Only me

I’ve figured out why I’ve never really tried to kill myself. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t try. I’d do. Most people that have failed attempts meant to fail. They just needed the attention. The cry for help. I get it too. I don’t find it ridiculous. What enfuriates me is that just asking for help, just saying that you’re loosing grip doesn’t seem to be enough. Nowadays people see that as normal. It’s normal to be sad, to be stressed out of your freakin’mind and normal to isolate yourself from the rest of the world.

No, I wouldn’t call all my friends with weird goodbye messages or send out enigmatic e-mails to freak everybody out. I’d just do it. And I guess that’s why I’ve never tried.

If there is a god, or if my grandmother is anywhere around and understanding what all this… what life is about… I wish they’d talk to me. But I’ve heard that that’s my fault too, beacause I’m probably the one that’s not listening hard enough.

Everybody keeps telling me I have everything. Everybody is tired and stressed and preoccupied. So I’m running out of people to talk to and ways of trying to ask for help.

I wonder…. Wonder if I’m some kind of underdeveloped spirit that came here to suffer. And why I feel so broken all the time… it’s hard to explain, nobody sees the broken pieces. I try to show them but nobody sees them. Only me.

On a steady diet of soda pop and Ritalin...

I keep asking myself when I'll get dizzy enough and just fall down. Walking in circles is such a tiring ordeal.

I've been better. The ironic thing (at least I think) is that Ritalin, of all things, would help put my biological side on track. I'm beginning to question that, seeing the way I cried over hamburgers with a friend yesterday and the way I'm crying like a baby as I write this. So I'm on Ritalin and Duloxetine. I currently weigh 298 pounds. I'm probably going to undergo gastric bypass surgery in july. I'm scared that it won't make things better. It'll be great for my health and the good 'ol boost in the self esteem. But I'll still be me. And that seems to be the problem.

The weirdest thing about getting a bit out of the hole I was in is missing it. Feeling "comfortably numb"... Depression gets to be a comfort zone. The sadness shields me from seeing anything else. Weird [2].




"To live and not to breathe
Is to die In tragedy
To run, to run away
To find what you believe
And I leave behind
This hurricane of fucking lies

I lost my faith to this
This town that don't exist
So I run
I run away
To the light of masochist
And I leave behind
This hurricane of fucking lies
And I walked this line
A million and one fucking times
But not this time"

[Green Day]

Go to hell

I just called my dad to handle some affairs about a free-lance job I did for him and I forced myself to tell him and my mom (who answered) that everything is fine. And now I hate them and I hate myself and everybody else who doesn't know how to listen and forces me to pretend that everything is fine. Pretending hurts less than spilling my guts out and just have the other person change the subject.

If I try to say I'm tired, they're tired too. Work has been draining me - "oh, work has been draining me too". I'm lonely... I can barely take care of myself - yes, that's how the world works. People think I'm just like them. My team thinks I'm just not a morning person, when in truth I'm still getting over the fact that I had to drag myself out of bed. I hate having to dress myself. I dread knowing how I'll have to push myself during the day. I have no one to talk to. I want everybody to go to hell.

I have a meeting at 8am and I have to convince my team that we're supposed to work this saturday and that it's gonna be awesome.

I want so badly to be able to just give in. I wanna be sick and die...

WHY THE FUCK AM I ALIVE?

Really?

"As feias que me desculpem, mas beleza é fundamental."
I beg forgiveness to the ugly ladies, but beauty is fundamental.

I wonder if his house had mirrors...

Vinícius de Morais. Noted brazilian poet, writer and
considered to be one of the creaters of the bossa nova movement.

Saturday afternoon

What do you do when the infection hits you?
When it takes over...
Do you do what you're supposed to and take your medicine
or do you learn to live with the thing in hopes it some day goes away?
Or do you just give up intirely and let it kill you?

You still hurt me

When I first started writing here I was on medical leave from work. It was the second in a year. I felt terrible. I found comfort reading other people's blogs, knowing that I wasn't alone. But actually I am. We all are.

I would be a big fat liar if I said I don't care I anybody ever reads what I write. I do. When people take the time to read what you write it's a way of showing that what you have to say matters. I think that's a big deal.

The thing is, I'm coming to the conclusion that I lack the social skills.
Even over the internet.
How sad is that? :o)

So I'm trying - I'm really trying - to pretend like I don't care if anybody reads. I'm talking to myself... Trying to vent... Trying to make sense putting feelings into words. Nobody reads? No biggie. I'm not secretly hoping that one day a kindred spirit (I love the expression "kindred spirit") will stumble upon this virtual nonsense and drop me a line and that we'll become best friends. Haha - no.

I also feel like the little contact I made with other bloggers that also talked about their struggle with depression kinda blew away. I feel like an imposter. I can't bring myself to relate to anybody anymore. I hate it how it seems as if I'm never "that bad". Even I think it. I think it and wish for cancer. I am so going to hell...

Wednesday I had one of those therapy sessions that change things. But, with that, comes the rain. Literally. I felt so bad towards the end that I lied about having an umbrella in my purse... I didn't want to stay inside and wait for the thunderstorm to subside. I walked straight into it, with my therapist watching. It wasn't romantic or a crazy spontaneous act. It was running away. Pure and simple. I didn't feel like keeping my social mask on one second longer.

I know I have high standards. Sometimes too high. I'm usually my biggest target, but my tendency to overanalyze situations and people that are a part of my life makes the "high standards mold" apply to others. Things get messy. I work hard to tone it down. Be polite. Be a good person. I'm sensitive to other's needs. But then I find people don't give a shit. That's how it works. Nobody gives a shit. If I wanna give a shit I have to realize that: 1) I must expect nothing in return and 2) I must not have high standards. Maybe just medium standards, you know, the kind that keeps psychopaths and pedophiles away.

But I'm making dark humor jokes. That's good right?

I worry that I'm turning into a hermit. That I'll be more alone than I already feel. It scares me to death but it hurts so much to put myself out there over and over and just feel... drained. And you know what? It's all on me.

Queue this week's breakdown.





"I was scared to fix what I had broke
It's a lonely place to live with just a ghost
There is love left in my life, I will see
But you still hurt me

(...)

I'm not comfortable with how the story ends
We were lovers and not we're not even friends
You were perfect and I guess I'm just a creep
But you still hurt me"

Oh, this song? Yes. It means I've been thinking about the ex.

"Everyday's another chance to bury my regret
Everyday's another chance to make it but i can't...
But i can't..."

[William Fitzsimmons]

From here to happy

Patient – So how is this supposed to work?

Doctor – You sit. I sit. We talk.

Patient – About what?

Doctor – About whatever you want.

Patient – You want me to whine about my mother?

Doctor – Do you wanna whine about your mother?

Patient – I could tell you about the time I was 5 and my goldfish died.

Doctor – If that’s where you’d like to start.

Patient – I’ve had a billion of things happen to me in my life how am I supposed to know which ones are relevant?

Doctor – As far as I’m concerned they’re all relevant.

Patient – Well… we better get moving ‘cuz this session could take 50 years.

Doctor – Yes, you are the sum of everything that’s happened to you and, yes, some events are more relevant than others. But the only way we can figure out which ones are is to talk. So, tell me, what’s on your mind? What do you want?

Patient – I wanna get better. Whatever the hell that means. I’m sick of being miserable.

Doctor – So you like to be happy?

Patient – Again with the reflecting… Yes, I like to be happy.

Doctor – Being happy is an excellent goal. Not many patients can crystallize exactly what they’re hoping to get out of this.

Patient – Well, woo-hee for me.

Doctor – So now all we have to do is figure out how to get you from here to happy.

Patient – SSRI’s? That’s your genius technique?

Doctor – I don’t think we should ignore any tools that can help. I know you don’t have a problem taking drugs.

Patient – For my leg. For pain.

Doctor – Well think of this as being for psychic pain.

Patient – I don’t wanna change who I am.

Doctor – Miserable? You think by taking meds you’ll lose your edge? Stop making the unique connections that make you a successful doctor?

Patient – Van Gogh is your patient. He’d be satisfied painting houses instead of the starry night.

Doctor – Van Gogh would still be making inspired paintings of the night sky. Just maybe not from the room of his asylum.

Patient – You don’t know that.

Doctor – I know both his ears would be intact. And I know his life would be better. I know this doesn’t come naturally to you. But you want my help, which means you need to trust me.

(swallows pill)

Patient – Hum. Delicious!

[ HOUSE Season 6, Episode 1 ]