I'm just not the same anymore.
I've turned into a miserable, angry, depressed, self-loathing, whiny, complaining, anxious, mentally unstable piece of crap over the past year or so.
I want to cry- and sometimes I do cry- when I remember how I felt a year, two years, three or five or ten years ago. Sure, there was stuff back then that made me depressed, there was stuff that made me anxious, but I didn't feel the way I do now.
Nothing even feels real to me anymore. Every day is just a day- usually a bad day- and stuff happens, and then it's over and it's on to the next day, which is almost always twice as dissatisfying as the last one. I don't really feel alive like I used to. In fact, most of the time I want to go to bed and fall asleep for days, so I don't have to experience each day happening to me so monotonously. Especially when I go to school, everything is the same. It's like someone is playing one of those old VCR tapes over and over and over, the same movie, the same clips. I don't get any enjoyment out of my life anymore. There's really no point to it.
They keep thinking that putting me on medications is going to save me. Well, it doesn't. Each new pill messes me up even more, right where the last one left off with messing me up. My brain probably looks a lot like Swiss cheese at the moment. And what is the point, what benefit do psychiatrists and therapists get out of stopping me again and again from committing suicide successfully? A paycheck? The fact that it looks good on their resume? I have to think about that honestly. What difference could it possibly make in their lives if I'm here or if I'm six feet under? They don't know me and they see hundreds of other patients who are probably worth saving a lot more than I am. People who could actually be productive to society and get some benefit and enjoyment out of their own lives. THOSE are the people the doctors should be worried about saving.
Very often, I come pretty damn close to doing it. I try not to have the outside world see how miserable and hopeless I really am, I smile a lot, I pretend to laugh, I give half-assed tries to enjoy something for a few minutes. But the sad truth is, at least twice a week I get dangerously close to making another attempt.
I don't want the help anymore. I'm tired of ending up in the mental hospital, being rushed to my therapist's practice, having emergency appointments made with my psychiatrist so he can poison me with more useless drugs. Each time I've gotten close enough that I even had a chance at being successful, I was "rescued."
If anything, keeping me alive is doing me a greater disservice than causing me to fail at ending my own life.
The one thing I don't feel right about is how it would hurt my mom. She's my best friend most of the time, she was there for me when everyone else walked out of my life or gave up on me. She had faith in me when I had lost all my faith in me. Even when I piss her off, she does her best to support me. It breaks my heart to think of how she would feel if I was gone, but at the same time I wouldn't want her to feel bad or guilty about it. I don't want her to feel like there was anything she could've done to save me. It just hurts me to think of how sad she would be.
I guess I should just sit down and have a talk with her, and tell her how much I really do love her and that this isn't her fault. I need her to understand that it's time for me to give up and that I don't want to suffer anymore, and that I know she doesn't want me to suffer anymore either. I remember trying to talk myself out of ever trying to kill myself again, seeing how devastated she was after finding me half-conscious on the bathroom floor with my empty pill bottle. It killed me to watch her cry over me like that at the hospital, begging me not to hurt myself anymore.
But I can't keep going on the way I have been. I need to find peace and I'm not going to find it here on this earth. Every day I think about how I would do it and where I would do it and how much it would hurt, and most of the time I can stop myself, but I'm running out of options.
If my life were a play, it would certainly be a tragedy, and I think it might be time for my curtain call.