she likes to think she’s reasonable. She pokes her nose into my life without invitation. She gives stupid advice with implied critisism and gets offended when i don’t follow her suggestions. She insults me. She belittles my choices and when i argue she claims i attack her. She rages at me. Then hours later she apologises, says she’s tired or stressed and i have to comfort her. It is soul destroying.
I wish i could just cut her out of my life. She wouldn’t understand and would rally the family. There’s been too much drama already. The old man is a drunken craven fool who is a manipulative cheating bastard and likes to wheddle her case.
My sister has cut me off because i didn’t want to fake sympathy at his hospital bed. I despise him and hate her. Admittedly she tortured me as a child and he just stood back and let it happen.
If it wasn’t for my brother i’d go totally insane. He gets it. He has the same experiences as me but in his case the violence was mostly physical. She beat me too but mainly tried to destroy my self-Esteem, confidence and humanity.
But i am alive and can avoid her most of the time. That has to count for something
Right, I’m back from my unofficial hiatus. Real life has been kicking my ass and the blog just fell by the wayside. I had posts composed about quotas for women, catholic church and plenty of NAMA but somehow I never had the time to put fingers to keyboard and articulate my opinions. Of course the cold black cloud of depression makes every single action that much more difficult.
People really don’t seem to get that. Depression is not just a word or a feeling. It covers and affects everything from not sleeping to the horrific nightmares my brain throws at me if I manage to fall asleep. Remembering to act normally takes effort and I do it because if I don’t then I lose all defences and am patronised by the person around me. Why just the other day, I answered a question honestly to a member of my family and was told I was disgusting. And from outside my head, I probably am but depression is between me and everything and it’s hard to care when I’m spiralling.
In other news, my brother has found dieting just like other people find religion. So now I am expected to just accept that he will talk at me about my health. Apparently I get too emotional and defensive when people comment on my body. Well yes I do. I live in my body. I know my body. It is me. I am it. I know what works and what doesn’t. I don’t take kindly to others informing in that I am fat. I know I am fat. I know why I am fat and I’m through justifying my fatness. I am the way I am. No discussion.
In short, my sister thinks I’m disgusting and my brother, overemotional.
Life sucks right now
The black dog walks ever by my side. It is omnipresent. The drugs do not work. I am losing hope.
Every day my experiences and feelings are dismissed.
Everyday the will to live is drawn from me with gasping breath.
How much do I owe my progenitors? Does the debt diminish if I detail the abuses? Does kicking, hitting and belittling decrease my debt, even just a little bit?
I want to cut so badly.
I want to scream and flay the world, that my pain is real. I bleed inside. But that is another person. A person who was not beaten into submission.
I am thirty years old and I still cringe at her tone.
My mother is an abuser.
My father never stopped her.
My mother’s friend’s son is also depressed. But he tried to commit suicide so clearly he’s way more depressed than me. /sarcasm
My family thinks like this. My state of mind is written off as an temporary situation. I can’t win. I just cannot explain to them how serious this is. If I show my feelings, I get told to cheer up. If I fake being ok, in their minds it is proof that my illness is no big deal. My mother has seen me with blood running down my arms after I got cut-happy with a razor, but it hasn’t changed her ability to see me or what I’m going through.
I’m not trying to play the depression olympics with tis other person. I cannot measure levels of depression. He was always a bit of a manchild before his breakdown and I cannot imagine that he is coping well.
I don’t want to attempt suicide to make them see. I want to live (more or less). My desire for self-harm is increasing again. I want to carve my skin into pretty lines of blood with a sharp blade. I have managed to avoid buying the razor but my resolve is weakening.
I know that I’m generally a good patient. I take my meds and I am trying to get better.
I am in hell. Caught between the fake happy and the intense desire to shred my arms to pieces and see the red blood flow. Those closest to me do not hear my cries for help. They minimise and deny and I’m lost.
I want to slice my wrists open until blood is flowing down my arms, changing the grey of my life to red, staining the sheets.
But I don’t because it would cause too many questions.
There must be some kinda way out of here. Out of the grey, dead feeling of my brain. Out of the cold of the unfeeling place.
I exist but I do not live. I am grey.
I hate this life.
I used to be alive.
I don’t know. Things should be better but I’m having difficulty assigning a scale to how depressed I am. I’m not cutting but I think about it – a lot.
It’s only day 2 on lexapro so I can’t even tell what I feel apart from tired, manic, insomniac and other contradicting feelings.
I’m smoking like a chimney and wandering around in my nightdress.
I was refused disability allowance on health grounds. Depression isn’t a disability apparently when one is 30 – “sure you’ll get over it” and the doc will write me sick notes from week to week to allow me to get social welfare, which means I have no security.
I don’t know how other people manage? How do you hold down a job with manic/depression?
I’m to numb to rant even.