It’s not that I’m unsafe. It’s that I’m fearful All The Time that I’ll lose control and follow through with the horrendous things I think and feel.
I want to attempt and complete suicide. I see no hope for a better future. And I think and feel this in the midst of volunteering a considerable amount of time and energy in 4 places in 7 days. A good way to spend my birthday week, I suppose. Making the world a better place.
But I don’t see a world with me in it. At all. Any day now I’m going to die of something, perhaps by my own hand. I’ve had that feeling for years and years.
It doesn’t matter to me that we’ve figured out more about my illness in the last six months than the 3.5 yrs previous. That should give hope that we’ll find a way to live through the changes in mood and thoughts.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve lost 32 lbs. since April – surely a sign of life, right, that I’m taking care of myself? I don’t know why I’m doing it. I guess just that it’s something that has a goal, superficial as it is. Something to work toward. But it doesn’t make my life better.
Reading and taking MOOCs and playing handbells – or working when I was – are not improving things I value(d) in myself – focus, concentration, retention, energy. All that allowed me to be smart and quick on my feet. I liked that feeling and that characteristic about myself, and it’s gone. Poof! Deb is gone.
That’s what I want – Poof! blissful nothingness. The end.
*Yes, I’m with people and have others to call. I don’t want to though. I want to cave in.