Past 5 in the morning; feeling worse for the weather, it seems.

“And I was gonna write a poem about how fire is the only thing that can make a person jump out of a window, […] but depression, too, is a kind of fire… and I know nothing of either.” –Taylor Mali, “Depression Too Is a Type of Fire”

Yesterday I wanted to be dead. Not to kill myself, not to die, just… to cease existing. And yes, I could recognize that having been awake for over 24 hours straight — having lost count of exactly how many — likely helped color my view of the world, but I could also recognize that it only added intensity to what is generally sitting just under everything else, just like alcohol lowers my inhibitions but doesn’t make me do anything I wouldn’t have done while sober. A few drinks might make me do whatever it is more easily, more quickly, with less hesitation; being sleep-deprived and hungry makes me hit those lows more profoundly, more easily too.

Before falling asleep yesterday evening, I posted some depressed and depressing rant like I frequently do, I sent my therapist a text message letting her know I was “wishing hard I wasn’t alive” and that I was about to sleep, and then I got a message on Facebook from Escrow. The first message just said “hey!” And shit, I was overwhelmed, barely able to cope, and I was starting to tell her thanks for checking in but that I couldn’t really process chatting right then… but as I was doing so, she mentioned that she was checking to see that I was safe because she’d heard about a huge fire in my general overall area and she was worried about me.

Oh, right. I’d seen the “safety check” thing from Facebook when I’d picked up my phone, and I had dismissed the notification because it was more shit that I couldn’t deal with when I was already struggling to deal with everything else… but the check-in from a dear friend drove home something that I have known for a long time: an immediate, obvious threat to life gets responses. The slow quotidian slide, the mundane yet no less significant forces that are weighing me down and killing me… those are much, much harder to get help in dealing with. It’s the reason why, in the past, I might have made an obvious post about being ready to kill myself. Or why I might have called a crisis hospital and said that I believed I was a danger to myself or others. Or why I might have chosen any number of, essentially, ruses to make it seem as if there were an immediate, obvious threat to my life. Because that’s what people respond to! But, of course, the responses I’d get in those situations aren’t really all that helpful. And there’s the additional aspect of being “the girl who cried wolf,” because if I ever were at a point where I had specific plans to kill myself and enough motivation to do so, then I’d want to know that I hadn’t left behind me a trail of people too burned by my prior attention-grabbing to intervene when I really needed it.

So I don’t do that kind of thing anymore. Haven’t for years. But when things are caving in under the heaviness of life with depression, and I’m feeling alone and hurting and would love to have someone I know and trust be there for me — not because I’m about to die, but because I’m struggling in other, equally difficult ways… it seems a lot like, well,

“When I expressed my desire to kill myself, I was overwhelmed with offers from people who wanted to spend time with me. Two weeks later, though, I couldn’t get any of them to pick up the phone. It made recovery really difficult because it communicated that people only really cared when I was in crisis.” –Kitty Stryker, “So Someone You Love Is Suicidal”

The title of this post comes from the lyrics of an Erasure song, “Rock Me Gently.” The official music video is a shorter cut than the album version, which basically takes away the otherworldly sadness of synthesizers amid the shrieks of Diamanda Galás which make it such a perfect match to my mood on many occasions. The chorus, however, is simple, direct, and to the point:

“I dream you’re with me
You hold me sweetly
And rock me gently to sleep
In your arms.”

I wish I knew what that felt like again. It’s been a very long time indeed.

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I don’t want to feel anything, but I do…

“I want to die.”  The words run through my head again and again.

I know it’s a lie, I know I don’t really want to be dead.  I know what I want is to be alive and to have my life not be such COMPLETE AND UTTER SHIT.

That’s not going to happen right now, though, and since the years of depression and all the other fucked-up-ness leave me with an easy shorthand for “I want life to stop sucking ass, and I want to either be able to fix all of the pain and suffering in the world or stop caring about trying and I know I can’t do either but I don’t know what else to try,” the thoughts come again:

“I want to die.”

But I don’t — I just want to be able to go through one day without huge miscommunications that leave me hurting and vulnerable.  I want to be able to clearly voice how pissed off I am that when I heard “We’ll meet on Thursday and have some fun” what was really meant was “I might maybe possibly be free Thursday, and on the small chance I am, we’ll meet and have fun.”  I want to be able to tell my mom that I need the money she planned to deposit so that I can eat today, I want to be able to tell her when it’s urgent, but to also know that it’s always urgent when someone’s offering me assistance, that every day is a juggling act with pennies and hoping someone decides to take care of me when I can’t.  I want to be honest with her how I budget my money, what I do with my time, the people I see and the things that bring me joy in life — but she’s still talking to her son, and I’m not going to flood her with details of things that to her are morally, fundamentally wrong.

I need a safe place to cry, and I haven’t had that for a long time.  I need someone safe to hold me so that the tears will come out, and I’ve had to go without that for even longer.  I need to be fucked, I need be cuddled, I need pain, all the good kinds of pain that help me make it through the shitty pain that I’m so accustomed to anymore.

I need a safe place to live — emotionally safe, where I don’t feel threatened and I don’t have PTSD triggers flooding in from every side, every hour of the day and night.  I need a quiet place to live, where I don’t have to fight off a sensory overload all the fucking time.  I need to live without men, without masculine-presenting people, without the HURRR HURRR I’M FULL OF TESTOSTERONE AND I LIKE TO SMASH AND YELL AND THAT MAKES ME SO FUCKING AWESOME ALL RIGHT YEAH BITCHES!!!!! I feel threatened by the sounds of men, men’s voices, and I don’t have anywhere I can go to be free of that for even a moment.  I hate this.

I need to have someone who actually gives a FLYING FUCK about anything at all — when my landlord completely forgot that my lease ended at the start of the month, and I finally managed to get in touch with him YESTERDAY, when he was still on vacation.  Said he’d call today, no surprise that he didn’t.  Need to move again, and that scares me.  Scares me on a really deep level because that’s all I’ve fucking DONE for 2 and a half YEARS is move and fail and move in desperation and get fucked over and pack everything again and move and move and move.

And I don’t even want to get started about the people I live with… I’d get even more angry than I am now, and I don’t want to keep hurting like this.

“I just want to fucking curl up and die.”

Curl up, sure. Nice long darkness, definitely. Heavy crushing weight on me, making it hard to breathe, absolutely. Die?  Probably not, but it sure sounds tempting.  Not that I could put the significant effort into the kind of detailed planning it would take to kill myself — if I’m motivated enough to go all Aspie-focused on something, it sure as hell isn’t going to be on researching suicide.  But I don’t want to keep dealing with all this shit.  I don’t want to feel helpless, I don’t want to know that other people are dealing with much worse shit and feel like I’m powerless to help, even though I want to fix everything and I’m having to work hard not to offer more than I can give.

I’m not eating right, when I do eat.  I’m not sleeping enough, or regularly, or very well when I do.  I’m growing tired of trying to explain to people what’s going on, following the same scripts for “How To Open The Eyes Of The Privileged Pricks Who Never Lack In Their Needs” when people suggest over and over the same things that aren’t available or aren’t feasible or sometimes just completely fucking laughably stupid suggestions.  They mean well, which is why it’s really hard not to smash faces in sometimes… they’re just clueless, not intentionally assholes.  If they were trying to be obnoxious, it’d be easier to blow it off.

Sick of it all.

Don’t want to try.

Bored, depressed, apathetic.

Need things, know I can’t have them.

Alone, isolated, lonely.

Yeah, I’m definitely dealing with depression, but as always I have to try to manage until things get a little bit better.  There isn’t much outside support, and anything outside is going to be a long fucking wait.

Maybe tonight’s a good night for Benadryl… at least I’ll sleep.  I’d rather have alcohol than antihistamines, but beggars can’t bitch, right?

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