Suicidal (recording a memory from six months ago) (Journal#027)

I’m only here to jot down a memory I just had. I am NOT suicidal right now! I’m just remembering things because of my little mis-hap with Facebook a little while ago.

I remembered something that I don’t think I’ve told anybody.? I don’t remember telling anybody, but if I spoke with my therapist or psychiatrist around that time, I might have told them. But I don’t recall it. You might be the first people I’ve told. It hasn’t crossed my mind a single time since I moved.

It must have been shortly before my divorce, because that’s when I was having bloodwork run, I asked the phlebotomist to kill me. In hindsight, I’m not sure how I got up the nerve to actually ask that. What a strange memory of such a bad time. I asked her if she would please inject some air into my vein so long as she was there with a needle anyway, and assured her that nobody would be able to tell it was her. She didn’t seem to understand what I was saying. She finished her job, I got up and left. I promptly forgot about it. Later that evening, I got a call from the hospital. My phlebotomist had reported the conversation. They were calling to check in. I was still severely depressed but I must have talked with my psychiatrist or therapist or was about to the next morning or something. I don’t remember the details of that, but I remember I had either seen or was about to see somebody and was feeling like I’d make it that far without any problems. So that was that.

P.S. It’s weird to think that I didn’t even care. I wasn’t relieved and I wasn’t disappointed that she did not respond to my request at the time. It was just nothing. If she had complied, I also wouldn’t have felt relieved or disappointed. I didn’t feel anything but emotional pain at that point.

P.P.S. Tell you what. I don’t even know for sure that this is the time right before my divorce. This could very well have been from the time before that, the first set of blood tests I had to have run because of a poor choice I made, and closer to the start of the beginning of the end of the relationship. That almost seems more likely. That would have been the time when the shit was hitting the fan. That would have been the time when I was so afraid of what was going to happen when realization set in. But I know I was saying suicidal things before the divorce. I wish I could remember. Even though I’ll probably just forget it again anyway, I wish I had the whole story in my head, right this second, so I could study it and understand it. But it’ll just go away again anyway. The past is the past is the past. It’s just become the present for a brief moment, but soon I’ll lock it all back away where it belongs, in little, far-away bits of my brain that I don’t access much.

Well now I’ve done it. (Journal#026)



I just royally fucked up. I went to Facebook to reminisce about some of my old fish, and share some pics with my folks and cousin, in light of one of my bettas, who is 4 years old, has just stopped eating. The other Old Man Betta is still healthy.

But anyway, one of the pics brought me the fuck DOWN. Because my ex has a comment on it. And the link is black because we’re no longer FB friends. I couldn’t understand why I could view his new profile pic. I would have expected him to have blocked me. Anyway, so my curiousity drive me to … Fucking click the name. Which didn’t look like a link. But it was.

Then of course I kept looking and scrolling. I was looking to see if he’d said anything nasty about me, I guess. I didn’t find anything publicly, so I should be grateful. Or I shouldn’t care. And seeing all of our mutual friends commenting and supporting him. They don’t talk to me anymore. One of them texted me when his wife had their first baby a month ago. I later wrote back to ask how he(my once friend) was doing, silence. That’s not the first time. They won’t talk to me.

Because after what I did, I was the Monster. And he was the one in desperate need of help and support. And that’s the way it was. And they still support him. And I got to see pics of the his new girl. And thank God he’s doing good and has that support or he might have tried to contact me again, and I can’t have that. I’ve been too mixed up as it is.

There will ALWAYS be things I cannot share on here. As much as I want to be Free and write and say whatever I want, that’s not a reality. Not unless I want some really, seriously bad things to happen.

P.S. I don’t use FB anymore because I couldn’t figure out who I needed to block amongst all the mutually-known people. Too complicated. But my pictures are there.

To self-injure or not (Journal#017) with 2 updates

Gray Autumn Tree

Gray Autumn Tree

By the time I’m here, posting, it’s already in my head and won’t go away. The choice is made. I already have the knife with me. I’m already in a private location.

I took clonazepam at least 40 minutes ago. So the anxiety has subsided. But the self hatred is still here. Maybe I can talk myself through this until I no longer feel this way.

What happened? I came home from work late. I chose to stay late, off the clock, to write the post about washing dishes. See, I wash people’s dishes as part of my job at work, so it was on my mind, and I was super excited to write that post. So instead of coming home, I stayed and wrote.

I made it home and was talking with my mom on the phone. She had questions for my uncle. He was home so I put her on FaceTime so she could ask him directly. That all seemed fine.

But then there was a little incident where she asked me if my brother knew that we’re not doing Thanksgiving until Friday. So I had the mental image of him arriving a day early, so I said hey, I’ll write him right now. So I minimized the video window and went to text him. For those of you with an iPhone, it doesn’t stop the FaceTime — you can still hear each other like a regular phone call. You just can’t see each other.

Well my uncle freaked out. I can’t repeat the words because I’ve forgotten them. But it was basically a tantrum of sorts. DON’T WRITE HIM NOW. WRITE HIM LATER. I’M TALKING WITH YOUR MOM. I froze. I wasn’t moving. I wasn’t writing him and I also wasn’t switching back over to FaceTime video screen either. It raises a stubborn bit of me and I sure as hell wasn’t going to switch back with him screaming at me and panicking. As with any animal training, you respond back in the calm times, not the enraged times. Of course, I am not a human psychologist and he did not calm down but freaked out even more, yelling at me not to write him, not to write him, stop it, why aren’t you stopping it, what is wrong with you, just do it, switch back, I have to see her in order to talk with her. He was finally just going to walk away. My reaction is basically, and meaning no offense to y’all, but Jesus Christ. Calm the fuck down and talk to me like a civilized human being. I had stopped all actions — I WASN’T writing him — I had NOT even pulled up a text window — why was he still panicking?

So basically I let the conversation go on a bit longer (I turned the video back on) and then said look, hate to cut this short, but I have to go to the bathroom. He suggested to keep my phone and continue talking with my mom but I wasn’t having that. If they wanted to chat still, they could have called each other back on their own damn phones but I wanted to go into my room and cry in the dark. I wasn’t going to keep it together much longer.

I took my clonazepam then, and kept it to just one tablet, as tempted as I was to take extra and just sleep now through tomorrow. I’d like to stay asleep for days. It did cross my mind to research if overdose is possible on clonazepam alone, which is one I haven’t researched in quite a long time.

HERE’s the real moral of this story:

When you are starting to allow yourself UP times — like the times I’ve written about with the moments of peace, of contentment, of joy, of gratitude, of bliss…. Well with that, I’ve opened myself up to a shit ton of possibilities of getting hurt emotionally. It’s like, opening the chest up slowly and the good starts to come in… But the excessive sensitivity and quickness to feel hurt is right up at the surface, too. I wonder if really it is more useful to live in a numbed state. I don’t know if I can handle the ups and the downs.

On the plus side, writing this all out has actually removed my about-to-cut status. I’m going to pee and then go to bed. I’m already in my jammies and have brushed & flossed my teeth. What more is there to life? I will certainly meditate again tonight.

**UPDATE** It’s the next day now. I just talked with my mom about it a tiny bit, because she was on the phone when it happened. She didn’t take my uncle’s reaction that seriously. She knows him better than me (they did grow up together). Most people just shrug it off. She thinks it’s possible that he freaked out because I broke his concentration when I grabbed the phone to multi-task. He’d been in the middle of talking about the upcoming menu. [At the same time, I also just learned that my brother *didn’t* know about dinner being Friday and would have changed his plane tickets had he known, and his girlfriend would have been able to come too. So he’s annoyed now. But is literally just getting onto his plane right now (and he only just now found out about the Friday dinner).] But yeah, I do feel guilty now, for having freaked out my uncle who is very ADHD and maybe did panic a little because I broke his train of thought. It’s possible. Ah well, such is life. Can’t win every day.

**UPDATE x2** I am sort of wondering, now, seeing this written out, if some of the desire to cut came from my feeling the loss of control over my own actions (where I wasn’t allowed to move or anything for a moment there). It isn’t just self-hatred — I KNOW that because I feel self-hatred over loads of different things and it doesn’t bring up the urge to self-harm. I’m going to keep my eye on this theory in the future.

Downward: Deleting my phone pictures (Topic#026)

The Ice

The Ice

**UPDATE** Now that I realize I have a flu, I’m quite relieved! All of the negativity of the week (and all the weird headaches I’ve had all week, and the total exhaustion) will all get better as soon as I am healthy again! I will be back to my more chipper self soon enough! Whew! I’m headed home from work early today, and will go straight for my jammies and a pile of blankets! ❤ ❤ **

My phone has been too full for me to take any more photographs with it, which is a problem. I’ve deleted every app I can, plus many songs, and still no space.

So I finally downloaded the pictures onto a computer and burned them to a disc, so I will have them in storage.

That is good, but it became time to delete them from my phone. There are some that make me very happy to see, and I wanted to keep them. So it meant going through the pictures one by one to select the ones I wanted to delete.

I just deleted at least 1200 photographs. It just got more and more painful. These are photos from the past six years, in some cases. These are photos of the happy moments, like my ex husband hugging his cat. Or the time we went ice skating in a wind storm and blew all over the lake, and I photographed it the whole time and it was so much fun. I am crying now & feel so alone. I know it’s silly, because they’re on DISC. But somehow, it is very distressing to delete from phone.

I wanted to delete all of these because how else can I stop thoughts of that time period from entering my mind? If I think about what I did to bring the marriage down, it is more painful than I can bear. But I WANT to have pictures of my cat on my phone. The cats stayed with my ex husband. But I have so many pictures of them that I love so much. Yet if I see them, I am brought back to that time period, and that’s not healthy.

So I think I’d better delete the cat pictures, too. I suspect I should even delete the horse pictures from then, because those pictures remind me of that time period, too. But I loved those horses so much and I want to be able to see them when I want. But I think it would be healthiest if I delete everything from before I moved HERE, so I can really be starting fresh. It’s just SO OOUUCCHHYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But maybe in a month from now, I wouldn’t miss the pictures and would be glad I removed the reminders from my easy vision?

The truth is, I’ve been EXHAUSTED this week (I fell asleep while talking with my TaskRabbit again this morning!!). And every since my mom mentioned “that time period” (the things I did to bring down the marriage), it’s been kind of on my mind too often. (And I’ve had headaches all week, feel stiff and sore, and feel very nauseous at present. Maybe I caught a flu, which could explain the yucko mood).

As I walk down the streets here, I keep thinking I see my ex-father-in-law. Which is very distressing because he has cancer and I don’t even know if he’s okay right now, and I can’t ask anybody. I wish I could stop thinking I see him. It’s strange how many people around here look very much like him.

I have also started thinking more about my ex husband and that time period. I don’t WANT to but I’m not sure how to shut off the thoughts now that they are open. It is so painful!

So how can I get out of this funk in the short term? I’ll try to ignore my phone for a while, forgetting about the pictures. I’ll listen to some music (see my list of “grounding” music on my Music page — I’ll be choosing from that list!). I’ll get some exercise later. I’ll put away my clean clothes and maybe vacuum again. Productivity will help me feel better. [I’m not sure why, but WP just made me re-create my paragraph breaks again. I don’t know if I placed them in the same spots they were originally.]

Dissociation, as my best friend and worst enemy (Topic#022)

Falling Water

Falling Water

I just finished the post on childhood abuse. And it lead me to think of dissociation. When I came back from college with my first mental breakdown, one of the things I was diagnosed with was a dissociative disorder. The therapist told my parents, behind my back, that I would never recover from it. They grieved and grieved and were in a very bad place for a long time after that. THANKFULLY the therapist was WRONG. After two years, I was able to feel alive again. More on that to come.

I’m going it do my best to describe dissociation as I experience it. I’ll work backwards, for now. So when I came back from college, so very many things were going on. I was barely alive. I should have been hospitalized but my parents are too scared of such things ruining the future (they didn’t know I was so suicidal). I couldn’t feel, physically. I had no sense of touch anymore. I could close my eyes and touch both a pile of feathers and a pile of sandpaper and not be able to tell them apart.

I was having experiences like hearing somebody talking but not understanding what they were saying and not recognizing the voice….and then realizing it was my OWN voice. I was talking but was so far apart from myself, I didn’t know I was talking and didn’t know what I was saying. I would see a hand reach for a doorknob in front of me and not recognize it as my own hand. At one point, in the midst of the most stressful point of college, the part that lead to the destruction of everything, my vision altered, too. The horizon became diagonal, although my head was straight.

I could go places and experience nothing from it. I wasn’t there. It wasn’t that I was looking down on myself from above — I wasn’t there at all.

At some point, I picked up a childhood dog puppet. Scared my parents TO DEATH. But I could “show” the world to the soft, friendly dog puppet I’d had forever. I could walk around the world and point things out to the dog puppet, and that is how I started to “see” things in the world again. My mom actually allowed me to take the dog puppet with me everywhere I went for like two years during this time. That’s huge for her. There are pictures of me at a music workshop in another state, me wearing the dog puppet and looking out at the ocean, and the dog puppet looking out at the ocean.

The first time I actually experienced reality again was in my childhood bedroom — I had my hand out my bedroom window and suddenly felt a breeze on my hand. That was the first feeling I’d had in two years. It marked the start of recovery from the dissociation. Up until then, we were all told and believed that it was going to be a permanent condition for me. (I made no commitments to life or to stay alive at that point.)

Since then, I was quite afraid of travel in general, for fear it would cause me to dissociate again. But NO, I have NOT gone through another phase like this. THANK GOD.

So when did I first learn to dissociate? Anyone who read my previous post already knows. Childhood ‘abuse’. There were more times than I can tell you for all the times I dissociated as a child. For example, when he pinned me down, held my eye open and touched my eyeball with the eraser of a pencil (yep, that started some OCD symptoms, too — like the fear of me stabbing my own eyes out with metal hangers, that I’ve previously mentioned). You can’t be present for that. Where do you think you go? That is dissociation. I would simply not be present when he would pin me down and do things to me. But not just for physical things — it’s also useful in events of verbal stress. Like if someone is yelling at me.
That’s how I deal with stressful verbal situations today. If you’re going to trap me in “conversation” in which I can’t respond and can’t escape physically, then I’ll mentally escape.


It comes in handy for other things, too, like when a kid throws up on your leg and you’re still 15 minutes away from your destination and can’t do anything about it until then… Just turn your head and go someplace else mentally.

I don’t feel like I’ve described this very well. I’ll probably go back through and add some links later.

Pondering: Messages received in childhood abuse (Topic#021)



I’m hesitant to write this post due to the chance that anybody in my family might someday come across this. But I sense that several of my new “followers” (terrifying still) have experienced some similar childhood messages, so I want to write about it. Writing really helps me think, even though it often comes out as a big mess. I’ll just try to avoid some specifics.

When I was in elementary school, I received some very strong, literal verbal messages from an older kid who I spent lots of time with every day in elementary school. He was awesome and I worshipped the ground he walked on. (Enter start of my screwed up relationships with people, anyone?) Anyway, so the word I’ve learned to describe this is “abuse”. He was abusive toward me. I’m going to focus just on the verbal aspect right now. And although I have read and read and studied on the topic of abuse since then, I still couldn’t tell you if this is “verbal” “emotional” or whatever abuse. I don’t get the difference between some of the different types.

Anyway (focus! I wonder if I can get through this). So this kid was really into psychology and psychological experiments. I do wonder what he’d studied, now. How could he have been so smart? Anyway. So one of his messages to me was, “If you don’t have anything interesting to say, then don’t say anything at all.” This was his own variation to what my parents used to tell me (“If you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all”). He followed through on this by not allowing me to speak. If I opened my mouth, I got physical threats or maybe things thrown at me. I became semi mute for a while in elementary school. I believe I did speak at school and at home a little still, but not very much. One of my goals in life became to literally one day grow up and be the mute servant to a king. It’s what I wanted. That literal image. I became proud to do anything this person required of me, at the moment he required it. I jumped if you said jump. I ducked if you threatened. I dropped to the floor and went limp if you ran at me like you were going to attack me. You had me lick dirt off your shoes to show off your training of me in front of your friends, and I did it and I was proud of your training.

There were many times I was sure I was going to die. You held me under water in swimming pools until I panicked. You picked me up with one arm by my throat and held me there until I was panicking (OCD symptoms came after that one — NOTHING could touch my throat for many years — no necklaces, no shirt collars, nothing could even BUMP my throat, I was so afraid of strangulation). You held me over like you were going to throw me off the side of a mountain.

But I never knew anything was wrong with this, at the time. I never told anybody. I screamed when I saw you enter the same room as me, and adults came at first, but it would be unprovoked at that point and I wouldn’t have any words to explain, so in the end, I started to get in trouble for screaming for no cause.

I didn’t start to really speak, in general, until I was out of elementary school and away from you. I remember my parents commenting on how much more I was talking at home, and wondering about that. But I never thought to tell them about you. It just never even occurred to me.

In 8th grade, I was writing in my journal at 1 a.m. with my blue light on (that’s in a previous post), and I had a flashback, to you pinning me down under a heavy object and touching me sexually. That was the first time it had come to my mind since it happened. Yet it still never occurred to me to tell anybody. (Besides, you weren’t in my life anymore.) But it was your words that stayed with me the most, not the touch. You made me ashamed of myself in all ways possible. Your words had more meaning and humilation than I could ever hope to describe to anybody. (They’re still too shameful to even write here in an anonymous blog.)

In high school, my mom forced me into family counseling because I had stopped talking with her (she offended me with a question one night, and I told myself I’d never speak to her again. I already had good training for not-talking, so it wasn’t hard for me). In counseling, I remember the lady asking me many, many times if I had any past abuse, and I thought about it and said no. I didn’t know what you did was abuse. I wasn’t intentionally lying — I really didn’t consider that abuse. It was just part of my past, part of my life. It didn’t occur to me to say anything. It didn’t even cross my mind. I was diagnosed with depression, which marks my first official diagnosis of anything.

(In middle school, my whole family went to a counseling session for my brother, because he was getting depressed and stuff. I remember that appointment because it was a trip to the big city for me. I  was already very depressed by this point. It was a very gray day outside (summer), which I loved, and made me want to cry. I sat on a sofa, looking out the window at the gray cars below (we were not on the first floor, so I was looking down on a street). I recall nothing else from the entire day. But I later learned that the counselor had asked me my grade level after the appointment, and I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure if he was asking what grade I had just finished, or the one I was going to be starting after summer). After the appointment, he pulled my mom aside and told her that he thought it was me who needed to be in counseling. I am not sure why she didn’t persue that. But what kills me is that somehow he had asked her what my favorite movie was, and she told him it was Journey to Spirit Island, and he then revealed to her that he was wearing an amulet!!!! I BELIEVE HE COULD HAVE CHANGED MY LIFE. IF ONLY she had let him talk with me. IF ONLY I could have his name and track him down. I was SO religious/spiritual back then. On the other hand, I was so screwed up back then, I would have latched on to him so much and followed him to the ends of the earth, I am sure.)

The point of this post was in the messages I received in elementary school. I wonder it is valid to think that that’s probably why I still feel like a “phony” and so inferior to everyone around me. He told me over and over again for years that I was ugly, stupid, worthless, etc. That everyone who seemed to like me was just faking because they pitied me. He set me up to tell one of his friends that I liked him, only to be hiding with other friends around the corner, who then all came out and laughed at me. He told me I had nothing to offer, that nobody wanted to hear me. He picked on my physical features and told me how each feature made me ugly.

To date, I am ashamed of my face. I feel very ugly. I always feel ugly. No matter what clothes I wear, I feel dirty and ugly. No matter how much I pay to have my hair done, I feel stupid and ugly. And unclean. He made me ashamed of my body and my thoughts. Oh my god, my legs. SO MUCH shame about my legs. If he ever saw my legs, he made me cover them up because they were so ugly (I had eczema all over my legs back then). Now I have the scars from the eczema on my legs. I feel they’re so ugly, I try never to show them, but I did this-past summer. I wore a skort a lot. I even shaved them. But I still feel they are hideous).

So what I’m wondering is, can messages given to you in childhood still have such a strong effect on you today? Can this really be the cause of some of today’s insecurities? Or is it just a “bullshit excuse” I use to be less than 100% today?

Yet to this day, if someone advances toward me rapidly with the body language of physical attack, I will still play dead. (Then he couldn’t carry me as easily/ as far.)

I’m going to talk about dissociation at some point in this blog, too. Maybe I’ll start a new post for it right now.

PRO Hugs (Topic#014)



Hugs. Touch. Physical contact. I believe hugs are possibly one of the most important things in my life. I actually doubt anybody in my life knows it. My life is literally not worth living without the potential for some kind of platonic physical contact (e.g. a hug).

This is kind of weird because of my asperger diagnosis. If you’re familiar with that, you might expect me to avoid a lot of touch. Which I did. I never hugged my friends in elementary school, which was very common at my school. My best friend asked me once why we never hugged like everybody else did. I tried but it was very, very awkward for me. I did hug my mom goodnight. My dad is more on the autism spectrum than I am, and he did not hug me (which did not seem weird to me at all). I actually recall the last physical contact we had when I was little. I was younger than 5 years old, and I had asked him to read to me. We had done this before– I sat on his lap while he read to me. Don’t ask me why– it has NEVER seemed weird to me until this very moment as I type this out– but our seat was the toilet (with the lid down). On this particular day, I sat down on his lap and water started flowing out of the toilet. It must be that the toilet was clogged or whatever, but I believed we/*I* had broken the toilet. I was afraid of the toilet anyway. I didn’t ask him to read to me again for many, many years (sometime in elementary school, when he’d read my horse books to me [I’d be in bed already, and he’d sit somewhere in my room], often making up horrible things and I’d have to stay alert and notice when things didn’t fit in right, like suddenly two of the wild mustangs would fight to the death. I’d be horrified at first, but then we’d get a good laugh. I love those memories ❤ ).

Come middle school, our family’s dynamics were extremely complicated. I don’t want to go into it here and now.

But there came a point when my mom and I no longer hugged goodnight. I had no contact with anybody. This coincided with the onset of my first severe depression, but I am not trying to imply that one lead to the other. It was just very, extremely complicated. As middle school went on, I remember writing in my journal about how I had no potential for hugs at all. I was so lonely and so depressed. I wrote that the only contact I ever had was when people bumped into me in the crowded school hallways.

In 8th grade, I had one teacher who braved potential lawsuits and would actually rest a hand on students’ shoulders. Once, when he could tell I was severely depressed, he actually gave me a hug. I froze. I didn’t dare even breathe, it was so special to me. I started staying later after classes, hanging around more, heading past his portable after school, etc. Sometimes he would be there. We would talk. If I was extremely lucky, maybe we’d be heading out of the portable at the same time and maybe he’d pat my back or something as I left. It was everything completely innocent in every way and it meant the whole, entire world to me.

Now, all along I was also learning to wrap myself very tightly in blankets for the pressure sensations I needed. I also would pile heavy blankets on my bed. I literally slept with 7 heavy blankets on my bed. I needed the pressure. This is long before a diagnosis of ANYTHING. To this day, I sleep with as much weight on me as I need, even if it means wearing very cool clothes to bed or lowering the thermostat.

Anyway, high school was better. I started getting along with my parents again. One day, I actually decided to start tucking my mom in at night, and at some point we started to hug goodnight again. My dad would let me hug him before I would leave on an airplane and upon my return. I had boyfriends who hugged me. I don’t recall ever hugging my friends still.

College years {Dear God}. There was hugging. The first year, it was all well and good. I believe I was actually re-introduced to the concept of hugging my friends. The second year, well, that doesn’t count. I had to hug the young woman I had accidentally started care taking. But outside of that, all was lost. I was starting to have a breakdown anyway (it’s complicated) but a huge part of what came up in me was a strong, strong, strong clinginess I think I will talk about in a future Topic post. (I would literally start to cry when people would leave the table after a meal, for example. But a strong desire within that was also for a hug / contact / to be held, etc.)

When I got back, and had to attend therapy twice a week, I essentially begged my therapist (who turned out to be a HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE therapist and was eventually run out of town) to hug me. It had become basically the only thing I wanted in the entire world. I was only hanging on to the world by a thread at that point, and my focus had reduced to one thing: hugs. He did eventually agree to it. He was kind of fatherly, I remember that feeling. He had it on some checklist or something, to give me a hug at the start of the session. Only he kept forgetting and only would do it when once he’d start looking at his notes, so I felt like he didn’t really care. That took away some meaning for me. During this time, I spent most of the week laying on the couch in the fetal position. The only thing I could think about was waiting for my next therapy appointment, and specifically a hug.

Once I started getting better, I met people. I dated. I did also have a male friend who was HUGE into hugging. I wasn’t interested in him romantically, but I SO LOOKED FORWARD to the greeting and goodbye hugs. He was huge into hugs, hugging anyone he knew and anyone he’d met. And he was the kind of person who had that enveloping, safety, comforting sort of hug. It’s so hard to type all of this out but why be ashamed of it? It’s all I lived for at times.

Even now, when I came here after my divorce and mental breakdown leading up to it, it was my uncle’s welcoming hug that seemed most vital. When he asked what could he do to help with my depression, I told him a two hour hug every day would do the trick. Of course that hasn’t happened, but he didn’t ever mind if I said I needed a hug. When my therapist asked, after several weeks of therapy with her, why I was feeling more stable, I was too embarrassed to say the entire truth. I said, I was feeling more secure…that I could stay here for now. Really the sentence was, I was feeling more secure that I can have a hug when I need one.

If these feelings are “wrong” or shameful or embarrassing… It really doesn’t matter. It’s me. It’s a part of me. It’s one of the central, core motivators in my life. It’s life blood. It’s the air I breathe.

And I’m very damned sure that a whole ton of people right now, at this very second, could really, really use a hug.

PRO people who have been prescribed psychiatric medications (Topic#001)

One thing I need to come to terms with is psychiatric medications. No, I have come to terms with that. One thing I need to come to terms with is living around and loving people who view such medications as a personal weakness or a flaw in the health care system.

I know that I cannot convince you. But I wish I could explain to you that very first moment when a person comes to accept that he/she will be “one of those people who takes psych meds”. I can only speak from my own experiences. But believe me, those of us who have chosen to accept a medication into our systems on a daily basis are not the weak ones. We are the strong ones. We are the ones who looked the Future right in the eye and saw our options and chose the hard way: LIFE.

Let me explain a little bit more about myself and what I take. A decade ago, I was placed on anti depressants. I fought against taking them for a long time. I should have been on them a year earlier. But I was stubborn and believed I could become healthier again “on my own” and with what Nature had given me from birth.

Sometimes, that is horseshit. Sometimes, you can do everything in your power to become healthy again and be a thriving, productive citizen, and it is not enough. You can go on walks every day. You can get enough sleep each night. You can eat healthfully. You can meditate. You can study. You can join groups. You can try to make friends. You can try art and crafts and writing and reading and attend churches and attend temples and pray and practice self affirmations. You can try everything you can think of and research even more things you can try. You can attend therapy twice a week. You can go back to school. You can try a job. You can DO EVERYTHING WITHIN YOUR POWER to change yourself for the better and STILL be haunted with the emptiness inside.

You can do all of these things and find no moment of peace, no moment of happiness. You can find only the grayness, the detachment, the hopelessness. You can find that there is no Future at all, and see only a few days ahead of today. You can’t picture a Future. You can’t honestly tell someone you will see them a week from today because you don’t know if there will be a week from today.

You start to think about dying. You start to think about all the trouble you have been putting your friends and family through. You start to understand the burdens and stresses they are going through in trying to help you in your quest for stability. You see the worry lines in their faces. You see the exhaustion in their movements. You know they don’t want to answer the phone anymore when you call for support. They don’t want to meet with you. They have nothing to offer. You have nothing to offer them; you’re just a leech, sucking away at their personal life energy.

You start to believe that they’d be better off and live easier without your presence. You start to believe that your own negative energy is influencing the world at large in a negative way. You start to imagine you are the cause of suffering around the globe; that your very exhalations are causing negative energy to flow around the world.

You start to panic. You see the world around you through a dark veil. You can’t experience as many sensations of touch or smell or taste or sight as you did in the past. Things are meaningless and whether or not you attend a class or attend a job or meet with your friends… who gives a shit in the grand scheme of things? What I do today has no impact on the world at large. It’s all irrelevant.

You can’t derive even a split second of pleasure from what you logically know is a beautiful sunset. But there’s no emotional connection. You are apart from it, as though viewing it through a robot’s eyes.

You start wondering, just out of curiosity, what the most painless methods of dying might be. You start looking it up online. You start compiling a list. You start going through what equipment or ingredients might be needed. You start keeping an eye out for such things, you know, just in case. You do this for months. You know dozens of methods but haven’t actually purchased anything. That would take energy and motivation you don’t have.

All this time, you pretend to others. You smile when you know they have made a joke. You make a noise that is somewhat similar to that of laughter. It is obviously fake and hollow to your own ears, but seems to satisfy those around you. You practice smiling in the mirror, watching the creases around your eyes, your cheeks, and trying to make it look as genuine as you can. You go on walks with other people and try to join in on the conversation. Your words are false and fake and you don’t recognize the strange voice coming out of you. You wonder if you’ll ever be genuine again. The walking exhausts you but you keep going because you know it’s “healthy” for you.

Every moment of the day, you are trying. You are faking. You are stepping forward but really you are in quicksand and are being pulled down farther and farther. You don’t know who you are anymore. You can’t fathom how nobody else seems to notice that everything you do and say is fake. You’re losing yourself more and more every day.

One day you hate yourself. There is an agony you can’t understand. Physical agony, like a burning inside of your body. Like the blood in your veins is actually liquid fire. Maybe there is a person who you looked up to and you come to realize they don’t care about you at all. Maybe you did or said something so humiliating at work, you can’t fathom ever returning there. Maybe you are so lost and alone, and so without hope, that a part of you wants it to be over. So maybe this day, you pick up a knife. Maybe you begin to press the tip of the knife into the part of your body that is on fire the most, even knowing it’s stupid and cliche and everybody will hate you or judge you or be scared of you. But maybe, just maybe, it will make a difference. You press into the vein and the back of your mind whispers that just maybe you will slip and it will be over. Just maybe there will be an earthquake or something else you cannot control and the knife will go in too deep for any reconstruction to save you. But you press, or maybe you saw, or you slice neatly, going just far enough to hurt. You focus on the pain. Your mind focuses. Your vision focuses and for one moment, there is no dark veil. For one moment, you see life clearly. For one moment, you are with yourself and you love yourself. And the pain brings tears to your eyes but you keep pressing, keep hurting, keep waiting for a drop of blood to bring some visual satisfaction. Your body is shaking and you don’t really want to die. Maybe you barely make a scratch, or maybe there is blood running down from the spot. But the liquid fire is gone and your body no longer burns. The clarity is still with you and you are there and in the present moment and focused and you LOVE yourself. You wash the wound lovingly. You apply some antiseptic to the wound. You dress the wound. You wash the knife and put it back away and that never happened, except that the mark is still there when you wake up the next day. There was a private moment with yourself that you can treasure. There was a moment that was real. You baby your wound and you know this is how you should always treat yourself, but you also know that most of the time, you just don’t care. There’s no way to feel feelings on the typical day. There is just dark, hazy numbness and the nothingness that goes on and on and on.

And there is no end in sight. There is no hope and no future. There are no goals because frankly you don’t give a shit about anything. Nothing has the slightest bit of meaning to you — even things that would have brought you to your knees in the past. Now it’s just unreal and like somebody else’s bad movie playing around you and you’re trapped.

Image of scar

Image of scar

And one day, you buy some alcohol. And you drink as much as you can until the room is spinning and you wonder if this will really numb the pain enough to let you cut even deeper. So you get your knife back out. Maybe this time you don’t even care enough to wash it first. And you “practice” or maybe you are just trying to dull the liquid fire that is causing such physical pain in your body again. But just maybe, the back of your mind is there again, egging you on, wanting you to show you’re serious, wanting you to finish this and prove to yourself and to everyone else that you were serious all along, and this is the only way to prove it. (And you’re smart enough and done enough research to know the only ways in which it could be lethal, and the risk of tendon damage.)

Because mental illness often has no outward signs. And nobody knows you have been faking for so long, and you are too exhausted to continue. Nobody knows and it seems nobody even cares whether or not you’re faking it. Just say and do the bare minimum and people will be satisfied and turn away.

One day, a doctor might recommend you see a psychiatrist. Or maybe the person you have been seeing can prescribe for you. Whatever the case, there is one day when you have hit a place that nobody else is even aware of, a place where there is nothing left and it’s only the darkness that’s with you, the doctor will suggest to you the medications.

What have you got to lose? Who cares. There is nothing to lose anymore. I’ve already lost everything.

What have you got to gain? YOUR. LIFE.

Your. Whole. Entire. Fucking. Life. that you can’t even fathom anymore but you know it used to exist. And deep down, you know there’s got to be some way for it to exist again.

By that point, you have only to gain from this experiment. Bring on the pills. Maybe it will help. Maybe the darkness will lift and maybe you can feel some relief and maybe you will care again and maybe you can dare dream about feeling even one moment of happiness again. Maybe you can be interested once again in hobbies or projects or friends or life.

The last thing you give a shit about is what other people are going to think. It’s not about them; they’ve already lost you anyway. You’ve been gone for a long time. And they have no clue where you are right now. They can’t understand it without having been in a similar position (and many of you have been). The last thing you care about is how long before you can come off of the pills… because there IS NO FUTURE. There is no day-after-tomorrow. You have no plans. Your world ends at the end of each day and you have no feeling that tomorrow will arrive.

So take the pill. Try what you have to try. Maybe you will be amongst the percentage of people who obtain relief from these medications.

So you try it. And you know it will be a long process (several weeks seems like infinity). And day by day, you take the pill. You follow your regimen. You want it to work, even if you’re not sure it will. You don’t tell many people that you’re trying this. You might even hear people around you talking amongst themselves about other people who take psych meds and how screwed up they are, or whatever. You’ll hear some negative comments about taking meds to help with mood. You just stay silent.

Day by day. And you keep trying everything else. And you take your medicine. And your therapist keeps trying things with you. And weeks turn into months. Maybe your dose gets increased. Maybe they try you on a different medication. Maybe you had bad side effects on one or the other. But you keep trying things. BECAUSE YOU ARE STRONG. AND YOU ARE BRAVE. AND YOU LOOKED INTO THE DARKNESS AND YOU WANTED THE LIGHT INSTEAD. YOU LET GO OF WHATEVER BELIEFS YOU USED TO HAVE ABOUT PEOPLE WHO TAKE SUCH MEDICATIONS, AND YOU LET GO OF THE BELIEF THAT YOU’D NEVER BE ONE WHO TAKES THEM, AND YOU TAKE THEM. And you live another day. And another.

And one day, a year or maybe many years down the way, you realize you’ve been stable for a long time. You start to wonder if you really need to be on the medication anymore. You wonder what it does for you. You wonder who you were without it. You wonder if it numbs you, if it dulls you, if it changes you. You wonder if you can stay stable without it.

And that is for another story.