Tag Archives: big break

The Me I Could Be/The Me I Could Never Be

Wow, I can’t believe I haven’t updated in so long. I really had no idea how much time had passed. Time keeps drifting through my fingers. I’m sorry that I’ve been a crappy blogging friend and haven’t been around.

I’m okay. I’ve remained cocooned in a bubble of self-isolation. My emotions seem to be a yo-yo, though.

The week before last, I visited my family. A week ago, I went back to work. For some reason, my anxiety was working overtime, and I kept thinking I was on the verge of a panic attack. I thought I could feel everyone hating me. Then I had this conversation that seemed to insinuate people there liked me. And for the rest of the week, I noticed other small signs that appeared to indicate that idea.

I went to therapy, and we talked about how I wasn’t content with the status quo in my part-time job situation. We were discussing this job I’m thinking of applying for. I doubt I would get it, but I was thinking of applying as practice. My therapist thought that would be good because I would put less pressure on myself with that goal.

Anyway, after the session, something clicked. I had this vision of the me I could be. Of what I used to be like before the big break, my competitive, success-driven self. My self that strives for competence and always achieves it. (Well, except for the pesky social anxiety, which was ten times worse in the past. I think even though I don’t take medication that strictly addresses social anxiety, it helps. Of course, I think all my problems are tied together and influence each other, but that’s a subject for another post.)

I felt this understanding that my perception of what people think of me is sharply different from reality. That if I feigned competence, people would believe it. (Because really, half the time I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing.) That I could hold a higher position and do well at it.

But then something in me flipped. I knew that this vision of the me I could be was actually the me I could never be. Every time I imagined myself succeeding, I imagined myself failing spectacularly afterward. Making stupid and costly mistakes. Anytime a person wants to talk to me at work, my first thought is always I’m in trouble or didn’t do a good job. I feel like that result is inevitable. I also had urges to sabotage any success I may have. Like I can’t let myself succeed ever. Because I don’t deserve it. Because I’m always panicking, and I’m gonna choke.  I might as well prevent the future disappointment by sabotaging myself first.

Then I started thinking that if anyone who likes me really knew what I’m like inside, the terrible person I am, the messed-up person I am, they’d be revolted.

It’s just really no one’s ever liked me. For much of my life, I had no friends. I have only one now. The idea of people liking me doesn’t compute. I’m overly sensitive to it. My therapist and I once talked about my biggest trigger, rejection. Perceived rejection. I can see little things as rejection. In general, I’m just much too sensitive, like easily shattered glass.

After I realized that the me I could be was the me I could never be, all I wanted to do was cower in a corner. I can’t go through the big break again. I don’t think I could make it through another one. For the past three years, my life has revolved around laying low, my priority being to prevent any repeat of the big break. Three freakin’ years. I’m pathetic.

Even after all that time, my will is a crushed feather. I’m all uncertainty and indecision.

I’m too broken. Thus, the me I could never be.

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Little Anomalies

I was going to write about how I experience empathy, but I’m suddenly tired and unable to think. That’ll have to be for some other time, like in a couple of weeks.

I’m going to visit my family tomorrow, and I’ll be there for about two weeks. So, I probably won’t be on here. Not that I’ve been on here much lately, anyway. I haven’t been very good at keeping up with blogging lately. But my summer shouldn’t be too busy, so perhaps I’ll be on more regularly in June.

A couple of odd things lately:

I’ve started experiencing intense smells in my dreams. I thought there weren’t supposed to be smells in dreams? And that if were are smells, those smells were intruding from real life. But these smells are most definitely not from my sleeping surroundings. I smell things that couldn’t possibly be there. All sorts of things. Cake. Mud.

I’m curious as to why this is. I’ve never had a keen sense of smell to begin with. Why would I suddenly begin smelling things in my dreams?

I’m also someone who usually sleeps curled up, as scrunched into myself as possible. If I’m on my back, which I am often, I lie rigid with my arms around a stuffed animal, behind the pillow, or alongside my body. My legs are then crossed at the ankles or just stretched out straight right next to each other.

But lately, I’ve begun to sprawl out in my sleep. Consistently. I have to be sprawled out to fall asleep, often, too. Why would my sleep position suddenly change so dramatically?

**********

I think I’ve figured out why Supernatural resonates with me so much. For some reason, it puts me in an artistic mood, the same mood that impels me to write my stories. I’m not sure how to explain what this mood feels like. It’s got ingredients of inspiration, flashes of emotions and tableaus, bursts of creative energy. Then when I write, it’s like I go into a half-trance, like I’m here but also placing myself in another place. Occasionally I have to pause and sit there, perhaps close my eyes, until the right mood arrives for the part I’m writing. Like something in my brain has to percolate and I have to wait for it to finish until I can fully articulate it.

This artistic mindset explains the weird impulse I’ve been having to write fanfiction. That is not something I do. I don’t want to write any of those novel-length types, just really short pieces. I keep getting glimpses of imagined emotional moments that I feel like writing. I’m not silly enough to have acted on the impulse (so far?), thank goodness. Fanfiction is not a world I wish to deeply involve myself in . . .

I’ve also gotten snippets of an idea for a non-fanfiction short story; it revolves around thoughts about God and angels.

*********

I’ve been thinking about my lack of ambition again. I’m afraid to strive for anything because of the big break.

Today, I described it to my therapist as a “pretend breakdown.” She asked why I called it a pretend breakdown, and I explained it’s because I wasn’t truly non-functional. Wouldn’t I be non-functional if I had a breakdown? Problem is, it’s hard for me to tell, since blending in and not drawing attention to myself are big motivators for me. The therapist didn’t say much in response to that, so I assume she agreed with me. I kept getting irritated during therapy today and thought she was acting like she was bored. Logically, I know she wasn’t, but I wanted to start cursing and getting angry and telling her to fucking pay attention and that if I was boring her maybe I should just leave. Luckily, I reined in those impulses. See, these are the sorts of instincts I have, and with very little justification, and that’s why I feel I’m a bad person.

Then I talked about how hollow I felt, and she asked if I’d ever found anything fulfilling. I said writing, but then I’d sometimes begin thinking it was pointless and lose that fulfillment. She said she thought I could talk myself out of feeling fulfilled. That could perhaps be true. She asked if the point could possibly just be the fulfillment itself. But I can’t fully buy into that, because why should the point just be to make myself satisfied? If it doesn’t serve some other purpose, if all my writing does is sit around and no one ever reads it, what’s the use? It’s a lot of work for very little.

Anyway, back to the big break. I’m afraid. I’m afraid if I have any ambition, reach for anything, I’ll have another big break, and I’m not strong enough to go again through whatever that was.

For some reason, toward the end of the session, I started feeling emotional. We were talking about my upcoming visit to my family, and suddenly a rapid montage of the past played in my mind. I remembered everyone not getting along. Then I imagined lots of shouting and me inwardly cowering and wanting to run away and not get involved. Brief feelings that everyone hated me, intense feelings of self-worthlessness. I didn’t explain all that, though.

If you read my blog at the beginning, you might dimly remember when I used to whine about my childhood. All of that just briefly took over. That’s not a can of worms I’m going to open right now, ha.

Now, my family never hated me; I just felt that way. If anything, these days there are moments when I can almost feel their love radiating off them. This has to do with what I wanted to say about empathy–sometimes I feel as if I can perceive people’s emotions radiating off them when they speak. Maybe that’s absurd. I don’t know.

Oh, gosh, I can’t believe I wrote so much. I’m done with my random rambling.

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Flighty and Overwhelmed

I am almost finished with the rough draft of my novel. But there as with here, I find myself bereft of words. I know what’s supposed to happen with the final scenes, but I can’t figure out how to write them without sounding hokey. Actually, the whole idea is hokey, but I think it’s the right ending. A couple of plotlines go unresolved, and I’m worried by that.

I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say I may finish this week. But it feels anticlimactic somehow; the idea barely registers. Finishing, though, overwhelms me for a couple of reasons. One, I’ll need to read over what I wrote and fix the typos (and more major errors). There are some parts I cringe at because they seem too laughably extreme. Then there are the ones that’re lopsided because they didn’t go according to plan.

But returning to blogging-land overwhelms me, too. Not that I don’t want to; I want to very much. But there are several factors. First, even if I’m not writing my novel’s rough draft, I don’t think I can be as active as I once was, both as a reader and a writer. Then there’s my insecurity that I’m not really wanted, etc. Or even if I am, I should just fade away anyway.

I realized something the other day. I want recognition, but I want to be anonymous at the same time. How can I be both? When people at a store start recognizing me, I stop going there.

Where was I?

Oh, there’s the adventure blog. I do plan on giving it another go, but as I said, I’m overwhelmed. It may be a while.

I’m teaching two classes this semester, one at eight in the morning. My sleep schedule is all messed up, and I’m trying to fix it. Nighttime used to be blog time for me, but now I’m going to have to try to find another time for it.

As I think I’ve mentioned before, I’m seeing a new therapist now. She’s young, and I already feel more comfortable with her than I did with my previous one. We’ll find out if that lasts. I’m seeing her once a week, but I might switch to once every other week if I get too overwhelmed (see how easily overwhelmed I am)?

I keep having these daydreams of being a known literary figure. I wish it could come true one day, but alas, that’s not a realistic idea. 😦 Grandiose fantasies never work out.

My therapist thinks journaling will help me, which is a reason I think I should return to blogging. Blogging helps me sort through the strands floating in my head, the strands that scream, that I can’t understand unless I unravel them. (I haven’t told my therapist about my blog. I never told my other one, either. I don’t know if I’ll ever tell a therapist about it; the idea makes me too nervous.)

So, without further ado, after all that rambling, I’m going to get straight to how I feel right now.

I haven’t been doing too well during the past week. It’s a shame, because I had a pretty good week right before that. It’s possible that I’m in a manic or mixed episode, I suppose. Bipolarity’s relationship to me is still murky. Ideas for stories keep flashing in my mind, but that’s the extent of my flight of ideas. Then I feel this urgency, like it all needs to be done now, but then I get anxious, and it spins, and I can’t keep up with it all. My head sometimes does that woozy, feverish thing. It knocks into my consciousness and makes everything feel distorted. Every noise makes me jump; I’m hyperaware of things when I am aware of them. But for the must part, I’m barely aware of anything.

There’s a crippling insecurity, a desire to sabotage myself and make people think I’m a terrible employee. Not that I’ve acted on that urge; I’m too meek for that.

Last week, I talked to my therapist about some of these things. I don’t remember how it came up, but she mentioned that, sometimes when they’re most depressed, people aren’t motivated to do anything. That’s why the idea of a breakdown is hazy to me, why I don’t think I can ever be sure if I’m having a real breakdown or not. Oftentimes my motivation is just not to be noticed, not to trouble anyone or draw attention to myself. If that’s my only motivation to seem functioning, does that mean I haven’t hit rock bottom? During the big break, because I took care to seem fine, did I not really have a breakdown? Am I so weak that a pseudo-breakdown crippled me so?

I keep getting headaches. I haven’t self-harmed in months; it’s not like I ever really did, anyway. Not more than superficially at least. But I keep wanting to do that. Problem is, I can’t think of a place that won’t be visible. I’m paranoid, so many areas that might not seem visible are included in that category. Well, there are a few spots, but that would require more than my timid self can accomplish. It’s too hard, and then I feel inadequate because my attempt is failing.

Instead, I’ve taken to digging my fingernails into my palms. It produces nothing other than indentations that quickly fade.

At the beginning of this year, I suddenly realized how truly fat I am. I knew I was fat, and I said it a lot, but it didn’t fully register. So I decided I need to start eating healthier. But there’s a problem: I can’t because I’m too pathetic.

I’ll explain. I decided the first step would be to curtail my fast food intake and eat less snack food. But over the past few days, I’ve been turning to them as much as usual. Food is one of the main ways I cope with my depression, and when I’m at my worst like this, it’s difficult to restrain myself. I just need a pick-me-up, I tell myself.

Then I’m confronted with the fact that half my clothes don’t fit and they never will because I’m a pathetic food addict, using food to comfort myself.

Since my psychiatrist has substituted Lexapro for Prozac, my anxiety has been higher. Occasionally almost so high that I need to avoid everything and just sit with my eyes closed. I thought the Lexapro was working better as a whole, though, until I hit this spell.

When I’m at work, I keep feeling like there are eyes on me, like everyone’s secretly eyeing me with hatred.

So that’s the long of it, what’s been happening with me.

I think I will be returning to the blogosphere more regularly next week. I should be done with my rough draft then, if not before (although I have to help my mom with something this week, so I most likely won’t be blog-ready if I do finish before next week). I’ll probably start reading y’all’s blogs again, although now I feel uneasy about how much I’ve missed.

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I Am Mired in the Farthest Darkness

It is hard to describe where my head has been lately. It’s not like I’m a danger to myself. In some ways, I am more normal than usual. So I really have no right to be worrying you folks; it’s a bluff. That’s why I keep calling it a performance. I know I’m not going to do anything, so there really is no need for alarm.

Am I pretending? I don’t know. I feel like I must be since I can function like a regular human being.

But my mind is somewhere darker, somewhere unreachable. I want to talk to someone, I want someone to help me, but I know no one can.

It’s a quieter, seemingly subdued darkness. But, to reference a cliche, still waters run deep. If you saw me in real life, you wouldn’t think my behavior indicated anything out of the ordinary. The darkness is buried somewhere deeper.

I don’t know what to do, and I don’t think there’s anything I or anyone can do. A week ago, I genuinely thought it was gone. But it was a cruel joke that something, the universe, I don’t know, played on me.

It feels like one of those delusions that gripped me twice before. I’m still not sure those were really delusions, though. I have mentioned the one in which I thought I had the soul of a murderer. I feel like, in some ways, the other one could seem more absurd. I just feel like these are things that people would laugh off as impossible, but something in me knows they’re true.

Okay, suicide talk coming up. Be prepared.

Back in the days of the big break, I was suicidal. I’ve mentioned that. But what I didn’t mention was that my mind turned my most powerful weapon against suicide into one for suicide. The first time I was suicidal, I was thirteen. (Wow, that’s half a lifetime ago.) Ever since then, the thought that I was supposed to be here had stopped me. I felt bad because I knew I was always bluffing when I threatened suicide, even if I didn’t feel like it. I almost died as a baby, you see, so I held to the belief that God had saved me for some purpose. It kept me from attempting suicide, anyway.

But during those hellish last few months of 2009, my mind told me that God had preserved me so that I could kill myself at that very point in time. That was my purpose in life. If I didn’t, then I was disappointing God. My brain used the story of Abraham and Isaac as an example. Maybe God was testing me to see if I would actually do it. Like God had tested Abraham to see if he would kill his son if it was God’s will.

This is why I fucking hate the story of Abraham and Isaac and think that Abraham really failed, even if the Bible doesn’t say so. It wasn’t God telling him to kill Isaac, you see. It was the devil’s voice masking as God’s. God stopped Abraham before he could commit the act since Isaac was important for the future. I don’t fucking care if this isn’t in the Bible. The Bible isn’t the word of God, it’s inspired by God.

If you think I’m wrong, please be merciful and keep any contradictory opinions to yourself. This is my interpretation, and it’s the only way I was able to justify not attempting suicide.

But for a long time, I thought it was my purpose to kill myself right then. My despair was compounded by guilt that I was failing God. And there’s a small part of me that still believes this, that thinks I should’ve killed myself then, or at least tried to, but now it’s too late. So I failed.

Now I don’t go around having such magical thinking all the time. I don’t. But I do believe in God and that we have purposes and all that jazz.

You can fucking laugh at how ridiculous that “delusion” sounds. You must think I’m a fucking moron. I don’t fucking care.

(She spouts defensively.)

Well, if you are going to laugh, fuck you. I’ve just stripped myself to the barest depths of my soul. If that’s a laughing matter to you, you are assigning my core to the metaphorical trash heap. Ah, well. It probably deserves to be there anyway.

This explanation is longer than I meant for it to be. I can’t even explain what this deep darkness is. I’ve only scratched the surface. I don’t think it’s ever going away, because it hadn’t done so when I’d thought it did. Who knows? Maybe I will eventually become suicidal so I can escape. Not that I deserve to escape.

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Taking Back My Life, and Falling

And here, folks, we will have a documentation of my quintessential problem, happening in real time! . . . the emotional state I’m most afraid of because it’s when I’m more likely to act on suicidal impulses.

What’s wrong with this day, you may ask?

Nothing. Nothing bad whatsoever happened. It just feels like The Day. That. Will Never End.

It’s not that the day feels long per se; rather, it just feels like it always has been and always will be today.

The complaining wasn’t my original plan for this post. No. The original idea was to talk about taking back my life.

Here’s the thing: since the big break, my mental health issues have been ruling my life. Insecurity has been ruling my life. Sure, I’ve been insecure since way before the big break, and thati heavily influenced my actions, but not so much as it does now.

This is how I approach life: I know I’m a worthless human being. I’m completely incompetent. Life is all about trying to make sure no one discovers my incompetence.

Before the big break, it wasn’t always like that, though. Yes, there were moments when my insecurity overpowered me. I felt hopelessly inept at a lot of things. But I still believed that I had competence somewhere . . .

And now I think I have competence nowhere.

I knew I had competence in school. I was a great student. With the big break, I lost the only thing I felt competent in.

I sometimes wonder if I went to graduate school just because I was afraid of losing that security of school. It’s all I knew I was good at.

That’s a crummy reason to go to graduate school, though. Plus, it turned out not to be true . . . I became shite at school when the big break tore me up.

Earlier, I was thinking that in order to take my life, I have to stop operating as if I’m hiding my incompetence. Even if I don’t feel it, I need to act with assurance.

I was thinking that I was slowly getting there. For someone who’s a socially anxious, awkward mess, I’m a decent teacher. There’s one class I’ve taught during three semesters now (two summers and one fall), and I’m teaching two sections of it this fall. I’m comfortable enough with it that I feel assured when I’m teaching, even when I get tripped up. But there’s also classroom management . . . I’m terrible at it. Since I’m so timid and insecure, I don’t take charge as firmly as I should, and sometimes the class becomes uncontrollable. If I operated with more assurance, maybe that wouldn’t be the case.

But I’ve also learned that I can’t be the strict firm type. It’s just not my style. So I have to somehow be in charge while also being a quiet permissive type.

Despite feeling like the day was lasting forever, I was generally feeling good. I was satisfied. I felt like I knew what I was doing. I was confident that I could take back my life. I felt smiley.

Then suddenly, over the past hour, I’ve fallen into despair. Not about anything in particular. But now this despair colors my perceptions, and it makes me think that the taking back my life notion was hokey and stupid and cheesy . . . like the whole idea of self-help books.

And this isn’t any ordinary despair. This is listlessness, me not being able to focus or concentrate on anything. This is me tearing my hair out. This is me seriously thinking that I should hurt myself. This is me in the impulsive mood during which I might actually hurt myself.

And why?

All for nothing.

I thought I could at least catch up on some others’ blogs, but the computer screen is hurting my eyes. So instead I’m going to post this whining fest then step away . . . to do what,  I don’t know.

Oh, and my stupid therapist/pdoc office called me this morning to let me know that I missed my appointments today. They usually call a day before to remind me of my appointments. They didn’t. Generally I rely on the card they gave me, not the calls, but I lost it, so this time I was waiting for the reminder. I sounded a little perturbed when they called me. I blame them. They were supposed to remind me.

Yet it’s my responsibility to keep track of these things, ultimately.

I feel like I want to say good-bye. Quit life. No, not die. Just quit and sit here, refuse to do anything whatsoever.

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Nocturnal Woes

I’m afraid to go to sleep, especially at night. I don’t know why. It’s not just because of that suicide dream, although Lord knows that could be reason enough. I think there’s something else there that I fear, something I don’t ever remember. Throughout the big break, I was always afraid to go to sleep, too. That’s when I developed irregular sleep patterns, although I’m sure grad school probably contributed to that as well.ni

I had a weird dream last night. My brother and sister and I were staying at a shady motel for the night. For some reason, the price was eight dollars. (Specific numbers often appear in my dreams, which is why I think they’re symbolic.) Anyway, this motel was a dump. It had a rickety balcony. There was a pool in the middle of a field, and it looked hazardous. But the worst thing was the smell. I felt overcome by it, like it would suffocate me. I couldn’t stay there with that smell anymore, and I told them so.  I said I wanted for us to go find somewhere else to stay. They scoffed and told me that if I wanted to do that, I’d have to go find someplace on my own and pay for it. But all the other places in town were much too expensive for me to afford by myself. The dream ended before I made a choice.

I just don’t know what to say about how I’m feeling right now. I think some of this is paranoia.

I’m sure I’m being silly now, and in a couple of days I’ll probably feel embarrassed about my current state. But I’m paranoid that there are blips in my awareness.

This does happen occasionally, but there’s more now. At the store, I bought an Icee. As I was counting out my change, the cashier asked me if I was all right. I had no idea why she’d asked me that. I felt perfectly fine. Then I went to the machine and did what I thought was fill the cup perfectly. But then all of a sudden it was overflowing, and I had no idea why. Then I turned and was surprised to see the cashier right there ready to clean up the mess. I think she must’ve been watching me because I looked odd.

Another thing I’ve become paranoid about: On Friday, I bought some grocery store sushi. I thought I grabbed a couple of packs of soy sauce. I decided to eat on the coffee table, and then I spilled my soda. After I cleaned up the spill, I looked everywhere near where I’d just been and didn’t find the soy sauce. I still haven’t found it. What if I imagined getting it in the first place?

Okay, I’m pretty sure I didn’t imagine it. I’m being paranoid, surely.

But I’ve come back to a basal sensation I felt most intensely during the big break, a feeling that’s been there my whole life.  I feel irrevocably, utterly empty. It’s a hollowness that can never be filled.

I keep alternating between amusement and despair.

And there’s some imposter syndrome thrown in there. I feel completely unlikeable, and I feel that I’m a fraud and everyone on here will one day know I’m unlikeable. One day everyone will know, and I’ll be laid bare in my despicability.

Of course, if I’m unlikeable, then I’m also unlovable.

I’m foolish. I feel as if the emptiness will be filled if I feel as if someone outside of my family loves me. I know my family loves me, though I didn’t when I was a kid. But they’re also very critical.

When I was a kid, I hugged my stuffed animals to make my emptiness go away. It didn’t really work, but it helped.

I feel like everything I do is futile. Why even put in effort if I’m destined for mediocrity?

No doubt the Seroquel will knock me out soon. But still, it looks like it will be a most unrestful night.

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30 Days of Truth: Day 26–Suicidal Tendencies

Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?

As someone with mental health issues, my answer is that of course I’ve thought of giving up on life. I’ve thought of it often. Day 25 covers some aspects of my most suicidal moments. I’ll go into a little more detail here.

The first time I was suicidal, I was thirteen. I didn’t have any friends. There were a couple of people I talked to during lunch, but that was about it. My mom had forced me to take a home economics class, both in 7th and 8th grade, and because I had poor spatial skills (as I well knew), I did pretty poorly. Other students made fun of how horrible I was in home economics. In middle school, I made B’s in only two classes–home economics and P.E. I got B’s in P.E. because I often wouldn’t dress out for it. I hated P.E. because I was always the worst one at everything. I was especially bad at volleyball and volley tennis, and people would groan when they got me on their team. A few times, people intimidated me into not dressing out because they didn’t want such a terrible player on their team. And, oh, God, I remember this really embarrassing and terrible event. After P.E. when I went to the locker room to change, I found a note in my locker. It told me that I stank and should use deodorant. Well, I have always sweated easily; I can’t help it, and of course I used deodorant. I was horrified at the note, and this shy girl acted uncharacteristically. I brandished the note and started shouting and hysterically sobbing. A few of the other nice and not-so-popular people looked stunned at my outburst. This is a weird memory, like something that doesn’t seem real, but I know it happened.

Anyway, the point of all of this is to show that my school life was hell. My parents seemed to always yell at me and hurt my feelings. Then my parents finally separated and got a divorce. Even though my parents constantly fought, I’d always told myself that one day they would start liking each other again and live happily ever after. The crappy school life and stressful home life led to me contemplating suicide.

In high school, I continued to have suicidal urges. I had a few friends, but I was really on the outside of the social circle. They’d known each other longer than they’d known me, and they’d often do things without inviting me. I was probably the best teenager anyone could hope for; I did well in school and didn’t take drugs, smoke, or drink. Despite that, I often fought with my parents. These fights would end with me locking myself in my room, hugging my stuffed animals, and crying. My tumultuous relationship with my parents made me suicidal. That and the fact that no one seemed to like me that much. Sometimes when fighting with my parents, I would threaten to commit suicide. I resented that they didn’t take me seriously. My mom even once told me that I was too cowardly to try, and I knew it was true.

I continued to be depressed in college, but I wasn’t really suicidal. I stopped writing because I couldn’t find the time; I was dedicated to my studies. I also gave up writing because I realized I wasn’t that great and didn’t see a point in writing stories if I wasn’t the best writer out there. This is symptomatic of a broader outlook on life that probably holds me back. I think I learned it from my father. Basically, I believe that if I’m not the best at something, I’m not good enough. If I can’t become the best, then I’m just wasting time. I know that this mindset isn’t necessarily true, but it’s always my first instinct.

During my senior year in college, though, I became suicidal again. I don’t know why. I think it’s because I had suppressed my depression for the past three years. I didn’t want people to be worried about me, so I always pretended like I was fine. I knew that if I showed the extent of my feelings, my dad would say I was depressed because I hadn’t chosen a more practical major or college closer to home. The fact is, it would’ve been worse if I’d gone to a college closer to home. Then I wouldn’t have an excuse for knowing barely anybody because tons of people from high school would be around. Never mind that I’d never talked to those people in high school.

I’ve already covered the rest of this story in my post about the big break (what I call my two-year breakdown). I don’t want to repeat and relive all of those details right now. Besides, I often sound like a broken record on here.

Then of course there was the trip to the ER incident in 2011.

Even now I still have suicidal thoughts, some more imminent than others. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever gone that long without thinking about suicide. Why? My mental health issues. I despair about life in general. I’m afraid I’m always destined to be alone. That deep down I’m unlovable. That everyone who ever likes me will one day realize why I’m unworthy of their regard. Also, I just don’t know what I’m doing here. What’s the point? How am I helping the world? How can I help the world if I want to hide all the time? Would it really matter if I wasn’t in the world? Sometimes I wish that It’s a Wonderful Life could happen to me so I could understand what makes my presence worthwhile.

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