what kind of fuckery is this?
This is about depression and I don't feel like I should explain myself. If you don't understand depression and thoughts of death, there was a really good post at Dooce on December 13th. Apparently I have to warn people about these sorts of things because I am too "vocal" about "issues that people are still might trying to get over and or accept." Apparently I am also not the only "rape case" in the world -- very good to know. Comments are turned off for like, forever, because apparently it's wrong for me to defend myself when people attack me.
Addendum: I wrote this when I was incredibly angry about my living and social situation, but the sentiment still stands. I am in an okay place, for the most part. If you lived with my father, you would understand better, I think.
Since I moved back in with my parents, I think about dying on a daily basis. I'm not saying this because I want the attention or I want you to feel sorry for me or I want you to tell me not to commit suicide. I'm just saying this because it's the truth and it is part of my life. I don't want you to send me a concerned email, because as much as I appreciate that you like me enough to not want me dead, it's not like I can stop thinking this way. I mean, if I could stop, don't you think I would? If I really thought I was better than this, wouldn't I snap out of it?
I do not have a plan. I envision myself getting shot when I threaten to slash some guy's tires when we almost have a fender-bender in a parking lot. I envision myself getting run down by an SUV, because I'm short and I think people will actually stop for me in a crosswalk. I envision driving alone underneath the bridge on Route 1 that's currently under construction and the entire thing collapsing on my car.
I like the last option the best, because not only will my parents be rid of their burdensome daughter, but they will be able to buy a new car (and maybe my mother won't smoke in that one) and maybe win a decent amount of money from a liability suit. Enough money to make up for the fact that I have been mooching off them for six months now, and enough for my father to retire immediately. I like that option because maybe, just maybe my father will not think that I could've done something different to prevent it. It's kind of impossible to avoid that bridge, after all.
I would like to die soon after Steve and I get married; I know he would make sure my body gets donated and my tissue could be used by other people, if it's still viable. I know that he would see the rest of me cremated when the appropriate time came.
These daily thoughts of my hopefully-impending death have been fairly recent, really. When I was living in Los Angeles on my own, at least I was living entirely on my own money (and my own credit card debt). For once in my life I was not a burden to my parents, and was not outwardly treated as such. I didn't have to consider living in Boston again, where everything happened and where there will be people who hurt me in the past. I didn't have to live with my own father who thinks I was at fault for my assault (okay, who thinks I could have done something different to not put myself in that situation -- which is essentially the same goddamn thing, despite what he says). I hate it when my mother comes home in the morning and finds me crying on the kitchen floor and feels helpless because she doesn't know what to do with me.
I know the right thing to do right now is to apply for disability, head to my local vocational rehabilitation center (which, ironically, is in a busy area of Boston right near Emerson College), and print this all out for my clinically licensed social worker (after all, this week she wants me to talk about my relationship with my father). I know I should be doing these things, but I could be hit by a bus tomorrow and get the relief I need, so why waste my time when I could be sleeping? Why burden people and make them do work for me when I'm a lost cause? Or even worse, make them continue working even though I may have been dead for a couple of days?
I know my fiance is going to read this at some point and try to comfort me and I'm going to try to tell him to not waste his time on me without it coming out like I'm rejecting him.
Addendum: I wrote this when I was incredibly angry about my living and social situation, but the sentiment still stands. I am in an okay place, for the most part. If you lived with my father, you would understand better, I think.
Since I moved back in with my parents, I think about dying on a daily basis. I'm not saying this because I want the attention or I want you to feel sorry for me or I want you to tell me not to commit suicide. I'm just saying this because it's the truth and it is part of my life. I don't want you to send me a concerned email, because as much as I appreciate that you like me enough to not want me dead, it's not like I can stop thinking this way. I mean, if I could stop, don't you think I would? If I really thought I was better than this, wouldn't I snap out of it?
I do not have a plan. I envision myself getting shot when I threaten to slash some guy's tires when we almost have a fender-bender in a parking lot. I envision myself getting run down by an SUV, because I'm short and I think people will actually stop for me in a crosswalk. I envision driving alone underneath the bridge on Route 1 that's currently under construction and the entire thing collapsing on my car.
I like the last option the best, because not only will my parents be rid of their burdensome daughter, but they will be able to buy a new car (and maybe my mother won't smoke in that one) and maybe win a decent amount of money from a liability suit. Enough money to make up for the fact that I have been mooching off them for six months now, and enough for my father to retire immediately. I like that option because maybe, just maybe my father will not think that I could've done something different to prevent it. It's kind of impossible to avoid that bridge, after all.
I would like to die soon after Steve and I get married; I know he would make sure my body gets donated and my tissue could be used by other people, if it's still viable. I know that he would see the rest of me cremated when the appropriate time came.
These daily thoughts of my hopefully-impending death have been fairly recent, really. When I was living in Los Angeles on my own, at least I was living entirely on my own money (and my own credit card debt). For once in my life I was not a burden to my parents, and was not outwardly treated as such. I didn't have to consider living in Boston again, where everything happened and where there will be people who hurt me in the past. I didn't have to live with my own father who thinks I was at fault for my assault (okay, who thinks I could have done something different to not put myself in that situation -- which is essentially the same goddamn thing, despite what he says). I hate it when my mother comes home in the morning and finds me crying on the kitchen floor and feels helpless because she doesn't know what to do with me.
I know the right thing to do right now is to apply for disability, head to my local vocational rehabilitation center (which, ironically, is in a busy area of Boston right near Emerson College), and print this all out for my clinically licensed social worker (after all, this week she wants me to talk about my relationship with my father). I know I should be doing these things, but I could be hit by a bus tomorrow and get the relief I need, so why waste my time when I could be sleeping? Why burden people and make them do work for me when I'm a lost cause? Or even worse, make them continue working even though I may have been dead for a couple of days?
I know my fiance is going to read this at some point and try to comfort me and I'm going to try to tell him to not waste his time on me without it coming out like I'm rejecting him.
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