Complete and Utter Waste of Time!!

When I come off as antagonistic, obnoxious, that sort of thing, it means something is up (it doesn't mean that I doubt your skills or anything like that, that I am sitting there with a 'What can you do for me; how can you help me' attitude). So ask, for heaven sake, ask! That stupid little depression and anxiety questionnaire isn't going to tell you shit. It's not going to tell you how badly I wish I was dead. It's not going to tell you about the events of Sunday night which have made everything so much more worse. It won't tell you how thinking about it (something I cannot help but do no matter how hard I try to forget it) makes me want to overdose or hurt myself in some other way. It won't tell you that I intentionally cut on my wrist yesterday so that I could hit a vein. It won't tell you that when I hit said vein I reacted with an 'Oh thank God' rather than the little thrill of fear that usually accompanies such an action.

I think I'm gonna take my stitches out later and see about that vein again... God would have done me a real favor if He had just allowed me to die in my sleep last night...

It's Your Fault

So why do I want to hurt MYself. Cut, overdose, hit, whatever, I want to do it so very badly. I hope confession really is good for the soul so at least one of us is feeling alright. Unfortunately if your behavior yesterday is any indication (and I'm not seeing things differently since your confession that you had hoped that we would have sex that night I thought you were simply concerned with how I was doing) your confession was not purely motivated.

I feel betrayed and violated. And yet I am still concerned about your feelings and not my own. I want to hurt myself, for crying out loud. How much sense does that make? I just don't understand... Intellectually I have a good idea (it doesn't make any sense but it is what it is)... but otherwise... *shakes head*

I'm Safe... Until I'm Not

As I lay in the bath, to all appearances (not that anyone is looking at me) out of touch with the world, thoughts of the razor blade, thoughts of pills, tablets, and/or capsules, and thoughts of hanging (it's bad when the third option, hanging, joins the crowd... usually it's just the first two) passed through my mind in a sickening loop and I wonder whether or not I should call the crisis line. I probably won't. I just don't see the point right now.

You see, I'm safe... until I'm not.

I don't see the point in calling and telling someone 'Well, these thoughts keep going through my head. Yeah, I'd sort of like to die; least ways, I'd like to not be alive. But I'm not sure I'd actually do anything. They're just causing me an awful lot of distress is all'. Best case scenario they'd require me to impose on a friend for a night or two (pain in the butt as they have to put up with me invading their privacy, their family, and they'd have to get me back and forth to my place a couple times to take care of the dog and cat). Worst case scenario they'd detain me and the same friends would have to see themselves to my place a few times a day for something like three days to take care of the boys (they might take turns with some mutual friends who live closer to me and do not have kids). So why call if nothing is wrong? If I haven't overdosed or slit my wrists. I've felt like this before and it is miserable but obviously I was safe because I am here writing this today.

Because I am safe... until I'm not.

*shakes head* And people wonder why I don't want to be alive...

Bad Night

I couldn't sleep, but I couldn't leave my room. In the bathroom sat my razor blade. In the living room, more razor blades (hidden away, just in case) and pills, tablets, capsules perfect for overdosing. Honestly today is not much better but I've managed to behave.

I don't want to be, anymore. I honestly wish that God had never made me. I think it rather unfair of Him, actually. He will not erase me from this world, I've asked, more times than I can count.

I do not want to die... I just don't want to live anymore. And it's so very hard existing this way. Living when you would rather not. Functioning when you would rather shut down. Smiling when you want to cry.

And I find it so unfair that He continues to ask it of me; that everyone asks it of me.

Quit Being So Borderline!!

So the shitty program you were accepted in to (and that only after you swallowed XX Tylenol) only allows for 120 minutes of therapy a month (most effectively used in two, one hour slots every two weeks). So today's appointment (first in two weeks) had to be f***ing rescheduled for another week (making it three this time). Who gives a rats @$$, it's not that big a deal. Get over yourself, for heaven sake! You don't want to be Borderline (not like you can make it so simply by wishing but you know, whatever) so STOP F***ING ACTING LIKE IT!!!
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Such are my thoughts at this moment. Now if you will excuse me I am going to go cut until I bleed profusely and then climb in to bed (after stopping the bleeding so no worries). I apologize for the rant (I get more foul mouthed the worse I feel *blush*).

I don't know who I am any more...

I'm not sure I ever really did...

I know who I tried to be. I know what I came off as. And I have a good idea why. Picture a girl, long brown hair in a half pony, nice, clean jeans, and a simple, maybe slightly preppy looking sweater and you'll have a pretty good idea, not so much of what I looked like (we couldn't have afforded the preppy sweater and anyway I hated wearing my hair that way) but of how I would come off to those who met me. Because when you see that picture in your head you get some idea (I do anyway) of how she might act. That was the sort of girl I was in public, growing up. My dad was always telling me how nice and polite people told him I was... and I remember thinking 'If they only knew... the effort that goes in to it... why I am always so nice and polite' (of course just as often I thought 'If they only knew what he is really like', heh).

I was a horrible child. I inherited my dads short fuse and temper. I was constantly yelling and, if I remember correctly (my memory of my childhood is actually quite poor) I hit, a lot. Now all these things can probably be explained (let's make it easy, get Freudian -which normally I hate- and just blame my dad because that's the majority of it anyway) but that doesn't mean a whole lot. I was a horrible child. Thankfully (I guess) I wasn't such an awful child that I could behave like that and not feel guilt. I tended to, more often than not, feel very guilty after I had blown up. But always after the fact.

I knew this sort of behavior wasn't acceptable public behavior. And I knew people didn't like people who behaved in such a manner. So I tried, with varying degrees of success, to be the 'nice and polite' girl that I believed I should be. And as I got older I think I adopted that, for the most part, permanently. I became the girl with the long brown hair in a half pony, in nice clean jeans and a simple, slightly preppy sweater. The girl who was on leadership for her college church group (I lead worship). Who did everything with that group (all the activities planned, provided she didn't have to work). Who played and sang on the worship team Sunday mornings. For all intents and purposes that was who I was.

And then one day I changed. See, I was that girl, but I was that girl in the grip of major depression (and something else, it seems... I'm Borderline, you see). And at some point the idea that I might hurt myself popped into my head. And I resisted it for a long time. After all, That girl didn't do such things. That girl did what she needed to do and smiled while she did it. And then one day, she didn't. She became the girl who did nothing. Oh she still did what she had to do, and that most often with a smile (one that no longer reached her eyes but one that pleased everyone none the less, one that made them comfortable, made them think that everything was just fine... one that fooled them), but that was it. She quit leadership, quit the worship team, quit everything. She drank too much and hurt herself. She dyed her bangs bright red and pierced her tongue. She wore heavy make up (where before she hardly wore any at all).

Now I am stuck somewhere in between. A college graduate with a psych degree, I am lost. I'm on the worship team again. I rarely drink (just don't want to). My bangs are now the same color as the rest of my hair (I do miss the bright red, though, lol). I rarely wear make up. My tongue is still pierced and I still hurt myself.

But I don't know who I am.

I'm not sure I ever really did.

I Hate This

Going to bed and praying that God erase me from this earth. My eyes become wet (I rarely actually cry) every time I do it, either because I do not really wish it or because I know I will wake in the morning (a clear indication of a resounding 'No' from the Almighty), I don't know which.

I hate that He won't erase me as I ask. I hate that He even made me to begin with.

I hate myself, how pathetic I am.

I hate feeling like this.

I hate it all.

I Don't Know

The winds of change rarely bring anything good with them, here my world, in my dysthymic haze. This haze means I never feel well and over the last few months or so I've felt worse. A few weeks ago I found I had plummeted to the very bottom of the Pit. Now the bottom of the Pit might be preferable to some places. It is safer down there. At the very bottom where no light can penetrate and the very idea of hope is only an illusion I find myself incapable of doing much more than converting oxygen into carbon dioxide. This does mean, though, that I am also rendered incapable of taking my own life, no matter how desperately I may want it. So yes, safety wise, the bottom of the Pit is preferable. But it is also torturous. And for the past three weeks or so I have existed there. Too far down in the Pitt I could not be bothered even to end my own life. But I was no less desirous of the end. The overwhelming desire for my own end plagued my waking hours and stalked my dreams at night. How I longed for the end to come. I prayed nightly that God would please erase me from this world so that I might be no more and others experience no pain from that which I desired most.

This morning was no different then the other mornings. I found my way back to bed after only a few hours up; hours spent on the couch doing nothing. For three hours I lay there with barely a thought in my head. And then I got up and was... fine. But not Normal fine... a confusing fine. Maybe it wasn't so much fine as it was just not as bad, I don't know. But now I'm just an emotional wreak. I rarely cry but I often want to and right now the smallest things cause me to want to burst in to tears. I don't know which I find preferable. I think, as crazy as it sounds, I prefer the bottom of the Pit; at least there I know what to expect. The familiarity of it, at least, is comforting.

*shakes head* I don't know.

There's A Difference

I've got this silly little 'daily mood/emotion monitor for therapy. So far I've only bothered with mood which my therapist wants charted using a number scale. 0 is euthymic, -1 is dysthymic, -2 is depressive, and -3 is suicidal. Conversely +1 hypomanic, +2 is manic, and +3 is basically psychotic, I guess (he tried to dumb it down but I finally had to look at him, remind him that I was a psych major, and ask that he try and be at least a little bit technical because his dumbing it down was only succeeding in confusing me, lol).

Not being bipolar I never make it in to the positive range. Being dysthymic/depressive/borderline I also never make it to 0, and in the past week that I've been bothering with this I have been at -1 only once and that probably should have been a -2 in all honesty.

Today I wrote a note in the margin , the inspiration for the title of this blog entry. So here we go (what follows is an expanded version of my note).

There's a difference between being suicidal and wanting to die/be dead. I suppose that difference is safety, probably the most important concern for the mental health folks. Personally I'd rather be suicidal... wanting to die, longing for death, praying for it but for one reason or another being unable to kill yourself... what unbearable torture. The truth is simply that I am too far down in the Pitt to be suicidal; I now cannot be bothered even to end my own life. But I am no less desirous of the end. I 'long for death that does not come' and feel that 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished'. The overwhelming desire for my own end plagues my waking hours and haunts my dreams until I find I am able to do little else than lay in bed in misery. It's not that the thought of taking my own life no longer enters my own mind; it is simply that I can no longer be bothered. But oh how I wish the end would come. I pray nightly that God would please erase me from this world so that I may be no more and others experience no pain from that which I desire most.

"Why is light given to those in misery, and life to the bitter of soul, to those who long for death that does not come, who search for it more than for hidden treasure,who are filled with gladness and rejoice when they reach the grave? Why is life given to a man whose way is hidden, whom God has hedged in? For sighing comes to me instead of food; my groans pour out like water.What I feared has come upon me; what I dreaded has happened to me. I have no peace, no quietness; I have no rest, but only turmoil."
Job 3:20-26, New International Version

"To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd."
~Hamlet, Act III, Scene I