A Million Endings in My Mind (TW)

TRIGGER WARNING –thoughts of suicide

 

not how its going to end

There was a time in my life when I thought that everyone on the planet thought about suicide like I did.  That every depressed person obsessed over it, that it was at the forefront of everyone’s mind, even when the feelings of depression had diminished.  That is was the first thing every person thought of when they woke up, or when they drove over a bridge, or when life seemed even slightly too cruel.

My thoughts turn toward giving up at the slightest provocation.  They have been that way for a really long time.  Decades.  I’m not sure how it got that way.  I have (obviously) not given up, because I’m sitting here typing this, and haven’t given up (ever) in the sense that I have tried to end my life.  But, man, do I ever think about it.

All the time.  In good times and in bad.  The thought is always right there, hovering near the surface.  When I say I think about it in good times, the thoughts are always much more passive, such as wanting to sleep and not wake up or wishing that I didn’t exist.  Times other than the good times, the thoughts are quite a bit more graphic.

I think its possible that the thoughts themselves have become obsessive, in a way.  I used them as tools to get through some really impossible situations in life.  When life is harsh and ugly and you are being beaten over the head (sometimes quite literally) with your own illness, the thoughts that you wish you would never wake up are comforting.  The thoughts that you could just oh, say, slide your hand a bit to the right on the steering wheel as you take this curve make you feel a little bit more in control of things.

I’m not sure if anyone is going to understand that, and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to publish this post, because I fear that I’m going to have a whole lot of people tell me how beautiful life is and how I am cherished in it and how I have so much to live for.  Yes, I know these things.  The thoughts still come.  This has become about the thoughts and how the thoughts have taken over my life.

I don’t talk to anyone (at all) about this.  I fear rejection, stigma, and I fear having to look another human in the face and say, lying all the way, that, oh yes, I know things are never that bad that I should have these thoughts.  Because having these intrusive, repetitive, obsessive thoughts is not something I choose.  I don’t *like* these thoughts, but I do have to deal with them.  I do have to live my life, with them whispering about in my head.

I do a lot of living inside my head, I do a lot of not going places, and not talking to people.  Not going places I love to go, like to basketball games, and not talking to people that I love more than any on Earth, like my sister or my dad.  I can’t tell them these things, about these obsessive thoughts.  I can’t picture the words coming from my mouth, even if I think there is a good chance that they won’t immediately commit me to a locked ward somewhere.

If this post reaches even one person who can relate, who can understand what I’m saying, and they can know they are not alone with these commanding and hostile, yet sometimes just whispering thoughts, then that is all I really wanted.  So much of having a mental illness is feeling alone and misunderstood.  I get tired of feeling that way, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.  I’m tired with it, with the isolation and the feeling that no one is really grasping what is happening in my head.

But my story, it’s not ending this way.  I have a  million different endings churning in my head, vying for space and attention, and if I have anything to do with it, the ending I will forge in time’s book is that of a person who never fully gave up, even though the thoughts tried to convince her every day.  I may have to deal with the thoughts, but I can vow that I will do my best to not give in, and to continue to try and learn to silence, to ignore, to resist them along the way, as best I can.

 

Because Saying “Screw Off” Can Be Hard to Do

tupac

 

Well folks, apparently it is altogether possible that there is an actual meme or photoquote or graphic to describe how I am feeling right now.  And really, leave it to Tupac to set me straight! Things continue on in my world, about as normal as the setting on a washing machine, but again there have been some blips on the radar.

My mom (QoB) and stepdad (Big Dawg) were together for thirty-some years when their divorce was finalized at the beginning of 2015.  Big Dawg did his part (to the best of his ability), in helping my mom raise me.  I won’t say he was perfect, but he wasn’t a demon either.  He was many times there when I needed him, although was just as often in the other room staring at the TV while I cried and fumed and fought and otherwise dealt with the the irascible mental illness within my brain.

He angered easily, although he never struck me or my sister (that I remember), but my clearest memories are of him losing his temper and yelling and doing the lecture-thing far too often.  It was through him that I truly believe I learned some really terrible coping skills and relationship skills, but I don’t hold him to blame for any of that.  It is what it is, it was what it was.

Somewhere between the announcement of the pending divorce and now, I have taken it upon myself to be extra-special-nice to Big Dawg.  Mostly because I feel sorry for him, now quite pathetic and alone.  When he and QoB very first broke up, I do believe (looking back) that he showered me with attention and affection, using me as a pawn to get to my mother.  I do see that clearly now.

What’s difficult, is that the attention he gave me, I had been thirsting after for most of my life, so I didn’t see it as negative at the time.  In fact, it is hard to see it as negative even today.  And maybe tomorrow, it will be difficult, too — I have no way of knowing.

What I do know is that my mind has been playing some fierce tricks on me, and I am at a point where I am on a wire above the city, balancing between giving him more benefit of the doubt, more opportunities, more chances, or just hopping off the wire onto my emergency inflated escape pad and giving absolutely NO MORE of myself.  Now, not no more of myself forever, but for quite some time.

I have a tendency to give too many chances, especially to the men in my life.  Oftentimes, people around me don’t understand it, and wonder why, oh why, is Rosa giving this schmuck another go at her heart and *fragile* psyche.

I have a hard time giving up on people, and I always have.  I can have been completely hurt by someone at age six through thirty, and continue to give more and more chances.  It has worked out in my favor a few times, but mostly it ends me up with heartache.  I don’t want anymore heartache at this point.

I am at a point right now, where I am unsure if I can follow through on current family commitments, nevertheless keep attempting to stoke the fire under a certain person’s ass, praying that they will take notice of me again and give me the time of day.  Praying I won’t always get chosen dead last for every little thing.

I grew up with a romanticized notion of how someone was, deep down, and now that the gold glitter paint is flecking off, I’m at a loss as for what to do.

I will make it through this Thanksgiving because I am tough and LarBear will be at my side, but I am not sure I am going to be able to follow through on anything after that.  I believe everything is going to need to be “up in the air,” and I will take it day by day.

Which, hmph, is what I am supposed to be doing anyway — mindfulness, keep it simple stupid, day by day, minute by minute, stay in wise mind, hug a tree.

 

Sometimes it’s Okay to Give Up

 

 

Through some harsh life battles, I can count many a day where I was ready to give up.  Throw in the towel.  Just be done.  Depression is horrific and the voices running through your mind actually ENCOURAGE you to give up.  That’s right, not only do you feel like shit, your “inner you” is trying to make you give up the fight.

I honestly don’t know how I’ve made it through all of those times.  Probably my great support system, medications, therapy, and a lot of just white-knuckling it.  There’s a blog I read, in which the author keeps finding herself on the verge of giving up, giving in to depression and anxiety and fear.  I get that, totally do.  I especially can see how having no one on your side would make you feel that way even more.

Because sometimes, the only reason I don’t give up, is because I worry what would happen to Kizzie.  Sure, DSB would take care of her, but her momma would be GONE.  Giving up, following through and really doing it — that’s permanent.  There’s no coming back from that kind of giving up.  And I’ve lived years skirting that edge.  The things that kept me from stepping over the line were invariably my parents and my pup.  And now there’s DSB to think about, too.

The quote above really speaks to me.  Something about trusting your own madness is very right, and it’s something I’ve only come to embrace within the last year or so.  If we don’t trust in ourselves, we find any way possible to keep the truth from coming out.  About our (actual and literal)  madness, about our shady intentions, about hidden secrets.

Something I have given up, for good, is lying.  Being dishonest in any way.  I am now and forever more completely transparent.  Before DSB, lying was like breathing to me.  I did it without thinking, without reason, just because.  It usually didn’t even register to me that I had lied.  It was just something I did.  I spun a tale to make myself look better, mostly.  Or to make myself look a certain way, at least.  I didn’t trust enough to show my true colors.  I wasn’t true to my real madness, if you will.

About a year ago, DSB sat me down and we had “the real talk.”  More of a “come-to-Jesus” talk, as my mom would put it.  He told me that he knew I was lying about a lot of things, and about how he didn’t trust me anymore.  He told me that he couldn’t be with a person he didn’t trust, but he wanted to be with me.  I had to change my lying ways so that he would stay.  It was the biggest motivator of all time.  I didn’t want to lose him, and I knew that all of the lies I told were destroying me.

What I didn’t realize was the extent to which the lies and deceit were destroying me.  I was constantly on guard, worried about who was going to find out what, worrying about what would happen when they did find out, because they always did.  I have always been a poor liar — ever since I was a little girl.

I am reflecting upon this now, because for the past several nights, out of nowhere, I have found myself checking my gut for signs of anything amiss.  It used to be, I had so much to worry about.  And now I don’t.  Everything’s out there for the world to see.  I am not suffering any consequences, because, in general, I am doing nothing wrong.  This is a new world to me, and even though this has been going on for over a year, it feels like I’m just now noticing.

Noticing how nice it feels to just have a conversation and not make things up that I will have to account for later.  Noticing how much more trust and faith DSB has in me, in the words I say, in the actions I show.  There is no more worry, and there is no more fear.

Sometimes it’s ok to give up.  It’s ok to give up lying, drinking, cheating, negative things.  It’s even good.  It’s never okay to give up on yourself, and I am so very thankful to know DSB always always ALWAYS has my back.  And I am the reason he is still here and my quitting the lying is the only way we made things better.  Things are better for everyone, now.  Everyone was affected by my lying, and my relationships are now very uncomplicated.  For that, I am truly grateful.