Crossroads.

Crying in my brother’s bathroom. I’m tired of feeling like a burden.

Think maybe this is a tipping point. Not quite sure which way.

Advertisements

Clinging.

Is it worth the trouble it takes trying to live life so that someday you get something worthwhile out of it, instead of it almost always taking worthwhile things out of you?

Carrie Fisher, The Princess Diarist 

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to answer this question in the affirmative, to be quite brutally honest, and yet I keep scraping for reasons to. It all feels so futile.

Recently, I added a linnie to my shrinking list of reasons to persist: a bird breeder to whom I’d expressed interest contacted me a few days ago, asking if I wanted one of the two unspoken-for turquoise linnies she was hand raising. Fool that I am, I said yes, and, fool that I am, find myself looking forward to meeting this bird. I’ve already caught myself thinking about where to put the cage when I’m up, looking at linnie-specific training methods, wondering how I’m going to sleep with the cage on my dresser. I already know I’m going to the bird shop come next cheque to buy a cage and toys.

I’m about to make a commitment — not just to taking care of a new little life, but to outliving its span, which is at least another ten years.

What the hell am I doing?

Drifting towards oblivion.

Vaping ceaselessly, each inhaled breath taken from the mod, each exhaled breath a rolling cloud of vapour. Drinking one hard liquor after another, everything from fruit creams to amaretto to scotch. Eating heavily flavoured, rich foods, drowning my tongue in a wealth of tastes and textures. Scraping holes in my flesh with my fingernails, leaving patches and furrows of discoloured, seeping skin, yet the pain is distant through dissociation fog.

I try to oversaturate what senses still work in vain attempts to stay connected to the world, but passive suicide covers me in its gentle smother, and I find I just don’t care anymore. I know my life will be ending soon, and it will end in a quiet, dark, pathetic corner, remote enough that only I will know the true extent of my utter failure. I have no future. All the things I wanted to do were stolen by executive dysfunction and depression, with ravaged health hammering in the coffin’s final nails.

All that stops me is the tiny black and white face of my cat tucked with complete love and trust into the crook of my elbow. She doesn’t know. She can’t know. Nor do I know who would take care of her and her sister should they outlive me. For their sake, I attempt to endure, but I won’t lie: holding on is getting harder and harder. Finding things strong enough to stave off the void becomes an increasingly fruitless task. Everything becomes disposable.

One day, I’m going to slip, and I may breathe my last with my two four-footed girls curled and sleeping in my arms, tucked against my face.

One day, sooner or later.

Rollercoaster brain.

Had a really bad downswing tonight. How bad, you ask? Put it this way: I went out into the dark of night around 10:30 pm to get alcohol from the liquor store. The entire 750 mL bottle of “Trois Pistoles” is gone, drank mostly with a “dinner” that consisted solely of a can of beans in maple syrup, followed later by a few slices of toast with margarine and more maple syrup. As I type, I’m drinking from a brandy glass consisting of about 1/3 peach-flavoured vodka topped off with mango juice.

I hate my brain. Hate it, hate it, hate it. I don’t know how else to deal with it other than numbing it the fuck out. Worse, I don’t care what happens to me as a result of this.

Help.

By the fingernails.

The calendar recently flipped years for me. I spent it playing video games with long-distance friends, drinking amaretto, eating the lemon meringue pie I’d chosen for the occasion, and vaping on a new mod I bought myself as a gift. Yay, I guess.

I originally bought a small, pen-shaped device to begin vaping with, mostly in the hopes of keeping my hands busy and drinking less. It’s sort of worked.

On the other hand, the bigass bottle of amaretto I got is now half empty as of two days later, and the craving for it didn’t go away with the vaping mods. I guess this means I’m an alcoholic, and I don’t care. My gender/body dysphoria has gotten worse, as has the passive suicidal tendency, and damn but my tinnitus is loud when I’m tired. My sleep pattern hasn’t really changed since the last time I wrote on it.

Still no word on the disability application. Not so yay.

I don’t know what to do anymore.

Aaaaand crash.

The last couple of days have been really hard. The suicidal despair is back in full force, enough that I asked Jenny “The Bloggess” Lawson over Twitter last night what she does when “you know depression lies and don’t care? When loved ones aren’t enough and meds feel like the lie?” At that moment, I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask. I couldn’t think of anyone better to ask.

Her reply, which I read in the morning: “I call the suicide hotline. I talk to my shrink. I find friends who understand. Hold on. You’re worth it.”

I began tearing up and replied, “Talking’s not working anymore. A friend gave me permission to go after my cats have, but I can feel myself slipping. I’m trying to give myself something definite to look forward to, but starting to doubt I’ll make it that far.”

For context: the “something definite” is a potential feathered companion, specifically a lineolated parakeet (aka “linnie”), one of which I had the pleasure of meeting when I ventured out to a local bird shop on Friday. The shop has boarding space and the linnie in question was one of many charming birds staying there. I’d been entertaining the idea of a blue budgie, but the linnie won me over.

Jenny answered, “[C]all the suicide hotline. Right now. Your mind is fucking with you. It’s hard, I know, but you can do this. When I get like that it’s usually time for a medication change. It’s gonna be okay. Keep fighting.” Two others following her Twitter feed took the time to reach out as well, one with a single tweet, the other with several.

I’d arranged with a friend last week for an outing today, which I managed to follow through on despite myself, and she made sure I didn’t do anything dumb by keeping me sufficiently distracted with food, drink, and shinies from a local “witchery market.” I admit to feeling guilty about how much she spent on me, for all that I can’t deny that the baubles I chose made me feel better when I donned them.

I saw the tweets after I got home, and wrote all three to thank them for their kindness and that I would make it through today at the least. I’m not sure how long this comparatively good mood will last, but I’m definitely going to let my psychiatrist know what happened and will beg her for help.

I just hope she will.

Rollercoaster.

Things I did today:

  • Woke up and stayed awake.
  • Managed to take meds.
  • Washed dishes.
  • Cleaned litterboxes.
  • Started cleaning up my Internet footprints.
  • Finished reading a book.

 

I also finally told my closest friend that I’d hit suicidal levels this week and apologised for piling it on her. The reaction was an understandably mixed one of “I’d rather you told me” and “oh god I don’t want to hear this”.

I really do feel it pointless to burden what friends I have with depressing shit they can’t fix or otherwise help; thus far, two of them have said it doesn’t seem fair, that I should be able to talk about it. I’d discuss it if it helped me feel better in some way, but it doesn’t. It feels more like an inevitability at this point.

I guess that’s what this blog is for: letting me spew quietly into the void rather than asking my friends to catch the rocks I’m throwing. I don’t want to hurt them.

Part of me is intent on keeping my promise to my cats, or at least the one that proved to be my therapy cat. Part of me just wants to leave already.

I realised recently that my situation is not unlike the Rat Park experiment. I’m mentally and physically incapable of getting out of my current circumstances, which results in a lot of crushing despair, to put it mildly, and I end up engaging in self-destructive behaviour — either drinking alcohol or things that result in me bleeding — because I have nothing else to do. I’d definitely be drinking a lot more if I had the money to.

Ironically, I wouldn’t be drinking if financial stress didn’t comprise a large chunk of my despair. My various illnesses prevent me from keeping a regular job, and any money I’d earn via self-employment would be deducted dollar for dollar from what government income I have now. There’s just no way out except the permanent one.


I feel like such a hypocrite trying to help my friends when I feel this way.