Still Alive

I am still alive.

Since the last time I posted, a lot has changed. My father had several strokes over the course of a year and died in his fifties. I got full custody of my daughter and moved in with a friend on the west coast. I decided to wean myself off 2/3 of the antidepressants I was on.

Some things are about to change. My daughter is turning eighteen. She'll be a legal adult, and she can't remain here after high school. It's not what either of us wants, but this is not my house, I do not pay the bills, and I cannot afford to send her to college, I can't even pay my own student loans, so she's being sent to my mother.

Some things remain the same. I am unemployed. I am constantly fighting depression.

But I'm still alive.

Fighting depression and I'm still alive.
No one to talk to and I'm still alive.
Fearing the future and I'm still alive.
So sick with stress and yet I'm still alive.
Still alive.

Still alive.

Old Age, Death, and Stories

I watched family members take away my great-grandfather's car keys so he couldn't drive across the country alone, watched the local senior center close and take with it his reason to go on a walk every day. I watched him spend more time in front of the TV because he didn't have anywhere to go anymore, and I was torn because I could see both sides.

He was in his eighties, and if he died on a three-day road trip, how long would it be before someone knew? How long before someone found him?

When he was in his nineties his independence was gone, and he was having problems. The family in general chalked it up to "old age" and decided to make him comfortable. My father told him that he should go to the hospital and find out what was wrong because "old age" isn't a condition, it's a life state. He chose the hospital.

He had surgery for a pinched nerve in his back, which had been causing the trouble talking, the clumsiness, the symptoms of "old age." Family across the country came out to visit him, and after a second surgery, he went into a coma he never woke up from.

The few who'd insisted on "old age" blamed my father for my great-grandfather's death, because of the surgeries. I believe that things worked out for the better. He could have died alone in a dark living room, but instead he died in a bright hospital, surrounded by children and grandchildren, some of whom he hadn't seen in years. He got to see people one last time between surgeries.

At his wife's funeral, some twenty years earlier, he left the front of the room to sit with his great-grandchildren in the back rows and told us that she wouldn't have wanted us to be sad, she'd have wanted us to remember her life. He told us stories about her, a petite woman who, in the 1930s, had painted her long nails red and played basketball.

At his graveside, we did the same for him. We talked about things he'd said that had surprised us, talked about the stories he'd told, talked about his life story, which had been read at the funeral, so much of which we'd known nothing about. My daughter, his great-great granddaughter, was there, and old enough to share stories with us.

We could spend our lives feeling guilty for taking away his keys, or for taking him to a hospital which gave him the anesthetic he ultimately died under. Or we could remind ourselves that the last he knew was how much he was loved, and how many generations he'd seen grow during his long life. He got to share stories, got to say goodbye.

Some people spend forever grieving, unable to cope with certain holidays because someone's missing, unable to go certain places because of memories. My memories make me want to go back. They make me want to tell stories and include people, whether they're corporeally there or not. When I drive past the graveyard, I wave to all three of the grandparents I have there. I'm sure every one of them would appreciate it.

This post was written as a reaction to this one, by rantravewrite.

Suicide Plan

Sometimes random thoughts pop up, like what if I drove off this cliff right now? or I wonder if I really would explode if I finished this cake? You're not supposed to worry about them if they flicker and disappear. The thought is gone, you don't want to die, all is well, your mind was just being a jerk. It's when you know how you'd kill yourself that things get iffy.

I didn't sit down and think up a suicide plan, but it's kind of fallen into place. When I found out that some antidepressants can not only cause suicidal thoughts, but also kill you, I opted not to look up any of my medications online, and just assume that they'd make me puke or something. That left me with nothing, because I can't handle the thought of a bleedy, painful death.

At some point I read an article online about how unglamorous suicide is. Not that I thought it was glamorous, but there were some harsh realities—like the fact that most people can't afford a cleaning service to clear out corpse mess—that really got to me. Somehow, being dead seemed fine, but my sister or my father having to clean my bodily fluids out of a bathtub, car, or bed was just gross. I take that as a sign that I've still got some sanity left.

Simple solution to that one, though; do it at a hospital, or in the parking lot in front of the hospital. Whatever it is.

At some point I was researching medications for a personal writing project and came across a definitely-deadly antidepressant. I was reading along, minding my own business, when I got to the list of generic versions of the drug. Oh look, I've been taking it all along.

Suicide plan: accidentally complete.

I don't know, would I really drive all the way across town and walk into the hospital? That seems like an awful lot of prep work for someone who's decided that life is so horrible that even an eternity of hell is better (or at least no different). Plus, there's a chance of being saved. Then there's also the likelihood of being dragged into their "stress unit."

Eh, I really don't feel like planning this out, so I guess I'll just have to keep living a while longer.

One time, at the cheese factory, they wouldn't hire me back because I quit over a decade ago. I guess I should have let them fire me.

P.S. Don't kill yourself. Note: I am currently taking my own advice.

Suicide Prevention Lifeline

If you or someone you know is in a crisis

Things to do instead of killing yourself

Depression Theatre: Popping the Bubble

I understand why people kill themselves, and I shouldn't, and I don't want to. I believe in Hell, even when I'm so pissed off and disillusioned that it doesn't feel like anything could exist but the pain. There's not even a reason for it! I cried when a nurse practitioner told me it was low thyroid, because that can cause depression. That's a reason. And I cried again when my regular doctor took me off the thyroid medicine because it was making my heart race, making it impossible to sleep or think, and because that meant it was just depression again.

If you believe the whole brain chemicals thing, it shouldn't make a difference. If you don't believe it, just knowing me is enough to prove it's got to be more than dramatics. I can't control it, God, I wish I could. My eleven year old has better emotional control than I do. She'll freak out at little things, because kids do that, but in half an hour, she's back to herself. Half an hour later, I'm still reminding myself not to do anything stupid. Same an hour later. Same for days, sometimes.

I even have reasons to be depressed, real reasons to be ever-so-slightly discouraged about life. I worked my ass off in school, worked my ass off to go to college, and it seems like life keeps shitting on me. It shits on everyone, I know. It's my own fault for making bad decisions, I know. I should be able to just get over it, just work through it like everyone else does, but the littlest things can set me back so far.

Someone reminds me of my faults, and I'm useless for days, just hating myself. I know logically that I'm smart, I'm a good writer, good designer, good artist, good parent, but none of that means anything because smart doesn't get me a job. Good writer, designer, artist, doesn't get me a job, doesn't get me I don't know, love or something. I don't even know what I want.

Do I want a house of my own? Yes. I would like to get my life out of storage after almost three years. I would like my daughter to have a space all of her own, and all of her toys. I'd like to be able to stop telling her I'm sorry, that's in storage, and tell my family, I can't get that for you, or I can't find out, because that's in storage, too.

I'm not a big guy, so I let someone else pack the storage unit. He and his friend piled stuff up in such a cluster that I can't get it apart without either injuring myself or going into a rage and just breaking it all. My paintings are supporting box corners and there are beer bottles scattered around. My belongings don't remain in storage because I'm lazy.

This is where I'd complain again about being unemployed if I hadn't done so a hundred times before. A note on that subject, though. Pizza Hut sent me an e-mail after I applied saying they don't have any jobs I'm qualified for.

My friends get sick of the drama. I don't blame them.

I feel like a complete waste of life having to hide the scissors when I get like this. I've never hurt myself like that, and I don't like even the urge to do it. I can't control that, either. I don't sit down and say, I'm miserable. I want to cut to punish myself/to show people how much I hurt/to remind myself that I really am alive, and I can still feel.

I've been over that before, too.

Why do you even bother?

Because I don't have a choice.

There's always a choice. Your choices got you here.

I tried! I tried to do the best I could. I listened to my parents even when I didn't want to, I never did drugs, I never sneaked out, I didn't even teach myself to cuss until college. I was nice to people who were mean to me. I've tried to be everything anyone ever wanted me to be, so why can't something go right?

Because you don't get anywhere being nice. People are attracted to confidence. They want someone who knows their own mind. What the hell do you know?

I don't know.

Exactly.

And I'd continue trying to convince my inner critic that I'm worth something, but the mind blank just got me. Sometimes it's annoying. Sometimes I'm in the middle of telling someone something, maybe explaining to my sister why I'm acting even more pseudo-emo than usual. Then poof I've got no clue what I was saying.

It's trying to get me again. I'm having trouble stringing together sentences, but right now, I'm fine with that. I was feeling really bad a few minutes ago.

So, to paraphrase: I was having suicidal thoughts and self-harm thoughts, and chose to blog while listening to Don't Jump, by Tokio Hotel. The depression bubble popped. I'm still miserable, but no longer leaking from my face (highly unpleasant, that) and no longer thinking, self-harm or otherwise. If I wasn't out of cereal, I'd go have myself a bowl of comfort food.

Moment passed, nothing to see here. Move along.

*insert amusing cheese factory anecdote here*

Reasons to Live

It's that time of deepest winter when it seems like the sky has always been steel gray and everything visible from here to the horizon has always been shades of brown and death. It's also that time when hopelessness is at its worst and the "Seasonal Affective Disorder" has piled so thickly onto fifteen years of ongoing clinical depression that it's hard to remember why I bother living.

While searching the All-Powerful Internet for reasons to live, I realized that no one else's list is going to do me much good. Sadly, the first two I pulled up listed sex as at least one of the authors' reasons. Sorry, not going to work for me.

I had such a list in high school. I was reading a Dean Koontz book and the main character had one which, among other things, mentioned a certain burger from a fictional burger joint. After a moment's wondering whether a food item could really be worth living for, I thought of one that I actually considered enough of a reason to make it another day or so. Unfortunately, Pizza Hut's triple-decker, stuffed crust, deep dish, heart-attack-of-bliss no longer exists, and the stuffed crust alone isn't enough. Plus, I can't afford fast food.

I'm living on $150 per month. I live at my grandmother's house, but that's still less than two hundred dollars per month, and I use half of that on gas driving my daughter places. School, mostly. The library. Wal-Mart.

I spend a chunk of it on Internet because the place I live contains some houses, a hardware store, and a bar, none of which I'm interested in, and the nearest town is fifteen miles. I have to buy my own toilet paper and whatnot, so that leaves me with nothing. But I digress.

Reasons to live... Not leaving grieving family members used to be a big one on my list. I think they'd get over it, though. They'd be horribly ashamed of me being so weak, but I'd be dead, so shame means nothing. Ditto for leaving behind debt and a storage unit full of most of my belongings.

Fear of Hell is on my list, but it's not as powerful as it should be at the moment. When in the throes of misery, when you feel nothing inside but seemingly endless self-hate and misery, eternal suffering doesn't look like much of a difference. You must keep in mind, of course, how very important perception is, and that logic doesn't work against persistent, irrational thoughts.

I hate you.

No, you're just miserable. You know you're smart, you know you have artistic talent, and that you're a good writer. You know people love you.

So? Everyone hates you for that alleged smartness, and I don't care if that's a real word, because you know how it pisses off your dad any time you mention anything he thinks you might have learned in college, because he assumes you're talking down to him.

But you can't help what people think or assume, and you know he loves you.

So? He doesn't like you. If it wasn't for your daughter, he wouldn't care if you visited.

Probably not... But my sister likes me.

Yeah, and that does you a lot of good. Everyone's already ashamed of you for being such a failure. You can't get a job in two years of unemployment, and everyone's sure that you're not really trying. In fact, you're not! When was the last time you filled out an application?

...I'm sorry! I'm sorry, but every time I try to, or even think about it, I just think what a failure I am, and what a waste of time it'll be to fill out yet another application for another job I won't get! It's a waste for me, and for the hiring manager who has to look through all that crap already!

You don't even TRY, so stop pretending.

I'm suffering from long-term depression! I need to give myself an emotional break, forgive myself a little. It doesn't have to be perfect...

If you're only second-best you won't get the job, so yes, perfection does matter!

So does luck! I could get lucky!

People don't get places with luck, they get it with hard work!

I try!

Liar. You don't try. You nap half the day on the couch because you don't want to think, and because you hope desperately that your grandmother's cats will sleep on you and maybe you'll feel worth something.

But...

You're worthless! It's no wonder everyone says "I wish I knew how to help you," but no one ever actually does anything!

They try to give me advice...

Because "You need to get a job" is advice. You didn't already know that?

Well yes, I did, I want a job, but...

You're a f~ing loser and you always will be.

But I went to college!

Pretentious bastard!

No, that's not what I meant! I meant, I went to college full-time and I graduated, and I had a part-time job and an internship, and...

And you couldn't get your bills paid. You realize it's been two years, and you still owe hundreds of dollars to the utility companies before they'd hook you up, even if you WERE competent enough to get a job and find your own place to live? And your grandmother doesn't even want you in her house anymore because she can't deal with the noise of a child, and because you aren't social enough to be the companionship she needs.

No! I'm smart, and I have proof! I graduated college! I learned common sense that I didn't have when I was a teenager! I have friends! I have a friend who loved me enough to fly me halfway across the country to see her, and another friend who would gladly do the same if she had the money! They love you, and they think you're smart and clever and they like you as a friend, and if you told them that you desperately needed them...

They'd apologize for leaving and promise to talk to you later.

Because they have school and jobs...

Which are more important than you.

Which is how it's supposed to be.

Loser.

Actual mental conversation, there. Not really a dramatic reenactment. Oh yeah, I was supposed to be listing reasons to live. Number one about half an hour ago was that my friend told me I have to keep living, whether I want to or not. If I manage to think of a number two, maybe you'll get a better blog post next time.


Reasons to Live:

1. My friend told me to.
2. Because there has to be more than one reason, or making a list was pointless.

No One

One of the many problems with long-term depression is that it doesn't stop. There's no three-month period where you're sunshine and roses, and everyone can just enjoy your company and forget the depression ever existed. It's constant, and that makes it extremely difficult to find anyone to talk to when you desperately need to talk.

Everyone has problems. Everyone has bills they need to pay, everyone has things they need to do and not enough time to do them. Everyone has people who need things from them, and that's not a complaint, it's a fact of life. People have problems.

I can't ask my friends and family to put their problems aside and listen to my unfounded worries (or my completely legitimate worries) every time I have a stress attack. They know I'm stressed. They know I'm broke, that I hate myself so much sometimes that I can hardly stand to take another breath, and there's really nothing they can do about it. They can't take care of me.

I should be able to take care of myself, anyway. I should. But for some reason, I can't deal with stress the way "normal" people can. I can go take a shower, try to read a book, snuggle under some blankets, eat comfort food, tell myself repeatedly that someone loves me, and the entire time I'm still on the verge of breaking down.

Does it really matter if someone loves me? Not really. In the face of crippling depression, logically knowing that someone loves me doesn't help. If I die, they'll be miserable for a while, but they'll go on, because that's what people do. When I'm in heaven or hell or purgatory or limbo or being reborn as a dung beetle, is it really going to bother me that a handful of mortals on planet Earth will be left mourning? Probably not. They'll comfort each other, assure each other that they'll see their loved ones in heaven.

No matter how many times I try to convince myself that I've made a positive difference in someone's life, or that I might in the future, I still feel empty and useless. There's nothing I can do that no one else in the world could do. If I don't do it, someone will fill my place.

No happy ending this time. That's life; suck it up.

Shaken, Not Stirred

Ever had a nightmare so profound that you can't shake it off? I've had many, leading me to such rational acts as telling my father not to go to a certain store for a week, and freaking out whenever he wore a certain shirt. Last night's was one for the books. The kind where you wake sweating, feeling nauseous and fairly certain you've been crying, and for the rest of the day you're on edge, praying nothing happens and afraid to do anything, lest it turn out to be real after all.

Warning: Parental Fear Trigger ahead.

The realism didn't help any. I was sitting in this very house alone, my grandmother in physical rehab, during Thanksgiving break, and got a phone call that my daughter had died. She'd been in a horrible car accident and a piece of iron had gone through her eye. Of course, countless times during this nightmare I got visuals of exactly that, of my child screaming in terror, and I was shattered. My child, one of my best friends, my favorite pet, my life's work, something that will never happen again in my life, gone. Just gone.

I was stricken with grief. I didn't want to live anymore, didn't want to eat, and sometimes I was in shock, like I'd just blink and she'd walk through the door. In fact, part of me insisted it had to be a nightmare, and I'd look at the door, knowing she was about to come in, but she didn't. There was no closure, and I couldn't handle it. I couldn't see her again, it didn't feel real, and how was I supposed to go looking for a job when I my world had just died?

And I was still alone, but more alone than ever. My family was worried, but nobody did anything, as always. If you don't talk about it, it goes away, except for me it wasn't going away and it never would.

I was told I should move to the city and try to get a job, now there wouldn't be anything holding me back, and all I could think was I don't care if she was 'holding me back,' I don't feel free, I feel lost. I had the thought that I could finally move to California, that I'd never have to see my ex again, but if I expected to feel relief, I didn't. What if I did move? I'd be living with someone who has a child of her own, a daughter only a year younger than mine. Could I handle it? Would envy kill me? Self-pity? Would I get attached to someone else's child in a sad attempt to replace my own? Could I live with that? Would I ever be a functional human being again?

I didn't know, and I don't know. I woke sweating, nauseous, and spent, and I've spent all day dreading the possibility that my phone might ring, despite knowing that it didn't happen. When I walked into the kitchen this afternoon, I looked at the door, listening for her, and I knew she wouldn't come in. She's due home Sunday night.

I should have called my ex to talk to her, and for a while it seemed like the perfect solution, but I didn't think of it until nighttime, and at this hour, I'd be leaving a shaky-sounding voicemail begging to hear from my daughter in the morning. My ex doesn't return my calls when he has her, though. She doesn't call, and that would be infinitely worse than just trying to make it through the day, just reminding myself that even if the memories of the dream feel as real as any other memories I have, none of it happened.

I still feel sick and exhausted, I don't want to drive anywhere, and I hate that anything that takes my mind off it is only temporary.

So one time, at the cheese factory, someone walked up to me in my new hoodie, and without preamble, cut the ties that pull the hood tight because we weren't allowed to have any loose items or jewelry above the waist. So I clipped a stuffed turtle to my belt loop in protest, and no one ever said a word against it.

I made that damn turtle a raincoat out of an empty bag of latex gloves, and it worked with me for over a year. Yes, I've told that story before, but I told it better this time.