap ass drunk. Usually a drink puts me in a good place. I prefer weed to get my high.. it’s cleaner and more relaxing. But anyway, that in itself made me bring it up. I told her that I may have also mixed other stuff with my drinks which of course led to “what did you take?” I know I played the stupid game of beating around the bush… “oh some pills” trying to explain that I knew it was wrong and I regretted it. But she kept pushing, never letting it be so I told her one of the main three that I took. Klonopin. When asked how many… I played it down to 2-3.

This was as close to the truth I was willing to go. I know if I told the entire truth and she freaked out, I’d probably end up really ending my life before shit happened. You can call it self perseverance. I knew what I could share and that was it. To my relief, she did not freak out. We made a promise (which I think it’s dumb but whatever), that I’d not mix medication with alcohol and that if I do drink it will only be 2 drinks max. And if I felt the urge to do that again, I am to contact her immediately. And then she said that it was common for victims of childhood abuse to act this way and it hit me hard. See I know I was abused as a child, I know the things that happened to me are not normal, I know this but I never really internalized how all the shit I’ve been through has affected my behaviors through my adult life. I mean I know I handle things differently because of my childhood.. but I never really stopped to think about how much I have been affected. All the pain I inflict on myself stems from the pain constantly inflicted on me. I find life without pain strange and uncomfortable so I find ways to inflict it on myself. It’s so fucked up that I have a hard time wrapping my head around it.

So here we are. I’m still suffering the consequences of my actions which I deserve anyway. Physical pain beats emotional pain.. I’ll take ten fold of physical pain in exchange for little to no emotional pain. I’m not throwing up anymore, but when I eat, my stomach hurts like a mofo and I end up with diarrhea. So my plan of action is not to eat, because fuck food. I don’t need it anyway.

I am relieved that someone else is helping me carry that burden, that someone actually knows how much pain I have been in but at the same time, I still feel alone and that I deserve all the hurt I can inflict on myself.. as much as possible until I die.

I sometimes think that it’s too late for me. There is no hope.

 

I tried

I need to write this to get it out. I’m not sure where I’m heading too but it’s not a pretty place.

Saturday I spent the whole day drinking and downing a mixture of hydrocodone, clonazepam, and promethazine. I just wanted to be numb and I didn’t care if it would kill me. Though I knew it wasn’t enough to kill me, in the back of my head, I secretly hoped it would and be written off as an accidental overdose. I ended the night with one last tall glass of bourbon and coke, more pills and my nightly trazodone. I went to bed and sleep came quickly.

Unfortunately I woke up. This is when I learned my lesson. If you’re going to OD, do it right because the shit it does to your body is brutal. I spent all of Sunday with my stomach in pain and waves of nausea while I sat on the bathroom floor puking my guts out over and over again. I couldn’t hold anything down.. not food, not water. Everything came back right up. I went through hot and cold flashes. I seriously thought I was going to die but at that point I didn’t want to. I did not tell anyone what I did. All Z knew was that I drank too much (he saw me drinking and told me to stop or I’d regret it) so he didn’t stop with the I told you so bit.

The pain finally stopped about 5am this morning, and I was able to eat something. Now I just sit here stupidly wishing I wasn’t so cowardly and just took all of the pills instead of a few here and there. It would have saved us all the trouble. But at the same time… I want to live, I want to be happy. But I feel so stuck. I go back to work in 2 weeks. I’m not sure how I’m going to handle the stress and if that’s going to be the thing that pushes me over the edge.

I have a therapy session this evening and I’m contemplating telling her about what I did. I want to talk about it but I don’t want her to freak out and have me committed. I cannot afford to be hospitalized.. financially that will throw us in a hole that I’d rather be dead than put Z through that. Maybe I can play it down a little.. but what’s the point then. I might as well let it be.

I am so lost and confused. I know I’m not the only person in the world who is feeling or have felt like this. I know so many others who have it so much worse and yet are able to let go and thrive in their lives. Like Z asked me in frustration one day “What do you want? What do I need to do to make you happy?”

Except there’s nothing he can do and all I want is to not constantly want to die.

I could really use some words of comfort.. the only people I have told are strangers. I cannot face the people I know IRL and tell them what I did. I can’t deal with pity right now and that’s what I will get. Just like how the condescending cunts over here in the south like to say “oh bless your heart” If I hear that I might just impulsively stab myself in the heart.

just saying…

death don’t come easy

Trigger Warning… if you’re struggling please don’t read this post.

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Late last night.. I couldn’t sleep even after taking my night medication. I’m sure my experience is not unique in any way. There was this voice in my head, my inner voice, constantly cajoling me to end it… give up. It’s not worth it B, it never was!

I poured out all my pills. They looked so pretty.. blues, purples, pinks. It would have been easy, swallowing them all, chase it down with a whiskey and coke or two or three. I fought it.. I fought those thoughts so hard. I don’t know how anyone who hasn’t been in this place could understand how much I fought. I fucking clawed myself to fight it.

Instead I took a couple.. to make sleep come because that’s the only way I can get relief.. sleep. And then I found myself outside of my body, watching while I tied the scarf, put it around my neck and let go. I could see the darkness.. it was soothing, peaceful even. I didn’t fight. I was finally going to be free.

And that it came crashing down.. the fucking bar broke. That’s what happens when you’ve been binge eating for days and gain a bunch of weight. That’s what happens when you can’t even fucking kill yourself right.

By that time, I was too out of it from the drugs to find another spot, so I took my sorry ass to bed, fell asleep until noon. And here I am. Still breathing, still wasting space. I know people will say.. there’s a reason you’re still here.

ya there is… to continue to suffer in this miserable existence of my mind. yay

PSA: I’m not suicidal right now… I disassociated to the point where I only acted on impulses. While I still wish I was dead.. I’m rational enough once again not to do so.

 

running out

I have been feeling so lost lately. I can’t seem to find a purpose in my life or a sense of direction.. anything to make sense of this life. I know it’s stupid to ask, but why was I born? My mother, like almost every woman, was taught that the purpose of a woman is to bear children and keep a home. I know I was created out of the love between my parents. But no one prepared them for parenthood but then who ever is? But for my mother, motherhood was so much of a burden that she resented me for it.

I’ve gone off point, but my question of my purpose, my meaning of life has drawn blanks. I’ve been told that my life is precious (why?) and that my life is a light that shines for many (who?) and that all this suffering is worth it (for what?).

Every night, as I take my night medication, I ponder if tonight is the night I decide that I’ve had enough and end the pain.

I’m running out of reasons not to.