Content warning: the author describes in detail their experience of depression which may be upsetting for some readers.
There were just 21 minutes left in suicide awareness day. All day I’d had the urge to write something. I even went to a coffee shop with the intent to write, but didn’t. I just listened to one of the worst trashy romance novels. Wasting more time. It seems to be all I have done in the last 4 years.
4 years is such a long time. The lifespan of a child who has just started school. Yet it’s been 4 years of personal loss. At times it feels like I’ve lost everything. On the good days I’ll admit to have gained new knowledge and have done a few cool things in the last four years. Have welcomed many a friends’ new baby into the world, made a few new friends.
But I have also lost friends; I feel the loss of not having kids. All the happiness is balanced with loss it seems.
I’m not who I want to be. I no longer know who I want to be. I don’t have the drive I once had.
Yet some times it simmers to the surface and teases me. And I get hope, drive of an idea of completing something. But then it’s gone. The energy turned right down. Like it’s been switched off. No simmer… no hope, no energy. It’s gone. So nothing happens. Or maybe the simmer comes back and I manage to get up and dressed. It can go on and on like this. Till it’s time to go back to the safety of my bed. Another day lost to this. It can’t last forever, can it?
Four years ago I went to the doctor as soon as i personally realised something was wrong. I had hid it well. I tried to stop it. I tried so hard. I got the help. I went to every appointment. Took every tablet asked of me, talk therapy, physiatrist consultant in a Dublin main hospital, done everything asked of me and yet it got to this. An existence that has become the norm. It’s sad. This is not what I ever wanted in life.
21 minutes left in this day when I started writing. Maybe its coincidental or unconsciously intentional but at the lowest point I had roughly 20/21 minutes of life left in this body. That was the worst day. Lying waiting to be taken. The fear I’d cave and scream for help. Cave again. For me it wasn’t a choice to die. It was the only way to end the pain inside. I had tried everything that had been asked of me. Extensive treatments. In and out of hospital, outpatient and inpatient. I didn’t want to end my life but I had no hope of ever getting past these feelings. I’d given up. I had no fight left. Yet as I lingered on a bathroom floor the battle not to call out did happen. I asked to be taken. Just let it happen. But it didn’t.
I can honestly say I’m thankful I wasn’t taken. My will to live has returned. I’m breathing, eating, drinking, I’m existing. I’m not living yet, whatever that living is going to be. I’m in recovery. I don’t know if I will ever get out of recovery. This is the reality for some with mental health conditions. It can’t be seen. When I’m with people that’s when I feel most alive. But I’m so lonely when I’m alone. I feel like I have nothing. I have no partner, no children, no pets. I have nothing of real value for myself. The love of another half or a child. Things I have always wanted but time is passing and I’m older now and don’t hold out much hope for these things. So I’m accepting them. I’m accepting that my good days might be someone else’s bad days. I’m accepting that I live a fair distance from everyone I know and love because of the housing crisis. Money is tight. Petrol is expensive. My choice is therapy or a trip to see family and friends. Those that make me happy.
My hope is now to foster a dog. I cannot afford a dog so fostering seems like a idea. I think it will help. A few doctors have suggested it. I just can’t afford one for now. I’m so unsure of what the future holds and what happens if I want to go somewhere and have a dog and no one to look after it. So fostering a pet might be my answer. I just don’t want to be lonely anymore. I want a reason to get up, go for a walk. Have company to help me stay calm and love. Not to be alone. That’s where my four year battle with severe repetitive depression, high functional anxiety, bpd and an eating disorder has left me. That’s the thoughts that come when I simmer with hope, ways not to be alone anymore. I’ve signed up for a class, which is anxiety inducing but hopefully worth it.
I have a very supportive family and a few faithful friends but when I’m living alone and away from them it’s so very hard. So this stage of my recovery is to end the loneliness this battle has brought me and to try finding ways that make it easier to feel like my day was a good day and not a loss of another wasted day.
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