Just Keep Going

Sometimes it feels like life is a game of chicken. Who'll pull me out of it first, me or God? If all I can do is force myself to stay alive out of bitterness to a deity I'm not sure I believe in, at least I keep going.

If all I've got is a fear that, worse than hell, there's absolutely nothing, no existence at all if I died, then I use that fear to keep going. The thought that I could blink out of existence entirely is terrifying. It's what got me through last winter. Any time I started feeling like ending things would solve my problems, or at least take the need to make decisions out of my hands, I thought of that.

I've passed out due to my mind simply moving too quickly and too chaotically before, but I wake up. I've gotten to the point where I was afraid to sleep for the nightmares before. I hate it because it's just every hellish thing from being awake exaggerated into more hell. No escape.

I've had so many dreams ripped away from me. So here I am, playing chicken with God. I just have to live long enough for him to give up and kill me, then I win. Every day I don't kill myself, I win.

Just keep going is my best advice, for me, and for everyone else who feels trapped in a personal hell.

Just keep going.

A Hard Day's Night

I realized I was standing in the store I work at in the middle of the night. I'd obviously come to get something, but I couldn't remember what, nor could I remember how I'd gotten there. There were other customers around, considering the store is open 24/7, so no one was looking at me weird, but I felt weird. Intensely so.

Had I been asleep? It's scary realizing you've just woken up somewhere. I had to have gotten in my car and driven from home, and the biggest relief I had besides the fact that I'd obviously made it alive was that my daughter is with her other parent this weekend. I could have just left my daughter alone in the middle of the night. I could have caused a car accident, could have killed someone, could have died.

I puttered, reeling, around the store. Since I was there, maybe I'd buy something. Maybe I'd remember what I had come for. I was certainly in no condition to drive. I ran into a few people I've worked with and gave watery smiles, all the while trying to hold onto sanity.

At the checkout, I noticed the registers had all been changed during my day off. I hadn't heard anything about a remodel and didn't like it. It looked a lot more complicated than it needed to be. A couple managers showed up, offered me some snacks they'd had in the back for whatever employees wanted them, and I took one, all the while still trying to figure out what I was doing.

This is the kind of dream I regularly have. It's hard to separate from reality for the most part, and I'm left feeling off-kilter for the rest of the day. I'll be going to work soon and I'll see all these people and feel like I'm insane and if they just thought about it they'd know because they saw something bizarre and didn't recognize it.

My job has eaten my life. I dream about it, think about it, worry about it, and get one day off twice a week instead of an actual weekend. Some people like getting two breaks, but one day isn't enough for me to shake things off and relax because there's something fundamentally wrong with my brain. At least, that's the way it feels.

I haven't contemplated suicide this winter, which is good, but that's less because I like my life and more because I found a question to ask myself that scares me too much to want to find out: What if there's no heaven or hell and death just erases us from existence? The idea of disappearing entirely scares me more than eternal hellfire, and I'll take that.

I'll take it and my feelings of insanity to work, and I'll be quiet all day. I'll work, I'll jump every time someone walks up behind me, and every time I try to smile politely, people will give me a look that says I'm not fooling anyone.

Some Things Never Change

My dad sounded a little too cheerful when he asked to take me out to lunch tomorrow. I am, as a result, filled with dread.

How can someone sound too cheerful? you may ask, and why does that frighten you to your very core?

It's rather simple, really. Whenever my parents had really horrible news, they would try to temper that news with a treat. They'd act a little too casual, and the treat would be completely out of nowhere, because usually it was something they'd been trying to hide. For example: My sister has never watched the movie Forrest Gump through to the end.

One fine spring day, our parents pushed the couch up in front of the tv to make things cozier, told us we were going to have a movie and ice cream sundaes later, then sat us down and announced that my mom was moving out. My sister had no clue until that moment, and she did not enjoy her sundae, nor did she watch the movie all the way through.

I loved my sundae, and I loved the movie. Of course, my bedroom was directly across the hall from my parents' and I was a bit older, so the announcement was wonderful for me. No more being unable to sleep until 3 am listening to them argue! And a sundae on top of it all!

Once in a while I'd wake up and find that my father had taken my sister out for the day, and that announcement was always met with dread. It meant that my mother wanted to tell me something truly horrible, perhaps break my spirit and remind me what a horrible person I was for having repeatedly done something wrong over the previous weeks or months. The problem was me, and she needed several hours in which to set me straight, while my sister went bowling or fishing or out to the park.

So any time I get an unexpected treat just for me, I'm thrown into anxiety. I asked my dad if my sister and brother-in-law were also invited to lunch, which is always the case, but no, it's something just for us. *shudder*

So, what am I so afraid of?

Well, number 1: homelessness. I've been living in someone else's house as a favor to me since December 2009. My then-best-friend kicked me out after three and a half months because I was still unemployed, and she and her boyfriend had decided that not only did I not actually want a job, or I'd have one already, but that I was never going to amount to anything, and I should give up and try to get on disability.

I then moved into my aunt's house. She didn't actually have room, but I had just been kicked out, and it was that or let me live in my car. I stayed with her for about two months before I managed to get into Grad School. Unfortunately, I flunked out after two semesters because I couldn't wrap my mind around Accounting, and my school did not offer any kind of Master's degree in any kind of art or design.

So it was on to grandma's house. I was there for several months before I was notified (by my father) that my grandmother wanted me to leave, because I wasn't the companionship she'd hoped for. I'm an introvert, you see, and sitting quietly in the same room with someone feels like good company. I don't like to fill the air with words unless I have something to say which I think is important.

My grandmother was terribly injured, went into surgery, and ended up staying with my father, because his house is wheelchair accessible and hers is not. This extended my stay at her house to nearly two years, because I took care of her pets and kept the house from being abandoned/broken into.

My sister kindly, generously, amazingly, asked me to come live with her for reasons such as the horrible heat wave, horror at my living situation, and hope that she could help me out. I've been here four months and I'm still unemployed, even with her tossing every job she hears about my way (yes, I apply for them all), and now it's into autumn, which means the Seasonal Affective Disorder is kicking in. I'm sleepy all the time, I'm no longer oozing the hope and enthusiasm I was when I first got here.

So, back around to lunch with my dad tomorrow. There's a chance he just wants to have lunch with only me, though we don't get along for more than the shortest amounts of time. There is also a chance that he wants to pass on a complaint from someone else because he thinks it's helpful.

I'm taking bets.

Depression is Depressing. III

You don't want to hear it, so I just won't say it.

That's why I'm so quiet.

Blank

I can't do it. I can't write for NaNoWriMo even though I was excited and feeling defiant last night after my rant on the subject.

I made a NaNoWriMo account, and things started out well. I'd decided on a fantasy, based on a short story I started years ago, but never finished. It was a fairy tale, and I went through it, getting vague ideas of how to expand, characters to introduce, and a direction I wanted it to go in.

I began writing. I got interrupted. By the time I returned to it, my mood had dropped and all I wanted to do was scrap the whole thing. I no longer want to write. I don't even want to blog, but I feel like I should tattle on myself to really drive home the lesson here; I can't see anything through, not even when no one's going to see it but me.

Loser.

You're not supposed to talk about yourself like that, it doesn't do any good and it's not healthy.

You're crying, loser. You're crying because you decided you don't want to write a story. A story no one even cares about. This is why you can't get a job. How do you expect anyone to want to hire someone who's sat on their ass for almost three years? You don't want a job, anyway. You want to spend all day on Facebook, playing with apps. You want to sleep sixteen hours a day so you can pretend you don't actually exist. Why don't you just f~ing kill yourself?

I don't want to kill myself. I just don't want to live.

No wonder. You're so lame, I don't even want to look at you. And now your face is all red and blotchy like a stupid blotchy-faced lame crying person.

That's a really stupid insult.

Pssht. You don't deserve better insults.

Cool.

No, not cool.

Dammit, blanked out. I hate losing my train of thought, though this time it appears to have stopped me from beating myself up.

Anyhow, the point is that *fights blanking out again* um... Oh yeah, the point *blank* I've been fighting *blank* Fighting depression and stuff for weeks, I think sometime in October, I don't remember when. Missing that job didn't help. I should do laundry. Maybe NaNoWriMo was a bad idea, if I can't handle the stress of writing a story. I don't know how I could *blank* Disability. I don't know how I could apply for disability. I managed to get through college. I think that being able to do something productive, something I could be proud of, would help, but I can't seem to get started.

Oh, I give up. My mind wants to be blank.

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.

Santé Mentale

My mental health is far too precarious for me to feel like a functional human being. It likely doesn't help that the only people I have regular face-to-face contact with (due largely to a combination of location, funds, and lack of employment) are a ten-year-old girl and a 54-year-old man. There is the desk clerk at the library, but I don't consider handing someone my library card and being told You're on computer three quality time. Call me picky.

I'm in an odd position, actually. I'm what you might call a loner, or perhaps socially inept, or even misanthropic. I don't feel a need to constantly be around other people, and have never been a social butterfly, but there comes a time now and then when I find myself in company and realize I actually enjoy it.

I've been craving social interaction lately, which is odd enough on its own, but what's even stranger is realizing that I no longer know where to find it. My college friends have had a couple years to move away and get distracted with other things, and since I've got to drive fifteen or so miles to get to the nearest town and I'm broke as dirt, I find myself testing my Internet to see how far I can stretch 5GB per month.

I'm freakin' out, man.

Winter is hard enough as it is. The seasonal affective disorder kicks in and when I'm not drooping from a desperate need to sleep, I'm on-edge, trying not to have a breakdown. No, I will not throw things and scream and kick and generally make an ass of myself because doing so doesn't actually make me feel better, it just makes me feel out of control. I enjoy control.

You would think that all this would motivate me into a thorough job search. I want a job, I want to look for a job, I know that I have skills which would make me a valuable employee, but my mind is all over the place, unable to concentrate on much of anything.

You're doing a pretty damned good job right now, you say.

My mind really is all over the place. I'm just a really good writer, wink, nudge.

I'm good at psyching myself out. If I can't concentrate, how am I going to function in the workplace? If I have no social skills, how will I ever make it through a job interview, assuming I can make it to a job interview? Strangely, when I get to a certain point in a high-stress situation, my never-ending thoughts clear, I go on autopilot, and I cruise through with smiles and grace. It is, however, difficult to push myself into that state, so I continue hovering on the edge of OMGWTF SHOOT ME. (Don't really, please. Unless you feel like it, then shoot to kill, not to injure.)

And then we have suicidal thoughts. I've been dealing with depression for so long that it feels normal to have them now and then. Just your average little, I could easily drive into that solid concrete wall or I wonder how many of my medications could kill me if I downed the whole bottle? but they pass as quickly as that and it's back to regular life.

Mid-winter I have to think about it for a while before I can move on. I have family who likes to look at the corpse before it's buried, I could at least make sure I die without facial wounds, and my meds would probably just give me seizures and make me puke. Then I'd have medical bills on top of everything else. Damn.

Just completely lost my train of thought, a side effect of overstressing.

So I lost my cheese factory turtle recently. Can't believe I still even had that thing.

This is my anticlimactic ending. C'est la vie.