What my day was like.

A while back I asked a guy I’ve been dating casually (“D”, for our purposes here) whether he’d like to see a particular movie with me: it’s a documentary by a couple of friendly acquaintances of mine about a famous literary figure which D likes quite a bit. He enthusiastically said yes. I wrote back a quick email, saying “cool” or some such.

By this morning he had not called or emailed. I texted him to ask if he still wanted to go. Nothing. Then I called and left a voice mail, saying please let me know because someone else would like to go if you can’t (a lie, because after all, I have no friends, let alone any friends interested in seeing this film). I am still hurt and angry and wonder why is it that I keep hanging out with men who are pretty much indifferent to me.

I was so angry that I sent an email not to him, but to L, the psychiatrist. I had written several drafts of long emails spelling out my grievances and hadn’t sent any of them. But then I was like, fuckit: Guys act like dicks to me and I’m sick of it. Within some twenty minutes of sending it I received what seemed like a heartfelt, albeit brief, apology. But I still feel like shit. It doesn’t really matter if he’s sorry because what hurts is that I was treated that way in the first place.

So I went to the film unaccompanied by a date. C was there with Y. N was there with R. I just look at everyone, all paired up, and wonder why I can’t find anyone who even respects me, let alone loves me. I started sobbing on the sidewalk, where C was on lookout for the last member of our party, who was late. Said I felt like garbage. He said I didn’t have to stay. This misses the point. Of course I know I don’t have to stay. That’s not the problem. The problem is that I want to throw myself in front of the train because I’m an absolutely worthless human being, and no one gives a shit about me, appreciates me, or loves me. It’s an empty existence.

I really wish I had the balls to kill myself, but I can’t let go of the world. I’ll bet it’s the kind of thing you can work up to — deleting a blog is practice for the ultimate letting go of suicide. I’m trying to work myself up to deleting my other, non-secret blog tonight.

My life. It’s a living hell.

So now, in the morning, I take: .5 mg of Klonopin; 300 mg of Wellbutrin XL; a multi-vitamin; and a B12 supplement. In the afternoon I take another .5 mg of Klonopin. In the evening, around 8pm, I take 50 mg of Seroquel, and then, an hour or two later, 100mg.

This was going along okay. But I’m realizing that it was okay because my life circumstances weren’t that bad. Now I have less than no money; no job; a recurrence of the physical pain and numbness on the right side of my body, which I’ve complained about for years without any doctor being able to tell me what’s wrong; and no real support network to help me through trying times.

The doc gave me a scrip for a beta blocker to get me through today’s volunteer interpreting gig (the less said about that, the better), and Monday’s interview with Company X.

Things have been getting worse, yesterday and today. That switch has been flipped and my head is full of thoughts of suicide. Both the thinking of reasons why it would be a good thing to do, and the grisly mental images of my skull shattered into a million pieces.

What can I do about this? Over the course of my life, over 22 years of horrible depression, I’ve tried many things: drugs, hospitalization, talking to friends, talking to spouse, calling a suicide hotline…and they all just make things worse. There’s nothing worse than having that tiny little spark of hope extinguished when you realize that no one can do a damn thing for you, and you’re trapped in hell.

Black humor

I love hearing/reading statements like the following, by someone who lost a friend to suicide:

Yeah, it sucked. Still sucks, I guess. The worst part about it was seeing how many people came together to console eachother, and console me, and how I went to ridiculously great lengths to do things that I thought would help other people (i.e. taking on planning the “perfect” memorial service), and it was just like, goddamnit, why couldn’t we expend this kind of energy for him when he was alive?

I always want to wave my hands and go, “Hey! Over here! I’m likely to commit suicide! Pay some attention to me!”

I am sane enough, however, to recognize that I’m the only one who would find this funny.