So here I am, back where I started, farther gone maybe but not in the right direction.
The feelings are familiar and difficult to numb.
Shame, loneliness, self-loathing, hopelessness, defeat.
The wine and xanax don’t cut it and I know in the long run, they’re making it worse.
But when you tell yourself you want to die, any coping mechanism can seem excusable.
Excuses are a pillar of addiction: “anything to get through another day”.
And every day does feel like something to get through, something to dread.
Getting out of bed is never easy and I lack motivation because I lack hope.
Without hope It's hard to motivate yourself to change.
If you don’t believe that you’ll ever love yourself or your life, that you’ll ever be happy, that you’ll ever find someone you love, who will love you and you can be happy with; it’s hard to see the point.
Why make the effort in vain? Because you may not be worth it, and life may never feel worth it.
Life has never been bad to me, yet it’s always felt like more of a struggle then a reward.
I don’t know how to interact with people, especially not sober and I’m not even sure how to function sober anymore.
I told myself I’d get help after the breakup, but I continue to put everything off till “tomorrow”.
Now that I am alone, there isn’t anyone else to blame. I’m the reason there’s dishes in the sink, I’m the reason I blacked out last night, I’m the reason I keep buying blow every weekend, drinking every day and taking xanax every night. I’m the problem, it’s always been me, and I’ve always known that.
It’s tiring, life is tiring, because I’m tiring, and this is my life. I’m stuck with me and it ******* *****.
“It’ll pass, everything does”, that’s what I tell myself for comfort, but sometimes that doesn’t feel very comforting. Knowing that I want it all to pass, makes me wonder what’s the point of going through it at all.
I feel like a loser.
Like I’ve already failed at life and I’m only 28. I feel like I failed at it a long time ago, like everything was over before it ever really began, like I threw in the towel instead of giving it a fight.
And I’ve just been falling ever since.
I don’t honestly believe that’ll ever end; I don’t think I’ll ever land. Like all that lies before me is a void and what I should be concerned with is how comfortably I plummet.
I’m bitter too. It’s hard to be happy for people when you feel miserable. I don’t want people to hurt, but sometimes it’s hard to appreciate the success and happiness of others when you feel like such a **** show. The contrast exacerbates the pain.
I’m also tired of pretending I’m okay, of smiling and telling people I’m fine. I’m not, I can’t remember a time I ever was, I’m constantly on the verge of a breakdown and I think about killing myself routinely.
I googled ******* myself today, not because I was looking for an answer, to be honest I don’t fully understand why I searched it, why I continue to search “I want to **** myself”. I know what will come up, the same things that always do: suicide hotline numbers that I never call. I think it’s because I want help but also don’t. I’m afraid of the invasion, the finality of reaching out once, or if, I do.
I often feel like the only things I have supporting me are the alcohol and drugs and that without them I’ll fall, even though I know they’re dragging me down. I’m aware this is partly my addiction tricking my mind, but I am truly terrified to go without them; that I will crumble, and everyone will see all the parts of me I’ve been trying so hard not to look at myself.
Sometimes I visualize jumping off the Jacque cartier bridge.
I used to visualize the same thing with the metro; me jumping, how’d it feel, how much time before I’d die, the image of my body crushed and splattered, on the window in the front, then trampled over and shredded underneath. When I was feeling really low, sometimes, I’d visualize bashing my head into a brick wall until my skull caved in and my brain was mush. It sounds grotesque, it is, but sometimes those thoughts bring me some form of calm that I’m not sure how to understand or explain.
But I also think about going to the bridge just so someone can save me, so I’ll be forced to get help without asking for it.
Although I do tell people I need help, when I get drunk and far too often. It’s actually very embarrassing and not usually helpful at all. I pass a point where I just cry to anyone and tell them how sad I am, how anxious, that I want to **** myself, I tell them all about my problems and about private things that have happened to me or embarrassing things I’ve done. I tell them all the things I never want anyone to know when I’m sober.
Then I sober up. I regret it, I feel ashamed and embarrassed and then a couple of days later I do it all again: a never-ending cycle of self-torment.
Shame is a heavy feeling; it can crush you.
It has crushed me, although I try to remember that I’ve crawled parts of myself out from under it before.
I also know the reasons I feel shame are socially constructed, that I feel it because I’ve internalized what is acceptable and not acceptable, and that I am the one shaming myself because of this internalization and my fear of others judgements and need for their acceptance.
So, I know that if I’m capable of shaming myself, then I’m capable of learning to forgive myself, to grow myself, to hold my head high, understand where my past actions have come from, know that even though they might not have been okay, it’s not all my fault and I am human and make mistakes and don’t need to feel shame. Because my shame accomplishes nothing.
It doesn’t make me a better person, it doesn’t take back anything I have done, it makes me weak, and vulnerable, depressed and anxious, it belittles me, it allows others to take advantage of me and excuses myself for mistreating me. It enables my addiction and bad habits, it’s a pillar with my excuses, it’s a pillar for my excuses.
SO **** SHAME.
IM OKAY
IM GREAT
IM ******* AWESOME
I WILL SUCCEED
Unfortunately, it’s not that easy… if my problems could be solved by me typing out my thoughts, well than maybe I’d be less ******. But for now, my invisible audience, my diary I suppose, will have to do for my venting, because the ferrets don’t seem to listen.