Suffering

 The date is 9/18/24 a Wednesday.

I woke up thinking of suicide. It's frightening how serious my thoughts have become. A slow warming to death is coming over me. It seems less and less scary. To live is to suffer. I can't explain the existential, but also very real and physical, pain that I experience on an ongoing basis. I don't think I'll ever find the words to do it justice. To live is to suffer. 

I didn't work today. I've barely worked at all this last month. The steady obsession with death and disturbance of hallucinations is too much. I haven't made my car payment, and I am dreading the possibility of losing it. Right now, my car is both my freedom and my income. 

On the bright side, if there can be one, I made an appointment with a woman from NAMI. She's going to help me apply for disability. My situation is frightening. I don't know where I would be without the love of my family. I've lived with my grandmother most of my life. One thing is certain, she will eventually pass away and I'll have to somehow manage without her. I am desperate for a feeling of security in my life. That's why I've made the choice to apply for disability. My mother was on disability my whole life, until she passed. It's no ticket to a care-free life, but it can provide shelter. 

I was happy for my mother when she passed. She was in so much constant pain. It makes me want to cry just thinking about it. She deserved to rest. I suppose that's why I am so interested in euthanasia. I think I deserve to say when enough is enough. 

I work so hard in therapy. I want to be better. Every day I ask myself, 'why can't I be normal.' And yes, normal is subjective, blah blah. Regardless, I wish to find some sense of normal in my life, to find a sense of confidence that I can survive. Right now, I'm not confident about anything. 

I haven't been on a date in over a year. Dating apps only add to my depression. Apparently, I'm an undesirable mate. I know I'm broken, but I'm also intelligent, kind, honest, and ready to commit. There's an episode of the Big Bang where Amy tells Leonard that he may be expelling a pheromone of desperation. I would be delusional to claim I am any different. I don't know if love would fix anything, but I know from experience that it's worth searching for. 

I do have love for Dot. I know why she doesn't want to be together, but it makes no sense to me. We've been talking every day for at least a year now. We talk about everything and support each other in our mental health. I even said 'I love you' once. She's afraid if we meet in person that I won't want her. She tells me not to wait for her. She both brightens my life and complicates it horribly. She's my favorite person, but we've never met. 

Tonight, I need to focus less on suffering and more on hope. I need be more positive to have any chance putting my broken shell back together. To extend the metaphor, it's like I can feel that pieces are missing but can't see where to place them. Even with family, a therapist, and a psychiatrist I feel so alone. But when I wake up tomorrow, I won't be alone, and I have to remember that. 

A Good Day

 The date is September 17th. A Tuesday. 

I've started a mental health support group. It is just 3 or 4 of us sitting around chatting, but it's a start. Tonight, I felt more boredom than anything. I live in a small city with very few resources. Attending NA for many years gave me the motivation to start a group of my own. It's too early to tell how successful it will be. 

Tonight, I'm in bed with Michel Foucault's History of Madness. Is madness a medical condition, a personal failing, a moral choice, or an inescapable feature of the human experience. I suppose I am someone who people would generally consider mad. I am dangerously depressed and regularly suicidal, extremely anxious and panicky to the point of dysfunction, but most of all because I experience things that are not real. I hallucinate, imagine, fabricate, or generate sensory information that cannot be verified by another human observer. If this is not madness, then I stumped for qualifying factors. 

I'm afraid. I'm irrationally afraid of my own mind and body. I live in heightened anticipation of panic, of illusions, and the physical pains that accompany them. My head throbs and I become light headed. My stomach contracts so tightly my organs are temporarily displaced. 

I live in my own mental prison with little significant connection to the outside. I am disturbed deeply by my inability to distinguish reality the way others do. When you hear a voice, you don't question if it has a source. You may question who the source is or where the source is but not if it exists. When you're alone at home, you don't catch a glimpse of a stranger standing in your peripheral vision. You don't have to wonder if you're actually alone or not. 

I am mad, and therefore separated from society on several levels. In my current state, I cannot contribute to society to the extent that most can. Despite my intellect and education, my mind is similar to a short-circuiting robot. I'm capable of great things, but when, where, and for how long are undetermined factors. I am going to apply for disability, and it is not a frivolous decision. What I want is security and peace of mind. I want to know that someone in this world cares enough for poor soul like mine. Unfortunately, not enough people do. If I spend a day writhing with madness and default on my bills you can shrug your shoulders and carry on. Just one of millions of terrible stories in our cold world. Right now, I'm in search of warmth and comfort from the storm that follows me everywhere I go. 

I will end tonight's post here. My medicine is pulling me under the veil of consciousness as I write. Tomorrow is a new day. 

So It Begins

 The date is September 8th 2024. 

After two weeks of barely working and a constant sense of impending doom I'm starting to feel better. I often feel like the whole world is closing in on me. The whole world expects things from me and I'm not able to give them. I carry this tension in the knots made of my intestines. 

I'm not sure what took me off course. I was making real progress in therapy and working part time, when my own body betrayed me. The muscles in my abdomen and throat constrict nearly to the point of choking me unconscious. I tremble and feel the room becoming smaller. 

I want to work more, like a normal person. I live with my grandmother because I cannot work enough to support myself. I've lost many professional jobs due to my mental illness. I've left and returned to college at least three times over the last 20 years or so. Being dependent is a horrible feeling. The thought of my future is terrifying. 

You trust your senses. Being completely sober and unable to distinguish reality from imagination is deeply disturbing. What do they want from me? Is it me they want or their freedom? The brain is a complex computer that ultimately decides what you see, hear, and feel. Your senses only add information into the equation. They don't dictate the formula. Once the formula has been altered then anything is possible. 

I had a fairly good day. Good days confuse me. I feel guilty for enjoying myself. Those intrusive thoughts want me to feel like an imposter. They want me to believe my inability to maintain is no more than a personality flaw. Not a serious psychiatric condition. 

I don't believe feeling an internal burning sensation from simply existing qualifies as a personality flaw. Most people can't understand when I say that I am literally in pain just from existing. I'm nearly 40 and have been picking myself back up every few years from one melancholy departure to another. We always say that things will get better, but my experience tells me otherwise. As much faith and appreciation I have for modern medicine and therapy should give me hope. The reality is that we are still limited in our medical abilities and mental health is the slowest moving category in the world. 

I want to die. I want to die before my suffering is all I have left. I want to die peacefully and on my own terms. Do I have the right to die? I believe so. I've been reading a lot about euthanasia over the past couple weeks. The idea fills me with both sorrow and comfort. I can't take another 40 years. I've talked with my therapist multiple times about the idea, and I believe I am going to pursue it, legally. The problem is that I don't live in the world. I live in my head and I'm unable to leave. My sanity is a ship under attack by Poseidon. It's not a fair battle by any means. As roman fables teach us, man is no match for the powers that be. 

This writing has brought some tears to my eyes and I'm grateful. My medicine prevents wide swings of emotion. I haven't felt any in quite some time. I try so hard to put it on the page, but the words never seem sufficient. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day yet.