Warning: The following post may be triggering to some. It contains a discussion of suicidal thoughts.
I have a decision to make. Do I live or do I die?
I am so sick and tired of being depressed. I don’t remember ever feeling-well, not depressed. So do I keep trying; giving it my all, or do I kill myself? This might soundlike a strange question. Basically, I have to decide whether or not life is worth living.
Because living in this in-between state that I exist in is torture. Existing without thriving is torture. Just surviving is not enough. Either I keep trying, and try every little thing I can possibly think of to get better and make something of my life, or I give up completely and end things.
Damnit, I suck with words. I don’t think any of this truely captures what I am thinking, or how I feel right now. This is why I think therapy has been so ineffective for me. I have trouble processing my own thoughts, let alone being able to translate them into something another person could understand. I’m only just beginning to understand myself. And I’m not liking the person I see in the mirror.
I am selfish. Petty and childish. Is it me or is it the worst of the Asperger’s? I don’t feel that I truely began to make procress in my recovery until after my diagnosis. Too bad it didn’t happen until just a few years ago. By then I had made so many mistakes that I began to feel that my life was unsalvagable.
Can it be saved? Is it worth saving? I don’t know. But I feel like I have to figure it out soon, or I’ll lose my mind.
The mental health care system is broken, or at least I believe this is the case in my local area. The way we treat those who are severely and suicidally ill is insanity itself. What happened to me when I felt like hurting myself? I was locked up in a crappy, sterile psych ward as if I were some kind of criminal. This led me to lie about feeling better before I actually was in order to get out of there and get some real relief. This was usually how it went when I was in the hospital. People would be so stressed by being locked up inside a cold and unwelcoming hospital ward that they would fake being better just to get out. Then they would go home feeling worse than when they went into the hospital in the first place. Or at least many of us did. Some of my fellow patients got better only because the hospital scared them, so they decided they would get better just to avoid being locked up again.
I don’t think this was any real type of healing though. And it usually took being locked up a couple of times to accomplish. Maybe we should save people some of their heartache and time and actually help them the first time around. Don’t drug and electro-shock people into submission as if they have done something wrong. Life is tough and the world is cruel; don’t punish those who recognize this fact by making things even tougher for them. Instead of putting people into one size fits all group therapy, give psychiatric patients some one on one therapy with a counselor for at least half an hour a day. Give them classes on how to build a resume and job search. Help them figure out how to get back to work and keep them from having to go on disability, if it is at all possible. This will help people’s self esteem and give them a purpose in life. Help those who need it find housing.
All I know is that being in a psych ward should not be so darn terrifying. People shouldn’t be discouraged from seeking help if they need it. Keep in mind that the experiences I have described are my own; hopefully not all psych wards/hospitals are this bad. I am sure there are some great ones out there. I just think that the good help shouldn’t be limited to how much money a person has.
I almost typed that in all caps, as well as using three exclamation marks. That’s how upset I am right now. I want to swear. I want to curse. I want to throw things. I also want my security deposit back if I should ever choose to move out of my apartment. I received an email today from NAMI, the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill. The subject was the American Healthcare Act, the “revision” to Obamacare. This was the first sentence of the email: “Congress just unveiled the American Health Care Act, which ends the requirement that Medicaid cover mental health care.” Medicaid is the only reason I am able to get mental health care in the first place. I am on disability for my mental health, which is what makes me able to receive Medicaid. If my mental health needs are no longer covered by Medicaid, then I have to find a way to pay for bills, food, therapy, psychiatrist visits, and around $1,000 worth of medication on $735 a month. WTF?!?!
My depression has been very bad lately. I am disgusted with the lack of positive change in my life. When I look back at the past 15 years I am horrified at what has become of me. Where was the awesome college experience, which was supposed to lead to a Master’s degree, followed by a Doctorate? What happened to my awesome career as a scientist? What happened to moving somewhere, anywhere, other than where I am now? If I could answer these questions, I probably wouldn’t be so miserable.
I realize that this blog is a lot of me whining and moaning. Poor me, my life sucks, feel sorry for me, etc, etc. Which is not cool. I need to grow up and take some responsibility for the things that have happened to me. Yes there are many ways in which people and events have royally screwed me over, and made me miserable. It’s my own fault that that misery became permanent instead of just temporary. I need to get off my behind and do something about it. Anything.
I could write more. Blogging might lead to a career, you never know. Also, if I can’t be an environmental advocate (my career choice when I began college), then maybe I can be an advocate for mental health care reform. I have a feeling we’re gonna be needing that last one given the direction the U.S. is taking. I could also combine the two, by blogging about mental health issues. And no, I don’t mean by talking about my own personal problems all the time. I mean by doing research on current events and how they might affect people with mental illness. Or by suggesting positive changes that the healthcare system could make to better serve the mentally ill. I just need to try. Trying and failing is better than not even putting in the effort to begin with.
I’m feeling very blah. Not bad, but not great either. I hate life and the act of being alive, but am not suicidal. I think it’s partly my fatigue. And my frustration over the doctor’s refusal to do the proper tests on my thyroid. I won’t go into details about which thyroid hormones are which, so I don’t bore those of you who don’t have hypothyroidism. Let’s just summarize by saying that out of three tests the doctor could be running, he is only going to run one. He claims that my insurance will only pay for the one, when I know that is not true.
I have also been told that I might have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. If the blood rests that my doctor is actually running come back as normal, he’s pretty much determined that this is something I have. I am freaking out. I am sick and tired of being sick and tired!
I feel kinda weird. It’s hard to describe. I’ve been doing pretty good lately; feeling pretty good. Yet I feel keyed up and on edge. Maybe it’s the extra cup of coffee I’ve been having with lunch, or maybe it’s the type of over-stimulation that happens to anybody with Asperger’s when their routine changes.
I’ve been volunteering at the food pantry once a month for the past three months now. Also, I’ve been helping out at the Salvation Army on Mondays and Tuesdays, helping to pack sack lunches for the school kids that normally get free or reduced lunches in school during the school year. I’ve been spending more time with friends, both old and new. It’s a lot for me.
So while nothing bad has been happening, STUFF has. I’m used to a whole lot of nothing going on in my life. It is going to take some getting used to, but it will be worth it to have a purpose and a reason for getting out of bed in the morning. It feels good to be useful and needed by society again.
They call me a weirdo
but I’m not the only one.
So called Autistic me cares
more than I think the Normal people do.
I care so much it hurts
that they don’t care in return.
People confuse me
they say “how do you do?”
They don’t want my answer
but bombard me with theirs
forcing it upon me
like an audible rape
I won’t be rude
I’ll listen to what they have to say
Then I’ll run upstairs and hide
lie on my couch and cry
stuffing myself with food
so there’s no more room for hurt
Maybe I don’t care after all