Hi, this is Argaloth,
I find myself writing here, not merely seeking help, but perhaps attempting one last time to understand the inexplicable paradox of existence that has always eluded me. The very act of writing these words might be my mind's final attempt to grasp at hope, even as I feel it slipping away.
At 33, soon to be 34, I stand at the edge of a precipice I've been approaching my entire life. The medical world has given names to my conditions - bipolar disorder, type 1 autism, ADHD, dyslexia - but these labels feel insufficient, like trying to describe an ocean by listing its chemical components. They fail to capture the essence of my experience, the profound disconnection between my consciousness and the world around me.
My earliest memory of trauma lies buried in the fragments of a childhood violation at age 4 or 5. A kindergarten teacher - perhaps one, perhaps more - broke something fundamental in my understanding of the world. My mind, in its mercy, has hidden most of it away, though pieces emerge like shards of broken glass, catching the light at unexpected moments.
The Catholic Church became my refuge, offering not just faith but a framework for understanding existence. Through serving as a Catechist, I found purpose in helping others navigate their spiritual journeys. The Church recognized in me a gift for discernment, an ability to see deeply into others' spiritual struggles. Yet how strange it is that I could guide others while feeling so profoundly lost myself.
My journey through therapy has been long and complex. For thirteen years, I remained under the care of a psychiatrist who could never quite stabilize my condition. Hypomania, depression, and insomnia were my constant companions. After a particularly devastating period of depression and a half-hearted suicide attempt - stopped only by the thought of my brother's pain as he prepared to leave for university - I sought new help.
Then came what I now see as both a blessing and a curse: a new doctor, renowned in our region, prescribed a treatment that brought unprecedented clarity. For the first time, I experienced what others might call 'normal.' This clarity revealed a devastating truth: I had been living in a distorted reality my entire life. The veil lifted only to show me how profound the disconnect truly was.
Now, despite maintaining physical health and spiritual practice, the darkness has returned. But this time it's different. It's not the familiar depression of before, but rather a profound realization that I can no longer pretend to participate in a world that remains fundamentally incomprehensible to me. The energy required just to decode daily existence leaves nothing for actually living.
I've prepared meticulously, both practically and spiritually. Letters written to those I love, detailed instructions for my replacement at work, careful research into methods. I've studied the pharmacology, the interactions, the timing. Everything is arranged with the same attention to detail that has marked my attempts to understand life.
I see my mother's face in my mind, twisted with grief. My father, crushed by guilt he shouldn't feel. My siblings, especially the youngest, struggling to understand. But I can no longer bear the weight of existence. When hope tries to surface, it brings with it an overwhelming anxiety - a reminder that such hope is merely another illusion.
This is not a rejection of life itself, but rather an acceptance that my particular consciousness is incompatible with this world. I believe in God's mercy and in life after death. I expect purgatory - it seems a fair exchange for the hell I've experienced here.
I realize this forum's purpose is prevention, but I write not seeking intervention. I write because something in me needs to explain, to be understood, even if only by strangers on the internet. Perhaps in this final act of communication, I can find what has eluded me throughout my life: the sense that someone truly understands.
I see no other way out.
I find myself writing here, not merely seeking help, but perhaps attempting one last time to understand the inexplicable paradox of existence that has always eluded me. The very act of writing these words might be my mind's final attempt to grasp at hope, even as I feel it slipping away.
At 33, soon to be 34, I stand at the edge of a precipice I've been approaching my entire life. The medical world has given names to my conditions - bipolar disorder, type 1 autism, ADHD, dyslexia - but these labels feel insufficient, like trying to describe an ocean by listing its chemical components. They fail to capture the essence of my experience, the profound disconnection between my consciousness and the world around me.
My earliest memory of trauma lies buried in the fragments of a childhood violation at age 4 or 5. A kindergarten teacher - perhaps one, perhaps more - broke something fundamental in my understanding of the world. My mind, in its mercy, has hidden most of it away, though pieces emerge like shards of broken glass, catching the light at unexpected moments.
The Catholic Church became my refuge, offering not just faith but a framework for understanding existence. Through serving as a Catechist, I found purpose in helping others navigate their spiritual journeys. The Church recognized in me a gift for discernment, an ability to see deeply into others' spiritual struggles. Yet how strange it is that I could guide others while feeling so profoundly lost myself.
My journey through therapy has been long and complex. For thirteen years, I remained under the care of a psychiatrist who could never quite stabilize my condition. Hypomania, depression, and insomnia were my constant companions. After a particularly devastating period of depression and a half-hearted suicide attempt - stopped only by the thought of my brother's pain as he prepared to leave for university - I sought new help.
Then came what I now see as both a blessing and a curse: a new doctor, renowned in our region, prescribed a treatment that brought unprecedented clarity. For the first time, I experienced what others might call 'normal.' This clarity revealed a devastating truth: I had been living in a distorted reality my entire life. The veil lifted only to show me how profound the disconnect truly was.
Now, despite maintaining physical health and spiritual practice, the darkness has returned. But this time it's different. It's not the familiar depression of before, but rather a profound realization that I can no longer pretend to participate in a world that remains fundamentally incomprehensible to me. The energy required just to decode daily existence leaves nothing for actually living.
I've prepared meticulously, both practically and spiritually. Letters written to those I love, detailed instructions for my replacement at work, careful research into methods. I've studied the pharmacology, the interactions, the timing. Everything is arranged with the same attention to detail that has marked my attempts to understand life.
I see my mother's face in my mind, twisted with grief. My father, crushed by guilt he shouldn't feel. My siblings, especially the youngest, struggling to understand. But I can no longer bear the weight of existence. When hope tries to surface, it brings with it an overwhelming anxiety - a reminder that such hope is merely another illusion.
This is not a rejection of life itself, but rather an acceptance that my particular consciousness is incompatible with this world. I believe in God's mercy and in life after death. I expect purgatory - it seems a fair exchange for the hell I've experienced here.
I realize this forum's purpose is prevention, but I write not seeking intervention. I write because something in me needs to explain, to be understood, even if only by strangers on the internet. Perhaps in this final act of communication, I can find what has eluded me throughout my life: the sense that someone truly understands.
I see no other way out.
