So this technically would be #day152, but it's not.
It's actually day 10. It's day ten because ten days ago I attempted to kill myself, again, twice.
All I can recollect for you is I lost my full-time job, began writing a suicide note at work, and remember leaving halfway through work, partially starting on my intentional overdose.
All I recollect is based off of text messages, saved messages in a group chat I'm not any longer a part of, a call log, and whatever other digital footprints I've left all which date back no longer than ten days ago.
What's scary is that while I remember wanting to be dead, I don't remember exactly why I wanted it so badly. Hell, I don't remember what it felt like to feel that way. All I can see is that I spewed venomous words at all of my "friends" and insulted them in disgusting ways. I know I was 'kicked out' of my friend's house, which I seem to insist was 'my decision', which ultimately led to me living elsewhere the last ten days. My tailbone is still sore from when Dillion tackled me after I dumped wine on Adam's hardwood floor. I see that Halley left me a dozen snapchat videos, all attempting to coax me out of suicide. Other snapchat logs reveal people attempting to tell me to stop, that I was going to die. I didn't care, and its very obvious I didn't care at all. I remember foggily 'waking up' the morning of the attempt to all of my close friends around. I was bewildered, to say the least. I had used an unoriginal concoction I found that had killed plenty of people in history and couldn't tell which end was up. I ended up being taken to the hospital for detox where all I remember is being pissed off for being there and ordering hospital food (which I was not pissed off about).
After that, I remember leaving that hospital with Emily, my ex-roommate Adam's now ex-wife, and going out to a bar with my old friend Caleb, and while they weren't looking slipping another handful of pills containing enough chemicals to stop two hearts.
I woke up in a new hospital this time, too high to care about who might've taken me there or to realize that I actually didn't know why I was there.
I opened up my phone to check my messages out of reflex, maybe to shed some light onto the situation. I found a text from Emily, apologizing and stating what had happened. A call from her further showed that I had passed out, somewhere, and wouldn't wake up, so they drove me to the hospital. I didn't care, but I was grateful for the sentiment. Not everyone takes you to the hospital when you won't wake up. I appreciate those who do. At least it shows that someone has demonstrated enough care to say they aren't equip to deal with a situation but they are willing to put forth enough effort to deliver you to someone who is.
After that, the days are a blur. My mind took several days to begin storing memories again and access old ones. I made irrational decisions and long walks. I avoided most serious thoughts.
I got mad at a new roommate of mine for trying to frustrate the girl with the happy name while I was on the phone with her. He was jealous, no way around it. That's that.
Luckily, her last words to me were, "remember, don't get mad," and I held onto those words like gospel in the proceeding hours upon hours of respectful argument. I long decided before the end of the argument I would be leaving as soon as I could. It didn't matter to me what justification there was; if you tried to aggravate or in any way dismay someone I held highly, I would not tolerate you or your wishes.
I managed to secure a spot with Emily for over the weekend, being I would have my daughter and didn't want to take her around Steven's smoky apartment. I carried Amelia's belongings all the way from his apartment to her's, about a four mile walking distance with a carseat, several baby toys, backpack, and a large pack of a little girl's clothing in my arms. To me, it was only a good workout to avoid a voice that now sounded like fingernails on chalkboard. To everyone else, I looked funny enough to warrant more than one bewildered or amused glance and stare in my direction.
Sweaty and determined I made it to her house after an hour from leaving. My plan was to drop off the toys and clothes and then head over to the nearby park to pass out under the stars. I lucked out when she offered me the floor to rest on. The next day I walked all the way to work and then after work to another interview with my carseat to realize Stefany wouldn't be allowing me to see Amelia. She had heard about the weekend prior and was worried, but managed to be kind enough to say she'd think about it and be willing to talk once I could prove I was being treated for my MDD.
Major depressive disorder. The cancer of the soul, I call it. A disease that allows you to see and realize how beautiful all of life is while at the same time telling you that you don't deserve any of it, not even the air you breathe and creeps up your back slowly every day, higher and higher until it screams in your ear and enslaves your body to become hellbent on ending your own life. I couldn't argue with Stefany, I actually empathized with her. I had just read in my newsfeed that a depressed father had killed his two children, 4 and 2 years old, and then killed himself after setting his entire house on fire. 'Struggling with depression', yeah, what a joke. Unfortunately labels only go so far. They don't have an 'exclusively self hatred' diagnosis. If you're mentally ill, you're mentally ill. Its concerning no matter what degree of sick you are.
I used to take pride in having a disease that famous people I looked at as role models had. Now I think its scary. They all died eventually by their own hand, and last weekend I saw first hand what it was like to take one small upset in the big scheme of things and be helplessly convinced that killing yourself is the most rational decision.
Do you know what they say about people with recurrent depression can boast about when it comes to self image?
The most realistic perspective.
Next
It's actually day 10. It's day ten because ten days ago I attempted to kill myself, again, twice.
All I can recollect for you is I lost my full-time job, began writing a suicide note at work, and remember leaving halfway through work, partially starting on my intentional overdose.
All I recollect is based off of text messages, saved messages in a group chat I'm not any longer a part of, a call log, and whatever other digital footprints I've left all which date back no longer than ten days ago.
What's scary is that while I remember wanting to be dead, I don't remember exactly why I wanted it so badly. Hell, I don't remember what it felt like to feel that way. All I can see is that I spewed venomous words at all of my "friends" and insulted them in disgusting ways. I know I was 'kicked out' of my friend's house, which I seem to insist was 'my decision', which ultimately led to me living elsewhere the last ten days. My tailbone is still sore from when Dillion tackled me after I dumped wine on Adam's hardwood floor. I see that Halley left me a dozen snapchat videos, all attempting to coax me out of suicide. Other snapchat logs reveal people attempting to tell me to stop, that I was going to die. I didn't care, and its very obvious I didn't care at all. I remember foggily 'waking up' the morning of the attempt to all of my close friends around. I was bewildered, to say the least. I had used an unoriginal concoction I found that had killed plenty of people in history and couldn't tell which end was up. I ended up being taken to the hospital for detox where all I remember is being pissed off for being there and ordering hospital food (which I was not pissed off about).
After that, I remember leaving that hospital with Emily, my ex-roommate Adam's now ex-wife, and going out to a bar with my old friend Caleb, and while they weren't looking slipping another handful of pills containing enough chemicals to stop two hearts.
I woke up in a new hospital this time, too high to care about who might've taken me there or to realize that I actually didn't know why I was there.
I opened up my phone to check my messages out of reflex, maybe to shed some light onto the situation. I found a text from Emily, apologizing and stating what had happened. A call from her further showed that I had passed out, somewhere, and wouldn't wake up, so they drove me to the hospital. I didn't care, but I was grateful for the sentiment. Not everyone takes you to the hospital when you won't wake up. I appreciate those who do. At least it shows that someone has demonstrated enough care to say they aren't equip to deal with a situation but they are willing to put forth enough effort to deliver you to someone who is.
After that, the days are a blur. My mind took several days to begin storing memories again and access old ones. I made irrational decisions and long walks. I avoided most serious thoughts.
I got mad at a new roommate of mine for trying to frustrate the girl with the happy name while I was on the phone with her. He was jealous, no way around it. That's that.
Luckily, her last words to me were, "remember, don't get mad," and I held onto those words like gospel in the proceeding hours upon hours of respectful argument. I long decided before the end of the argument I would be leaving as soon as I could. It didn't matter to me what justification there was; if you tried to aggravate or in any way dismay someone I held highly, I would not tolerate you or your wishes.
I managed to secure a spot with Emily for over the weekend, being I would have my daughter and didn't want to take her around Steven's smoky apartment. I carried Amelia's belongings all the way from his apartment to her's, about a four mile walking distance with a carseat, several baby toys, backpack, and a large pack of a little girl's clothing in my arms. To me, it was only a good workout to avoid a voice that now sounded like fingernails on chalkboard. To everyone else, I looked funny enough to warrant more than one bewildered or amused glance and stare in my direction.
Sweaty and determined I made it to her house after an hour from leaving. My plan was to drop off the toys and clothes and then head over to the nearby park to pass out under the stars. I lucked out when she offered me the floor to rest on. The next day I walked all the way to work and then after work to another interview with my carseat to realize Stefany wouldn't be allowing me to see Amelia. She had heard about the weekend prior and was worried, but managed to be kind enough to say she'd think about it and be willing to talk once I could prove I was being treated for my MDD.
Major depressive disorder. The cancer of the soul, I call it. A disease that allows you to see and realize how beautiful all of life is while at the same time telling you that you don't deserve any of it, not even the air you breathe and creeps up your back slowly every day, higher and higher until it screams in your ear and enslaves your body to become hellbent on ending your own life. I couldn't argue with Stefany, I actually empathized with her. I had just read in my newsfeed that a depressed father had killed his two children, 4 and 2 years old, and then killed himself after setting his entire house on fire. 'Struggling with depression', yeah, what a joke. Unfortunately labels only go so far. They don't have an 'exclusively self hatred' diagnosis. If you're mentally ill, you're mentally ill. Its concerning no matter what degree of sick you are.
I used to take pride in having a disease that famous people I looked at as role models had. Now I think its scary. They all died eventually by their own hand, and last weekend I saw first hand what it was like to take one small upset in the big scheme of things and be helplessly convinced that killing yourself is the most rational decision.
Do you know what they say about people with recurrent depression can boast about when it comes to self image?
The most realistic perspective.
Next
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