Venting It's hard to talk about any one hurt anymore

[PixelAngel]

What a life.

I'm 36, autistic, CPTSD, BPD, severe anxiety, and agoraphobic on top of those.

I don't even know what to say about any or all of it anymore. Any one topic is a tower of stacked blocks ready to topple into a full blown exhaustive and emotional breakdown of all the things that it was built on, never able to explore any one subject for very long before bumping into another.

I have felt as long as I can remember, that I wish I had never existed. As soon as I understood what death was, I wanted to know how to cause mine. I feel so deeply worthless, flawed. I've lost so much. I've hurt so much. Every time I reach out for help about all these things, I'm told to keep trying.

I can't even tell them the truth, that until 2024 I hadn't lived a day of my life without thinking of suicide. And I keep trying to live because everyone always comes back to badgering about what I have and haven't tried doing, as though I've not lived every single day trying when I didn't want to, committing to even the most frustrating suggestions. Ten years ago, after my second failed suicide attempt resulted in homelessness and the worst two years of my life, a few people helped bring me back to stability. It's been so difficult. But in 2024, I realized I'd had a few days recently where I hadn't been thinking of dying. I did my best to capitalize, to make things better to those friends. And then it was all ripped away from me with no explanation, when the people I was closest to and several others, 5 total, stopped being honest with me, then started being mean, and then left entirely. I'm worse than ever. I thought I had already felt loneliness as deep as I could, but I'd never had people caring for me to compare it to. Finally getting that and losing it, I wish I'd never tried. It hurts so much more now. I'm the most alone I've ever been, in an already terribly lonely life.

My therapist likes to tell me that I ADMITTED 2024 had started to look up. Not that I was happy, but I was living again. She thinks that it means YES happiness is possible and I should be stunned by the revelation. Not that I don't love her but that's one of the more painful things I feel awareness of: that good IS possible, and that it's just not worth trying for. 36 years isn't long sure but 36 years of this? Only to be left alone and hurt and confused like I never have been before?

I don't want another 36 years of this for a few months of... not actively wanting to die, only to be that much more disappointed when it's stolen away again. Even if I get lucky and hit the jackpot finding the perfect new social connections, it doesn't take away the lifetime of hurt I've had to feel from every direction up to then. It doesn't mean they won't hurt me too. It doesn't change that I don't want to live.

Living this long, solely because I didn't want to hurt the people I loved, only left me to survive long enough for them all to leave me. And I can't even tell if they're right to leave because nobody is talking. Maybe I was just built wrong from the start. I never asked for any of this

 

[PixelAngel]

I don't know if I'm just supposed to let this post die (ha.) or if there's some etiquette against commenting after a certain point. Feel weird making another post so soon though. Don't think my problems merit that.

On my last failed attempt, I experienced what former friends and I just called a, "moment of clarity," a unique sense of numbness, like coming over the hilltop of sadness and feeling relief from the climb. Not healing, the opposite really, so sad I stopped feeling even sadness, like passing through insanity into sanity. I felt an unusual peace, certainty almost. Any remaining life questions stopped mattering. The switch had flipped from ideation to actively working out how and when. There was, for once, a calm sense of quiet in my brain. I wouldn't say I felt good, I felt nothing at all but a simple sense of final purpose. A task to complete. I accepted the reality of what it would be like, and the consequences, and instead of fear of the unknown I felt concluded. It did fail though, I got drowsy and distracted and was stopped.

Involuntary inpatient was misery for me. They made unreasonable huge medication changes. When I got out of inpatient, one of my few personal favorite people, Robin Williams (RIP) had just CTB. First stories were still coming out, it hadn't moved to tribute broadcasts yet. The nurse realized I had stopped to stare at the lobby TV, realized what was on, and panicked trying to find the remote to change it. I almost felt that clarity again right then.

I don't know why exactly. Maybe things just kept happening in fast enough succession to keep me busy. But the sense of purpose and clarity of intent were gone. Whatever that feeling was, I spent my days just keeping myself busy waiting for it to come again. I assumed it would, but didn't. I never healed from that attempt. I didn't leave the clinic 'all better' and move on with new interest in life.

Things after that got better, on paper, then I had a breakdown and became agoraphobic, landing me eventually on disability. That was bad but most of it was fairly dissociated relative I think to a terrible psychiatrist and poor response to high doses of several medications. I was empty, sunken into myself, but the feeling didn't return. It felt like it might, I hoped it would, but ultimately my roommate convinced me to try therapy again. I did, for him. Got lucky, great therapist and psychiatrist. 5 years of work. Had good friends around me. And I started to feel pretty alright for once, last year.

This year so much shitty stuff I didn't deserve has happened. I kept trying to keep that streak of not wanting to die every single day going, did everything I could to try to keep it up, but I knew this was coming. It was guaranteed to, after my closest friends ghosted me with no information, after increasingly worse surprise undiagnosed pain that saw me thinking I was going to die at any time and took every good coping mechanism I had away.

It's not far away now, the moment of clarity. I want it, I even feel a tinge of impatient excitement about it. I bet once I have confidence in my method and the plan, that might get me there. I'm hoping for a gas solution but unsure of how I'll go about it. Hoping to decide on an answer before my physical pain or depressive apathy make less pleasant options easier to manage.

 

[PixelAngel]

I wish my therapist understood that I cry when she says really kind and lovely things, not because I'm struck by the kindness or my barrier is coming down, but because I don't believe any of those things despite being some of the kindest things anyone's ever said to me. I cry because I searched my heart for any remaining will to believe and found none, before we ever met. Because when thinking of nice things to tell others, long ago, I came to many similar kind acknowledgements to share with them, and it wasn't hard to come to because I knew what I wished dearly for anyone say to me. Unfortunate that by the time anybody said any such kind things to me, I was beyond believing it mattered. Living has shown me that the importance I place on the value of life, will never apply to myself.

Just another sad sack vent comment, carry on.

 

[PixelAngel]

It strikes me that the medical response to SI is always panic mode, rush to stop them, rush to make them 'stable', it's too dangerous not to. But then, as a 2-time CTB survivor and lifelong depressive, I can tell you that fear of having the means to CTB taken away, prevents me from ever talking about the depth of my feelings around it. I've had therapists and psychs get frustrated at me because I've got solid points about my feelings around death and my will to CTB. They act like I'm being intentionally difficult, as though I'm HAPPY to argue just for the sake of it, as though I LIKE being able to argue in favor of dying so concretely. They forget that the only reason I'm there talking to them about it is because I HOPED someone could convince me otherwise.

I know my feelings are extreme and I'd love to communicate them and be understood, but to even attempt to do that puts me here, instead of in therapy. If I mention in therapy that I've been daydreaming about opportunities to CTB, my painful feelings that CTB is inevitable for me and I'm ready for it, I won't even get to talk about why before I'm locked away involuntarily, the choice (and my shoestrings) taken away from me by people who don't know what it's like feeling this way. They'll dope me into zombification again on high doses of multiple meds that I'm otherwise unaffected by, and force me to stay.

The only thing this does, is make me want even more to succeed at my next attempt, because if I survive they'll take away my means and therefore my choice to try again. That's why I've been slow to try to CTB again this time. I want to be sure nobody can take away my bus ticket. I want to make certain I find my seat. Sad that their fear of my feelings means I'll have to be alone to do it right. Curious they're so fearful of the idea of death, when I've felt death looking over my shoulder every day of my life and can't tell them. I can almost feel its hand on my shoulder. I'm just waiting for it to tighten its grip.