The past year has been a nightmare. Nothing less. On Mother’s Day my mother and only surviving parent had a stroke and went into the hospital. After several months of trying to motivate her to participate in rehab therapy, she passed away early December. She was under 70. I had been living with her and carry so much guilt from not being able to care for her better.
The day before her stroke, I was unable to get out of bed. Crippled with depression and feeling stress from a shit job that I cared too much about. At one point during that day I had even looked into outpatient programs around my area, knowing well that if I didn’t reach out to someone soon, I would try to kill myself for a third time. That’s embarrassing to admit; that the two previous times I couldn’t even manage to off myself correctly. Add those tries to the multitude of mistakes I’ve made in 30 years.
When it appeared my mother might just have a real shot at recovery, I sat down with a calendar and started looking at dates a few months out - I needed time to clean the house, sell my belongings and ensure my brother, my only other surviving relative, was not left with a mess. November 3rd was the day I settled on. I began to clean the house; donate items and toss what wouldn’t be wanted. I began to stockpile meds and went so far as to take a class on using a firearm so I would be prepared when the time came. As my mothers condition worsened and her inability to participate in her own recovery began to be her undoing, I felt the need to not add more stress to the situation. I didn’t want her heart to break any more than it had already been broken. She had stopped eating by the end of September and the towel was officially thrown in shortly after. I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to be here, to be stuck in a body she no longer had much control over, to be surrounded by the miserable atmosphere within the nursing home. To know she would never come home to her puppies, her own bed, her old life - everything she had known since the mid 80s when the home was purchased. Inside I felt hurt, maybe even jealous to some extent that I couldn’t take her place. I was upset she was essentially choosing a slow suicidal when all my life I’d been told again and again by this woman that it was disgustingly selfish. Being a child of someone raised in the 50s/60s, mental illness was something that HAD to be in the bloodline. It was something that didn’t exist outside sanatoriums from ghost hunter shows she watched or trials of the seriously sinister on Investigation Discovery. From the time I was old enough to understand what the symptoms of depression were, I was told there was no history of mental illness in the family, therefore it didn’t exist. I was “too sensitive, overly emotional”. Despite my outward appearance, that of a lanky kid with almost black hair who just wanted to play kickball and be one of the boys, my mom never questioned gashes, bruises or wounds that had been self inflicted for years.
At 16, I made the first attempt to take my life. Naively downing an entire bottle of Tylenol PM and any prescriptions I could find in the house. Clearly all I accomplished was making myself extremely sick. I remember waking up a day or so later, fully coherent and being thankful I was still alive. The sun felt warmer on that day than any beautiful day before. People seemed nicer. It felt like maybe this (the self hate, worthlessness, consuming depression) was something I had to put to rest before I could be whole again. Sadly it wasn’t long before I fell back into self destructive habits, more angry with myself for now having confirmation I was a failure. I became more brazen when I felt the need to self harm; instead of being methodical and exacting about the process, I got sloppy. I didn’t care if my tool of choice was clean, if I had peroxide or iodine to clean with, bandages to cover the damage. I managed to somehow make it to 19 before trying to overdose a second time. I went to a friends house, spent the night and asked to stay another. I snuck home and into our finished basement where I downed pain pills, benzos and finished off two bottles of vodka before falling asleep. Since I’m here and typing this, you can guess what the outcome was.
For the next decade I would keep everything to myself. The self harm increased. I found new ways to punish myself and ‘cope’. The desire to die never left. I took everything to the extreme. I did things I never thought I would do. At the same time, I honestly did not care. The only regret I have is not going further. Not fully allowing myself to go down the rabbit hole out of obligation to my coworkers - not my family. For some reason I felt it was important to show up for them until I had everything ironed out in the chaos that is my mind. I also couldn’t take the devastation of facing failure for a third time. When I finally felt I had my out planned, hours of time spent into researching and saving money to get away from my situation, my dad passed from a massive heart attack. My attention immediately went to caring for my mom, doing everything I could to fill my fathers shoes and be the support she needed. When she passed this past December, my expiration date was instantly reset. Mid February.
I’ve been in and out of forms of treatment. I’ve done minimal outpatient, talk therapy, journaling, art therapy. I’ve seen several psychiatrists, been on just about every medication for PTSD, severe depression, anxiety and BPD. I’ve tried diving into CBD, meditation and self care - I couldn’t commit to something I didn’t believe in doing. I feel I have exhausted any help available. At this point I don’t see a point to pouring money into things that aren’t helping. For six years I’ve been hoping for that Ah-ha! moment where all the words spoken at me about how life is worth living... they’ve just been in vain. They were only said because the person opposite me was recalling the script laid down for tense situations. After losing my job, the one I mentioned caring about too much earlier, after working for the company for 11 years - being cornered into resigning due to the fact I was receiving calls from the hospital ICU to make decisions that would impact my mothers recovery, I have yet to find a new job and it’s not from lack of trying. Wanting to find a full time, non-seasonal job anytime from Oct-Jan is a joke. Retail, unfortunately is what I know. It’s not where I want to be. I refuse to work for $9/hr and have my job dangled over my head if I’m unable to nail down a certain amount of credit card apps in one day. Is that all I am worth? Fuck that. Fuck trying anymore. I am fucking exhausted 24 hours a day. Fuck feeling invalidated by others who tell me there’s nothing wrong with me, it’s normal to feel all I’ve felt and continue to feel. There is nothing worse than not being able to stomach your own reflection and being alone with that shit day in and day out.
Submitted January 25, 2019 at 03:50AM by halojumps http://bit.ly/2S52WOY
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