I Bang My Head Against The Wall Until It Bleeds Black

I’d say that I’m completely bonkers, but really, what’s the point in telling you something you already know?  So let’s go with something new.  There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t feel completely inadequate.  Hm. We’re trying to find something new.  Screw it. Here we go anyway.

I’m too fat. I’m not pretty enough.  I’m just not good enough. No one likes a jealous girlfriend.  I just can’t have sex all the time like a good girlfriend should (This falls under not good enough eh?).

I’m too fat. I’ve been losing weight.  Benefit of certain meds that I’m on.  It’s crazy awesome.  I was a super chub muffin.  Do I think that my former weight, or even stature on others makes them fat? No.  I think most curvy women are incredibly sexy.  Did it make me fat? Very yes.  Am I still fat? Yeah. I have rolls. And chunky thighs.

I’m just not that pretty.  My face is so blah.  I can’t wear make up. I don’t know how.  Never learned. But I’ve been told my whole life I should.  Because a little make up would make me pretty.  Not prettier, pretty.  I want to be pretty.  I want to be that girl that you walk in the room, and I’m the first person you see. But I’m not.  I never will be.

I wish I wasn’t jealous.  I wasn’t before.  Before the crazy got bad.  I’d have little twinges here and there, but nothing extreme.  I generally didn’t care how many girl friends my boyfriend would have, or how much time they spent together.  As my problems have gotten worse, so has my jealousy, and my feeling of inferiority.  I can’t control it.  I want to be told flat out, “I love you,” without any prompting. Not a grunted response to an I love you.  Yes. I’m needy. And yes, it sucks.

I want to want to have sex. One of my doctors told me that it’s my responsibility as a girlfriend to have sex with my boyfriend, and why am I in a relationship if I’m not wanting to have sex.  Did you know that telling someone who is already having guilt and depression over having no libido that they are obligated to give their partner sex, and are not fulfilling their duties as a proper girlfriend is a GREAT way to make them even MORE depressed?  And by even MORE depressed, I mean pushing them further into a spiral into guilt and inability to leave the bed.  I don’t think I showered for 3 days, which, for the record, is a very bad sign.  Normally, not showering for one day makes me feel like I’m covered in bugs and have worms crawling under my skin (Also why I have to wash my hair daily, the worms crawl under my scalp.), so me not showering for 3 days and not caring?  Bad bad sign.

(And now my head is itching.)

Why World Suicide Prevention Day Can Go Fuck Itself…

Let me start by saying, if you’ve read my previous entry, you may think I’m pro-suicide.  Fuck that. I’m not. I’m not in any way pro-suicide.  Get that dirty little notion out of your head.  What I AM is anti-guilt when it comes to suicide.  Don’t guilt trip someone because they can’t fight their disease anymore.  They’re TRYING. Harder than you can imagine.  I am anti-the entire demeaning nature of how we -as a society- treat those who kill themselves, or consider it, or attempt to take their own life.  I am anti-articles written by people who supposedly (used to?) suffer from severe depression who say that with the right meds and therapy it can be cured. (CURED? BWAHAHA–no.) I am anti-the bullshit that mental disease isn’t as important as physical illnesses.  Walk off your broken leg, asshole.

Now that we have that covered. WSPD can go fuck itself.  Why? Because it brings out the worst kind of guilt; it brings the worst feelings of despair, despite the exact opposite intention.  In this day and age of the internet, we all have (obviously) heard and use social media.  I assume that’s how you stumbled upon this gem.  So we’ll assume you’ve used Facebook, or at least understand the concept.  Every time there’s an important “Message Day,” as I call them, the majority of our friends blanket our feed with the stereotypical “Here’s my status to show I care, I copied and pasted it, don’t share it, make sure you copy and paste it like I did.” message.  This pokes my inner rabid bear. (If we’re being honest, that bear is a little closer to the surface than “inner.”)

On WSPD, about a dozen of my “friends” (yes, people I would like to think are actual friends, in theory, kind of, sort of, I guess not really, but we’ll get into that in a minute.) posted the standard status, something to the effect of “Today is WSPD, and it is something that affects us all in one way or another. So if you’re having problems, get help. Call the Suicide Prevention Hotline. (I think it had a number. Potentially.) To show I care, I copied and pasted this. To show you care, make sure you copy and paste this as well. Don’t just share it, copy and paste it to your status.”  That’s great. Awesome.  Yes, a phone call to the suicide prevention hotlines can help you.  (A phone call to a suicide prevention hotline CAN HELP YOU.)  Do you know what can help more?  A phone call to a friend.

Here’s where that those quotation marks come into play around the words friends.  Out of those dozen or so friends that posted that status?  Amusingly enough.  HILARIOUSLY so, even.  All but two of them are people that I’ve tried to reach out to in times of break downs. And I don’t mean those little “I’m a little frustrated with things,” type day. I mean a “BAD. DAY.” I mean one of those days where I’m pretty sure the world is crashing, burning, going to fall into the sun, and I want to rip my hair from my head, I can’t stop crying, but I can’t cry anymore because I’ve cried so hard that I’m not entirely sure that I’m not bleeding from my eyes type days. And they have told me they were either too busy to talk to me, too tired, or just didn’t want to hear it-again. So my option is to sit, alone, and let my brain rot on itself. Or. Talk to a stranger.  Talking to a stranger would work great for some people.  For me? It induces a sense of NO that you have no idea.  So no. I couldn’t.

So why can WSPD go fuck itself?  Because it brings out the worst in us.  It brings out the people who want to look and sound sympathetic to your feelings, while actually bringing you down because they remind you that in the long run you’re really alone.  There really are SO MANY people out there that care, but because there’s this DAY, this ONE DAY, that is so out there for people to.. FUCK I can’t even words. For people to EXPLOIT the emotions and the NEED that we have, that it makes it harder for us to get the connections and help that we need.  I get it.  People need a day.  They do. They feel that if we don’t have “A DAY” it isn’t real.  But FUCK WSPD, because I shouldn’t have to say this.

I SHOULD NOT HAVE TO SAY THIS:  

EVERY DAY.  SHOULD BE WORLD SUICIDE PREVENTION DAY.

You should be there. If someone calls you and says they need to talk? You wake up. You put your video game on pause. You make the time. I am ALWAYS available. This is something that is VERY well known to everyone who knows me. ONE time have I ever not been able to do that when someone asked. I had a migraine, and couldn’t sit up or open my eyes without puking. I will still regret not finding away to his house when he said he needed me for the rest of my life. Don’t ever make the mistake of pretending you care to make yourself look cool on social media.

This in no way represents the rest of the people on this blog. Just me. I’m the only asshole here. 

Suicide, the End all to Save all?

“Suicide is selfish.”  “Suicide is the easy way out.”  “Suicide is weak.” “Suicide destroys families.”  “They didn’t think of anyone else.”

Ok.  But did you think of them?

Cancer is a disease.  Heart disease is a disease (duh?). Diabetes is a disease. I can list more diseases, but it’s really not something I’d like to do. I’m sure you can as well.  The point is, while someone dying from any of these diseases sucks, it’s inevitable and not really fully preventable.  You can lessen the chance of dying from these diseases, but you can’t fully stop it.  So why is depression different? WHY is depression held to a different standard?  Suicide is someone dying from the disease.  Don’t get me wrong, I still feel abandoned from the suicides of several people I knew. But here’s the kicker… I feel abandoned by people I knew and cared about that died from OTHER diseases. That’s abandonment issues. That’s another flavor of cake on this multi-tiered Wonderland puzzle.

It’s a daily struggle for me not to reach through the computer (or across a table) and strangle someone who tries to compare their little quirks to some of my National Geographics (issues).  These tend to be the same people who, either purposefully, or inadvertently, assume that mental diseases aren’t on par with physical diseases.  Your mom had cancer, so my depression isn’t as deadly as her cancer.  Your dad smokes, so my anxiety doesn’t keep me out of as many bars/restaurants as him.  You have a slight itch on your arm that may have a hive or two.  You take some Benadryl, and scratch it a bit while you wait for it to kick in.  I take some Benadryl and scratch my arm until it actively bleeds well past the point of kicking in.  Then I pick the scab bloody every chance I get, until it finally heals.

So yeah. No. Physical disease is not more important, or deadlier, or more significant than ANY mental disease.  I feel the need to repeat this for no reason other than to beat it into your head.

 Physical disease. Is not. More important. Deadlier. Or more significant. Than ANY. Mental disease.

It’s just different.  Do I think someone killing themselves sucks? Yes. Do I think it’s “taking the easy way out?” Shit no. Getting to that point is making one of the most difficult decisions someone can make. That is the point where the disease wins. The disease kills you. That is when the disease finally kills you. If you can’t understand that, try to think of it this way.  The way that depression works on your emotions, the way your mind thinks and works, it’s almost like a cancer. It eats at you until there is nothing left. You feel that you are nothing.  So suicide is essentially a mental cancer killing you.  Does that work?

Do I think suicides are preventable?  Meh, maybe.  I think in many cases, they’re postpone-able? As for preventable altogether? Sure, if you want to lock someone up, strap them to a bed, and dose them with so much thorazine that they can’t even contain their drool much less spell their own name. Buuuut I wouldn’t recommend it. Cause, cruelty to animals and all that.

And that’s all I have, folks. It’s just how I feel. Does it mean I’m about to go off my rocker and do it? No. It’s just one of those topics in the news lately, hot discussion and stuff. So I figured since it’s been playing over and over in my mind I’d address it.

Also, and this is the most important. My opinions are my own, and do not represent the other bloggers on this site. They may agree or disagree at their own will. We’re each entitled to our own opinions. 

You Think YOU’RE Sick of My Shit…

I wonder if people without these diseases know how much we hate ourselves for having them.

There’s a shocking amount of self-loathing that comes along with anxiety and depression. Even though I’ve educated myself, even though I’m a huge advocate for being open and honest about my diseases, even though I never hold anyone else’s diseases against them, today I hold my diseases against me. Today, I hate myself.

I pride myself on being a strong person, see. I don’t cave to other people, I stand up for myself without being a strident bitch, I’m firm and unyielding when it comes to calling people on their bullshit. I’m outgoing and friendly, but I will not hestiate to shut the door on someone who doesn’t treat me well or at least with respect. You don’t have to like me, but you don’t get to act like an asshole to me and think I’ll put up with it.

Today started fine. Then there was a discussion online about how men, good men especially, are often simply blinkered to the fact that women, by and large, have to maintain a defensive mindset at all times. It’s completely foreign to them that we habitually avoid dark areas in parking lots or do not take an empty stairwell if we’ve seen one lone strange man go down just before us. We do not stop at gas stations late at night if there are no other cars there unless it’s that or run out of gas.  That’s just our default. It’s so automatic in most women, we don’t even think about it anymore. We just take constant precautions and keep a constant lookout.

And still we get assaulted, raped, harassed, and told “Well if you hadn’t/weren’t _______…” If you had worn a longer skirt. If you had locked your door. If you weren’t walking alone. Because no matter what precautions we do take, there’s always one we didn’t and if we had just done THAT, then it wouldn’t have happened. It is our fault.

What they mean, I suspect, is “Of course that guy shouldn’t have attacked you, but there were things you could’ve done too.” They just leave that first part out. Really, it wouldn’t matter if they put it in there because let’s face it, victim-blaming is bullshit. Ok, sure, you shouldn’t leave your purse sitting out on the table while you go off to play pool or whatever. You can’t leave your car unlocked with the keys in it and then be shocked when someone steals it. Truthfully, I’m not sure where that line is, and I suspect most people aren’t.

So anyway, after all that, someone linked a (very brave, very horrifying) story about her particular rape and how she learned that a) men don’t know how to react to a woman who says “I’ve just been raped”, b) victim-blaming is all about making someone who feels horrible feel even worse, and c) when you’re attacked you suddenly realize how little you know about anyone. Her attacker, who covered her head so she couldn’t see him, could’ve been anyone. The person she reported it to. The neighbor she never really got to know who seemed to have a sweet, boyish crush on her. A total stranger. Anyone.

That was the end of my peaceful day. I couldn’t breathe around the pressure in my chest. I could taste my own heart in the back of my throat (it tastes like nickles, btw). My palms were actually, honestly, cliche-filled sweaty.  And I had to leave for work in about 5 minutes. I took the dogs out for one last wee. My next door neighbor, who’s seemed a very nice guy, said hi and waved. I bolted for the door.

I went to work anyway. Just go, I told myself. Power through it. You’ll feel better, and avoidance only ever makes fear worse. Avoidance never helps. Go to work, once you get into the routine you’ll calm down. I went. I logged in. I started to work. I realized I had tears running down my face. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I had to give up. I had to surrender. I had to go home.

And now I hate myself. I hate that I can’t win, that I’m not strong enough to get through it. I hate that I have to, HAVE TO, back off. I do not back off, not from anything. Not from anything but this. It makes me feel weak, and while I’d punch in the brain anyone else who told me I was weak for giving in to a panic attack, I cannot punch my own brain. I try to answer myself with sympathy, with kindness. I try to treat myself as I would treat other people, with the same level of respect and understanding.

But mostly, right now, I’m just sick of my shit and am tired of putting up with me. That’s something I think I’ll need to address in therapy next time. I wonder if people who have to deal with us, who get sick of our shit and get tired of putting up with us, know that we often feel the exact same way about ourselves. I wonder if they know that this feeling is part of what makes it so hard to lean on other people or to reach out for help. After all, if I’M sick of my shit, it stands to reason that everyone else is, too.

Logically, I can say that I’m not psychic and I have no idea how everyone else feels about me and my bad days. Emotionally, I know they’re fed up. Emotion never answers to logic. I can tell myself all day long that other people are supportive, that they care, that they want to help. I can tell myself that all these “I know what they’re thinking” stories are fiction I’m making up and I should make up better stories because these stories suck ass. I can even hear all that from other people. Emotion never answers to logic.

It’s crippling, and it feeds right back into the bullshit loop. I feel bad, I hate myself for feeling bad, I think everyone else must be tired of this shit too, I feel worse. It’s like one of those loop-de-loop roller coasters, only you can’t stop the ride and basically everyone starts barfing on each other which just makes everyone barf more.

Anyway, I wonder if people without these diseases know how much we hate ourselves for having them.