ElVato
Life is absurd.
- Nov 9, 2024
- 27
Hello there.
I found about this forum just a few days ago. My story is kind of lengthy, so I will try to keep it simple. I don't expect to find the miraculous motivation in here, but I suppose it's nice to leave a small footprint; maybe somebody could figure out something for themselves from these words.
I've been dealing with a very bad, treatment resistant depression for the last 10 years; well, 10 years since I started going to psychiatric therapy.
I would say my life is pretty privileged. My family always had a pretty tight budget for everything, but I never experienced hunger or any significant hardships. I didn't have a lot of stuff and I wasn't allowed to go out because we lived in a shitty neighborhood. As such, since I have memory, I found solace in videogames. I was always one generation behind: when the playstation was at its peak, I got an SNES; when the ps2 was at its peak, I got a PS1 and so on.
As many kids who were into videogames, I soon started saying I wanted "to make games", which to my family meant "I want to be a computer engineer", all good. However, I always had a knack for artistic stuff and, around elementary, I started getting into music. By middle school, I wanted to study music as a career. I suppose this is where it all started, because I myself started to dislike the world. I made friends easily, I was not only the funny guy but also the nerd of the class. I got along with girls and guys alike, and even the bully, a recalcitrant troublemaker, ended up being a good friend of mine by 6th grade (better late than never, I guess). However, I started to become more and more introverted, if that makes sense; I greatly appreciated my time alone, drawing and playing videogames and, really, I only went out when my dad took me to a karate class (daily for about 8 years or so).
When I was in middle school I really started to develop some sort of misanthropy. Despite having a lot of friends and being well liked by most, this time I wasn't so lucky with bullies (although in that school they were outright juvenile delinquents). I got into a lot of fights, lost a good handful of them, but it was all for the "if you don't fight back, it will be worse". I really hated that, but I hated the inevitability of it even more. The way my dad would patch me up after coming back all beaten up, all while saying "well, that's how things are... good thing you put up a fight, though"... That was very disheartening, but I didn't know why.
I started going to a small music academy around this time. Music, as well as drawing, helped me to escape an ever growing shade of pessimism that I never imagined would become, or at least foment, my depression. Perhaps it was depression back then, who knows. Highschool is when my depression "appeared" for sure. I was down all the time, but it was not teenager angst, which my mother (who is a doctor) might've mistaken with. Furthermore, we were told by teachers that it was normal for us to feel like that due to hormones and whatever, so I ignored it. But I started having days when I couldn't get out of bed, I wouldn't eat... the works. My girlfriend did her absolute best to motivate me; she really got me up and really motivated me to get up and get stuff done.
I did get into a music college, I got an scholarship and all. Back in that moment I had a hope of seeing a part of the world I had never seen before; I now see that was a hope for change, hope for the world to be not what it seemed. But my depression had gotten pretty bad by that moment. Videogames and art were no longer enough and, sometimes, I couldn't even play videogames or music or even draw. That's when my mom finally proposed that I went to a therapist; the first time anyone suggested such a thing to me. I was around 20.
About 3 months of weekly sessions later, I got my first prescription. Just citalopram. And it didn't work. The dose was increased one month later. Then suicidal thoughts started to appear. I consulted with other psychiatrists and eventually stuck with one that I liked. I was prescribed lithium, citalopram and methylphenidate (quite a strong cocktail) and was on them for years. No breaks: months after months taking pills throughout the day (mainly the methylphenidate, because we couldn't afford the slow release variant, so I had to take small pills of the "normal" variant every x hours).
I was in a full self-destruction mode: I started to get into as many fist fights as I could, I drove very recklessly, I was always angry and didn't want to interact with people. But there was hope that things would get better. Talking with my psychiatrist, my dad, my teacher, my gf and my friends really helped. But it wouldn't last. When I was in my 4th year, my dad was diagnosed with Parkinson's, and it advanced very, very quick. I saw him wither before my eyes. No matter how many physio therapies I took him to, it was a steep slope. Ironically, caring for him allowed me to spend more time with him. But by this time I deeply hated the world. I hated life.
My dad passed away during the pandemic (not because of the bug, though) and my family fell apart. Maybe I should've kept them together, but I was too fucked up. Shortly after, my first cat died unexpectedly. My gf traveled back to her country to visit her family just before covid got bad for real, so before we noticed, she was trapped over there. She remained there ever since and long distance dating didn't work, of course. We still talk sometimes.
On 2019 I had started a second Bachelor's degree while I was in the process of graduating from Music school. I managed to finish a 4 year degree in 3 years. I was working at a call center (from home, because of the bug) because there were no gigs, no concerts; music business was almost dead during that time. They called us back into the office as soon as they could (the callcenter people). After seeing three colleagues collapse of exhaustion (one of malnourishment too), I decided to quit and start playing at whatever gig I could find.
I graduated from my second career and started searching for a job right away. I was barely affording rent and food from playing at a Big Band, but meds were out of the question. There was no way I could afford the entire cocktail (not to mention there was a methylphenidate shortage during the pandemic for whatever reason), so I slowly weaned off them (very bad choice after literal years of treatment).
I landed a work for this second career a while ago. It arrived just in time, as the big band got disbanded (heh). It's barely above minimum wage, but I could still pay rent and pay for my cat's needs. I was promoted in less than a year and got a nice raise, but everything went up: food, rent, gas. So I'm still at the same position.
Before I knew it, I was already in my 30s...
Last year was bad, but I still had embers of that "it will get better if you keep trying". I had some very deeps last year. But this year... this year has been the absolute worse. I tried to hang myself while visiting my mom (because I took my cat along and figured mom would immediately take her in, so cat wouldn't suffer too much). And yes, I am aware of how horrible "visiting your own mother to ctb in her own house" sounds. Maybe it was SI, because she did save me.
My relationship with my mother is not good. We were never close for whatever reason. She was never around because she was always studying X thing or dealing with Y thing. She does have her own problems and has been on medication (there is a history of mental illness tracking back to, at least, my great grandma), so she is not the easiest person to get along with. In a sense, she refuses to believe (or something) that I was ever sick. I think that, because she has never had the patience to sit down and talk (like, never ever), she just sees things like a normal person would. So, in her eyes, I have this super cool life and I have no reason to be depressed. When my dad died, one of the first things she say was "I know that you and your dad liked to talk a lot about a lot of stuff. I don't. If you want to talk, go to your therapist".
It is not my intention to paint my mother as a bad person, but I think she could've at least lent an ear sometimes.
I've made this story very, very, very synthetic, and there are a lot of details that I omitted because I don't think they are relevant. There is really nothing I'm expecting to read in the replies should someone reply. As I stated at the beginning, maybe this could help someone.
As I remembered all this, I now stare at the future and I see nothing but suffering and struggle. Rent and food go higher every year, pay doesn't. I've tried to use a box cutter and my kitchen knife. I don't know how many times I've stared at those ribcage diagrams on google... I have faint scars on my neck that I tell people "were done by my cat". I wanted to go buy a helium tank and got a panic attack halfway there. I've contemplated jumping out my window many times, jumping in front of the subway... But I can't do it, I can't do it out of fear.
Fear of failing and ending up crippled. Fear of what happens after. Fear of the nothingness.
It's all SI, really.
That's why SN is appealing. I found a good source. They guarantee a 96% purity and sell at a reasonable price (due to purity, they sell smaller quantities, so none of that "you need to buy 40 pounds" bullshit). I will still make my tests, of course, but I think SN is my ticket. Tonight I talked to my psychiatrist about this. Imagine the absurd scene of me, a "healthy" person describing his plan to end it all to a man with cancer. He of course, did his best, but I can notice in his voice: he doesn't know what to do anymore. And neither do I.
I'm not religious, yet I've been asking god (all the gods) to make me die in my sleep. I stay up until 03:00 staring at nothing, sometimes I cry, sometimes I just stay there. There are days in which I don't eat anything at all and barely drink water. A lot of times I'm in this "about to faint" state.
You wanna know the best part of this absurdity?
The entire SN kit, the testing stuff and all that, is not even 1/4 of what the cocktail of drugs I should be taking costs.
I have no hopes, goals or ambitions.
Do not be swayed by this letter: I'm a very difficult person to deal with and have my own share of shitty traits. The things I regret the most are getting into a yelling contest with my mom and hurting so many people during my college days; most of them were rich kids with loud mouths, and I was just rabid, or something.
I'm not worried about my cat because my mom will take her in for sure (she loves cats; animals in general, really). So I just have to leave her a good amount of food and water along with her litterbox, lock her in the bathroom or something and she'll be fine. I really don't give a damn about what people will feel after, to be very honest. Every day is such a torture.
People would kill for the job I have now, for the life I have now (minus the mental stuff, of course), but for me, it's not worth living.
If you have questions I might answer some of them.
For now, I'm pretty sure I don't want to see what 2025 brings... Not at all...
I found about this forum just a few days ago. My story is kind of lengthy, so I will try to keep it simple. I don't expect to find the miraculous motivation in here, but I suppose it's nice to leave a small footprint; maybe somebody could figure out something for themselves from these words.
I've been dealing with a very bad, treatment resistant depression for the last 10 years; well, 10 years since I started going to psychiatric therapy.
I would say my life is pretty privileged. My family always had a pretty tight budget for everything, but I never experienced hunger or any significant hardships. I didn't have a lot of stuff and I wasn't allowed to go out because we lived in a shitty neighborhood. As such, since I have memory, I found solace in videogames. I was always one generation behind: when the playstation was at its peak, I got an SNES; when the ps2 was at its peak, I got a PS1 and so on.
As many kids who were into videogames, I soon started saying I wanted "to make games", which to my family meant "I want to be a computer engineer", all good. However, I always had a knack for artistic stuff and, around elementary, I started getting into music. By middle school, I wanted to study music as a career. I suppose this is where it all started, because I myself started to dislike the world. I made friends easily, I was not only the funny guy but also the nerd of the class. I got along with girls and guys alike, and even the bully, a recalcitrant troublemaker, ended up being a good friend of mine by 6th grade (better late than never, I guess). However, I started to become more and more introverted, if that makes sense; I greatly appreciated my time alone, drawing and playing videogames and, really, I only went out when my dad took me to a karate class (daily for about 8 years or so).
When I was in middle school I really started to develop some sort of misanthropy. Despite having a lot of friends and being well liked by most, this time I wasn't so lucky with bullies (although in that school they were outright juvenile delinquents). I got into a lot of fights, lost a good handful of them, but it was all for the "if you don't fight back, it will be worse". I really hated that, but I hated the inevitability of it even more. The way my dad would patch me up after coming back all beaten up, all while saying "well, that's how things are... good thing you put up a fight, though"... That was very disheartening, but I didn't know why.
I started going to a small music academy around this time. Music, as well as drawing, helped me to escape an ever growing shade of pessimism that I never imagined would become, or at least foment, my depression. Perhaps it was depression back then, who knows. Highschool is when my depression "appeared" for sure. I was down all the time, but it was not teenager angst, which my mother (who is a doctor) might've mistaken with. Furthermore, we were told by teachers that it was normal for us to feel like that due to hormones and whatever, so I ignored it. But I started having days when I couldn't get out of bed, I wouldn't eat... the works. My girlfriend did her absolute best to motivate me; she really got me up and really motivated me to get up and get stuff done.
I did get into a music college, I got an scholarship and all. Back in that moment I had a hope of seeing a part of the world I had never seen before; I now see that was a hope for change, hope for the world to be not what it seemed. But my depression had gotten pretty bad by that moment. Videogames and art were no longer enough and, sometimes, I couldn't even play videogames or music or even draw. That's when my mom finally proposed that I went to a therapist; the first time anyone suggested such a thing to me. I was around 20.
About 3 months of weekly sessions later, I got my first prescription. Just citalopram. And it didn't work. The dose was increased one month later. Then suicidal thoughts started to appear. I consulted with other psychiatrists and eventually stuck with one that I liked. I was prescribed lithium, citalopram and methylphenidate (quite a strong cocktail) and was on them for years. No breaks: months after months taking pills throughout the day (mainly the methylphenidate, because we couldn't afford the slow release variant, so I had to take small pills of the "normal" variant every x hours).
I was in a full self-destruction mode: I started to get into as many fist fights as I could, I drove very recklessly, I was always angry and didn't want to interact with people. But there was hope that things would get better. Talking with my psychiatrist, my dad, my teacher, my gf and my friends really helped. But it wouldn't last. When I was in my 4th year, my dad was diagnosed with Parkinson's, and it advanced very, very quick. I saw him wither before my eyes. No matter how many physio therapies I took him to, it was a steep slope. Ironically, caring for him allowed me to spend more time with him. But by this time I deeply hated the world. I hated life.
My dad passed away during the pandemic (not because of the bug, though) and my family fell apart. Maybe I should've kept them together, but I was too fucked up. Shortly after, my first cat died unexpectedly. My gf traveled back to her country to visit her family just before covid got bad for real, so before we noticed, she was trapped over there. She remained there ever since and long distance dating didn't work, of course. We still talk sometimes.
On 2019 I had started a second Bachelor's degree while I was in the process of graduating from Music school. I managed to finish a 4 year degree in 3 years. I was working at a call center (from home, because of the bug) because there were no gigs, no concerts; music business was almost dead during that time. They called us back into the office as soon as they could (the callcenter people). After seeing three colleagues collapse of exhaustion (one of malnourishment too), I decided to quit and start playing at whatever gig I could find.
I graduated from my second career and started searching for a job right away. I was barely affording rent and food from playing at a Big Band, but meds were out of the question. There was no way I could afford the entire cocktail (not to mention there was a methylphenidate shortage during the pandemic for whatever reason), so I slowly weaned off them (very bad choice after literal years of treatment).
I landed a work for this second career a while ago. It arrived just in time, as the big band got disbanded (heh). It's barely above minimum wage, but I could still pay rent and pay for my cat's needs. I was promoted in less than a year and got a nice raise, but everything went up: food, rent, gas. So I'm still at the same position.
Before I knew it, I was already in my 30s...
Last year was bad, but I still had embers of that "it will get better if you keep trying". I had some very deeps last year. But this year... this year has been the absolute worse. I tried to hang myself while visiting my mom (because I took my cat along and figured mom would immediately take her in, so cat wouldn't suffer too much). And yes, I am aware of how horrible "visiting your own mother to ctb in her own house" sounds. Maybe it was SI, because she did save me.
My relationship with my mother is not good. We were never close for whatever reason. She was never around because she was always studying X thing or dealing with Y thing. She does have her own problems and has been on medication (there is a history of mental illness tracking back to, at least, my great grandma), so she is not the easiest person to get along with. In a sense, she refuses to believe (or something) that I was ever sick. I think that, because she has never had the patience to sit down and talk (like, never ever), she just sees things like a normal person would. So, in her eyes, I have this super cool life and I have no reason to be depressed. When my dad died, one of the first things she say was "I know that you and your dad liked to talk a lot about a lot of stuff. I don't. If you want to talk, go to your therapist".
It is not my intention to paint my mother as a bad person, but I think she could've at least lent an ear sometimes.
I've made this story very, very, very synthetic, and there are a lot of details that I omitted because I don't think they are relevant. There is really nothing I'm expecting to read in the replies should someone reply. As I stated at the beginning, maybe this could help someone.
As I remembered all this, I now stare at the future and I see nothing but suffering and struggle. Rent and food go higher every year, pay doesn't. I've tried to use a box cutter and my kitchen knife. I don't know how many times I've stared at those ribcage diagrams on google... I have faint scars on my neck that I tell people "were done by my cat". I wanted to go buy a helium tank and got a panic attack halfway there. I've contemplated jumping out my window many times, jumping in front of the subway... But I can't do it, I can't do it out of fear.
Fear of failing and ending up crippled. Fear of what happens after. Fear of the nothingness.
It's all SI, really.
That's why SN is appealing. I found a good source. They guarantee a 96% purity and sell at a reasonable price (due to purity, they sell smaller quantities, so none of that "you need to buy 40 pounds" bullshit). I will still make my tests, of course, but I think SN is my ticket. Tonight I talked to my psychiatrist about this. Imagine the absurd scene of me, a "healthy" person describing his plan to end it all to a man with cancer. He of course, did his best, but I can notice in his voice: he doesn't know what to do anymore. And neither do I.
I'm not religious, yet I've been asking god (all the gods) to make me die in my sleep. I stay up until 03:00 staring at nothing, sometimes I cry, sometimes I just stay there. There are days in which I don't eat anything at all and barely drink water. A lot of times I'm in this "about to faint" state.
You wanna know the best part of this absurdity?
The entire SN kit, the testing stuff and all that, is not even 1/4 of what the cocktail of drugs I should be taking costs.
I have no hopes, goals or ambitions.
Do not be swayed by this letter: I'm a very difficult person to deal with and have my own share of shitty traits. The things I regret the most are getting into a yelling contest with my mom and hurting so many people during my college days; most of them were rich kids with loud mouths, and I was just rabid, or something.
I'm not worried about my cat because my mom will take her in for sure (she loves cats; animals in general, really). So I just have to leave her a good amount of food and water along with her litterbox, lock her in the bathroom or something and she'll be fine. I really don't give a damn about what people will feel after, to be very honest. Every day is such a torture.
People would kill for the job I have now, for the life I have now (minus the mental stuff, of course), but for me, it's not worth living.
If you have questions I might answer some of them.
For now, I'm pretty sure I don't want to see what 2025 brings... Not at all...
