As I write this, it’s nearly 4 in the morning. I don’t know what I want to say, only that I need to say it.
For what seems like years, my mental health has declined ever so slightly with each passing day. Yes, sometimes I feel strong and I feel like everything isn’t so bad but today is not one of those days. It hasn’t been for a while. And I know what you’re going to say, ‘well, why don’t you seek help?’
The thing is, I’ve been in therapy since I was nine years old. I’ve done it , I’ve lived it, and I’m still here trying not to drown in the ocean of my mental health. I am doing everything I can to help me with my mental health.
But still, depression and anxiety suffocate me everyday.
They are both cinder blocks tied to my ankles that I have to drag everywhere I go. It feels like these moments never end, and I’m not going to sit here and lie and say I haven’t thought about taking a shit load of pills just so I didn’t have to suffer with it anymore. In fact, I stared at these pills earlier and I was begging myself to just take them. I held a blade to my wrists and I was screaming at myself to just cut. To just do something so I didn’t have to feel anything. I didn’t do it anything, I’ve not broke my skin nor have I swallowed any pills, and I’ve hated myself ever since. That’s the thing though isn’t it? I hate myself so much that I want to die but I can’t bring myself to do it. And isn’t that just fucking ironic.
I often wonder why therapy doesn’t work for me the way it does other people. Why I haven’t quite grasped it yet, and I don’t have the answer. Sometimes I’ll have these thoughts that maybe it doesn’t work because I’m supposed to end up another statistic, that maybe suicide is really the only option for me. I don’t know, and yet it seems the only thing that feels right. It’s stupid really, I know it is. Maybe it’s just my depression saying this but maybe it isn’t. All I know is that every time I’ve failed in suicide, I don’t feel relief. All I feel is sadness. And anger. And I feel like a failure.
My anxiety takes hold at this point. It’s just a niggle because some days when I’m out and about, I need to leave. I can’t handle it, I need to be some where I have death at my fingertips. My anxiety is a lot of things, it’s cruel and it’s gripping and I hate it. But sometimes it’s my safe place. So is depression. Who am I without it? I know how to tread these waters, there familiar to me as my home is. I can walk around the dark and not be scared. And that’s fucking stupid. Craving my anxiety and depression, using it as a shield for the outside world. Because facing that everyday is easier than the unknown without it.
My thoughts are jumbled, I can’t think straight and what I’m writing may be utter bollocks. But it’s mine and I have to get this out before I go in a blackout and as much as I want to swallow those pills, I need it to be on my own terms.
I need to clarify that as soon as I hit publish, I’m not going to overdose. I’m not going to end my life tonight. I’m just feeling something that needed to be put into words. I’m suicidal definitely, but I’m not a risk to myself tonight. These are just my thoughts, and this is my place to do it. I don’t know why I wrote this, I guess I’m just struggling at the moment. If you’ve read it this far, I apologise. You’ve probably just wasted a couple of minutes on absolutely nothing.
Also, before I get comments or what not, this isn’t attention seeking. I doubt anyone will actually read this. I just want you to know that telling me to kill myself doesn’t really do anything for me. I already want to die enough and your words won’t add to that, so it’s really a waste of your time. Call me names, say I need Jesus and that’ll he save me from my demons, say whatever you like because at the end of the day, I actually don’t give a flying fuck.