Category Archives: suicide

Twitter Rant: Body Dysmorphia

Twitter Rant: Body Dysmorphia

I am having serious body dysmorphia because I am literally stuck in my female body and I want to be a male. but due to my pain condition, I can’t have T to move forward with my transition. I want top surgery but can’t have it because of $$$. I have had bought of severe suicidality today because I am in the wrong fucking body. then I found out someone reported a tweet to twitter because I was suicidal. twitter didn’t tell me what tweet it was so I don’t fucking care anymore. I am tired of people being “scared” of the word “suicide”. You know, people used to be afraid of the word cancer. they thought that saying the word would give them the disease. this was back in the 1800s and early 1940s or so (guessing here) but guess what, you cannot get cancer from talking about it the same fucking way that if you talk about suicide, it will NOT LEAD TO SUICIDE!!! Talking about suicide, least for me is to let off steam. I suffer from chronic suicidiality and need an outlet. Twitter is my outlet if suicide upsets you, maybe you should find another platform to use. or better yet, don’t follow me or even better, MUTE the word so it doesn’t pop up in your timeline. I am sick of being reported. I know what to do should I feel like ACTING on my thoughts/feelings I have the emergency numbers and I can call my psychaitrist 24/7 if I need to. and, get this, I know where there is an emergency room where I can be admitted if that feels like I should be right now. Suicide doesn’t mean end of life when talking/venting about it. so, yea, today has been a hard day because of my damn things on my chest. I wore a tank top in public for the first time and I will never wear one again because I felt too exposed. I didn’t feel manly. I felt like a fucking female. and it hurts. it fucking does and if you don’t understand it, get off my fucking timeline. I am not going to explain how I feel like an asshole because I am in the wrong body

Swear post warning offensive language here in

Swear post warning offensive language here in

So about two hours ago, I was smelling something. Had no idea what the hell it was. I thought maybe a cord was burning, something was catching fire, checked all my wires and electrical stuff. Nothing. I go downstairs to see if my mother sprayed something, and it is coming from the hallway, or so I thought. I went back upstairs. The smell got worse. I decided to open the damn window, screw the storms. I shut the vent or opened it (no idea) on my AC. Then go downstairs again because I had to pee. I check on my mother as her sugar was low. She was fine and then I see the culprit. One of my sisters bought a Renuzit freshener thing that was pineapple and coconut. It was stinking up the house. I shut it, told my mother, put it in the kitchen, and then went back upstairs fucking swearing.

I was talking with my BFF about stuff. I asked if she was okay. She said she was but I knew she was stressed. I won’t go into it but I was glad she told me. I was getting sleepy so I told her goodnight and I will check in with her tomorrow. She said she hopes to sleep too. I lay down, and my fucking legs become stone and hurt like fucking hell. I sit up, take some magnesium as that is the only thing I can think of to calm it down. I shift my position, causing me to move my ankle. Dumb fucking move. I saw fucking stars. Still hurting so fucking bad. I waited, hoping it would settle down. It didn’t. BT med time! I start having anxiety. I am ready to call my fucking psychiatrist, but what the hell is she gonna do? It is fucking midnight. I hate this fucking shit.

All day I have been having body dysmorphia issues. I really hate my breasts. I want top surgery so damn bad. But because of my damn pain issues, I can’t have testosterone treatment, which is delaying the fucking top surgery consults and what not. If I had the money, they would be long gone! I would find a decent surgeon and be done with it. I hate my body. I hate myself more. I feel like I am a fucking idiot who should be fucking dead. My therapist said that it was reasonable that I am thinking about suicide. Who wouldn’t be if they were in my crummy shoes?

I have tried to get my head around it. Someone reported me, again, to Twitter about my talk about suicide. I have no idea what tweet it was as they didn’t tell me. If I did, I don’t remember it. I know I posted last Friday after my pain doc appt. But I don’t think I have posted anything this week. Unless the word itself, suicide, is what freaks people out and makes them report people. I don’t know. They are assholes. If they would talk to me, that would be okay. I don’t know. Sometimes I want to talk and other times, I get the concerned but I don’t know what to do with you people. And it is all fake sometimes. Pisses me off, like bother someone else with you fake sympathy or whatever bullshit you are giving me right now. I know what to do if my safety is in danger. Been down that road one too many times and don’t think that just because I talk about suicide that I don’t know the crisis number or the crisis text number or someone I can call if I feel like I am going to act on my thoughts/feelings. It’s as simple as that. Do I want to end my life, yes I do. Do I want to do it right this second? No. But the time will come when I have all my ducks in a row to execute my plan. I am working with my therapist to kind of break the cycle of overwhelm/end my life thoughts. But until then, I can still plan. It is an escape. You don’t believe me, do research.

I want the meds to work NOW. I don’t want to fucking wait. I am tired of waiting. I used to be a patient person. Now I am realizing being patient, means just that. You are a patient of some kind to someone. The pain doc, psychiatrist, physical therapist, etc. you have to wait to see them. And it fucking sucks. I am tired of waiting. I want treatment now. And dammit, if I don’t get treatment, I am going to die. Maybe not by the damn disease/condition I have, but by other means, which I don’t know exactly what they are. This dying this isn’t easy. Probably is if you have some lethal illness but not a chronic painful one.

I hate that I can’t move my damn ankle the way that it is suppose to move. It gets fucking upset with me. Going down the stairs or up the stairs aggravate it. My right ankle is sprained so it hurts because the tendons are swollen and stretched a little bit more than they are supposed to be. I also walked a lot today. And went up and down the stairs a lot to find out what that fucking smell was that was irritating my respiratory system. Set off my allergies big time. I am sending them a text tomorrow and put it in all caps. That will tell them how fucking pissed off I am. Assholes. I don’t know which sister it was, most likely the middle one but I can’t be sure. They will definitely hear about it later today.

What if I live?

What if I live?

Been thinking seriously of ending my life in a few weeks. I plan dates. It helps me cope knowing I have some date to look forward to so I know the misery will end. Usually this happens in a state of despair when my pain levels are high and all I can think about is death.

But the next morning, after a few hours or more of sleep, I feel differently. Some mornings I cannot believe I sunk so low. Yet usually there is some record of it—a blog or email or social media post. It brings me back, temporarily, to that place and I wonder what if I live rather than go through the plan to die?

I have few events coming up in the next few months. Something to look forward to, so to speak, yet on the nights of despair, they are far from reach, unable to be thought about. Someone said that I should write goodbye letters. I wrote one to my psychiatrist. The other 19 people on my list is a little harder. I don’t have all my ducks in a row, so to speak, to end my life like I had planned way back in March. I was supposed to die in June. It is now the middle of July and I am still here. I do’t feel that getting help would be helpful to me. I have been in therapy for 27 years, that is nearly half of my lifetime. Yet I still remain as suicidally trapped as I did when I was 15 years old and wanted to seriously end my life then.

What if I live?

I don’t know the answer to this question. I just keep going, hoping the day won’t come where I’ll say I’ve had enough and go through with my plan. I don’t want to live. I am in too much physical pain. CRPS has taken so much from me. Might as well take my life as well. I’m not worth living.

I feel like I am crying wolf too many times. I don’t think anyone believes just how serious I am this time. But even I am not 100% convinced I will end my life on the day I planned. What if I live? What if I die? What if I am rescued in time? No one knows my plan. Hell, I don’t even know it completely. I’ve been too afraid of putting it forward because that will make it more real. Do I have to end my life? I feel I have to. I feel no one cares how bad I hurt. And not one medical professional wants to see my suffering end. I’ve had enough of fighting for my care. I had to do this since I was 16. I can’t do it anymore. I’ve run out of gas. If I live, I’ll continue to suffer just so my family and friends aren’t in pain. What kind of life is that?

I’ve been pushing through trying to hang on. I know the demons will pass in the morning. Hence I live to see another day. Hence I live, least until despair grabs a hold of me once again.

What if I live?

One More Light

One More Light

****expressions of suicide in this blog are just that. I am blowing off steam, expressing myself because keeping it in hurts too much****

This song by Linkin Park recently won an award for something I cannot remember. I saw it a couple of days ago. I am not surprised as when I first heard it, I knew it would be the perfect song for suicide prevention. Yet somehow, with my upcoming demise, I cannot help but think of this song.

I was talking to a friend of mine who I told a few months ago that I had made the decision to end my life in a few months. I told her yesterday when I would do it. She asked if everything had been planned like we talked about. I realized I didn’t have all my ducks in a row. Hell, I still haven’t written my letters. I am finding it hard to say goodbye to those I love dearly. People always think that suicide is an impulsive act. That is kind of horseshit to those that suffer from it chronically. There is usually a lot of planning involved. Even Chester had a smile on his face and looked happy in the days before he ended his life. I nor anyone else will know what was going through his mind that lead him to this decision.

Pain o’clock started a little while ago. I am so fricken tired of hurting. I know that no medicine or treatment will bring me pain free. Even if I go through the pain program and their tasks, I will still have pain. I will just manage it better, which I guess it is better than what I am doing now. Even though I am on better pain meds to manage my pain, I am still having flares. I really think that if I was on a higher dose of meds, just 15 milligrams, I wouldn’t have so many flares per week. But according to my psychiatrist, they (pain docs) won’t do that. I have had enough. She saw me yesterday because she was worried about me after I sent her a few emails about how bad the pain was and how my suicidality was increased. I am tired of fighting the supposed experts. It is shit when they don’t fucking listen to the patient. Like what was the point of me seeing her if she wasn’t going to do anything? I am done, so fucking done.

I am sorry to my friend and family about ending my life in the next few weeks. I tried really hard to manage my pain better but they fucked me over. My light needs to be extinguished. I can’t go on like this anymore. I don’t have a fucking life. I can’t even fucking read a book for fun anymore or go to Starbucks to write in my journal about mundane things without pain. It is only going to therapy or medical appointments these days. Often I leave an hour or two early so I do have time to cope with travel and write because as you can see, there are more than a few days between entries. Even my night journal doesn’t have that many entries. I should be on my new journal by now as I am so close to the last few pages but I am not because I don’t fucking care. I plan my death. I rather do that. That gives me hope that I can escape from this hell.

I am so very sorry for hurting any and everyone involved in my life. I know there are many people that will be hurt that that I am gone. If I could put a band-aid on your hearts I would. I don’t blame anyone. This isn’t anyone’s fault. I have postponed this long enough. I was supposed to die in June and here it is July. I wish I had the time to analyze this song. It is such a beautiful song with so many meanings.

painsomnia ramble

Painsomnia ramble

It is almost 0500. I have yet to sleep. I thought I would write to see if that would help me fall asleep. I went to have something to eat and as I turned to walk back to the stairs, my ankle gave out on me. I couldn’t bear weight on it. It was the slowest walk through the house. There was no one I could call as it was so early in the morning. Now I am in a lot of pain, more than what I was in.

I was thinking about what I wrote early in yesterday’s blog about there being a kind of “split” where you have this dark side no one knows about and then you have this side where you appear like nothing is wrong. I want to write more about it but my mind isn’t that clear. I took some Neurontin and so I am kind of cloudy. I don’t know what more to say about it because it is how I feel. Like if I unleash the dark side people will freak out and maybe force me in the hospital or something. I emailed my psychiatrist and let her know yesterday was the day I wanted to end things. I also told her about my mother’s upcoming surgery and how I had planned my death before I knew she was going to have surgery. I told her I really wish I went through with it as I was and still am in a lot of pain. I am regretting the decision to put it off. I wrote her the goodbye letter. I didn’t tell her that though. I told her that next time I will go through with it as I will not make that mistake of taking back the decision and postponing the inevitable.

In the meantime, I am supposed to live my life like it is all hunky dory and shit. Other than my online friends and a few close people, no one knows about my plan. Hell, I don’t even know if I have a plan. I haven’t checked out the location so I have no idea if that will work out. It has to be a desolate area or I am fucked. Someone sees me and the chance of rescue is great. I don’t want that. I really don’t want to be fucking saved by some stranger. That is a fear. I just wish I had a car so I can drive some place and do it there. Easy clean up too. Kind of. I don’t know. It is not like I have done this before. No one knows what my plan is. And I won’t tell anyone. I think my therapist might know but I am not sure. We haven’t talked about suicide in a long time. And we won’t. There is no point. I have made my mind and I am going to stick with it when the time comes.

I have been trying to manage this pain. I tried distraction. Playing with my phone, being on social media, though nothing is really going on at these hours. I was talking to someone about cats. But that was hours ago. I wrote some tweets. I posted some Instagram pics. I was really bored. I really screwed up my ankle. It feels like someone is trying to cut it off. Fucking pain is terrible. It going up my ankle but only half way. So fucking weird. I am just going to stay up until I pass out. I can’t sleep anyway. Every time I lay down, pain increases. I try to wait it out but after three minutes I kind of lose it and have to sit up. I had the AC on but it is cool outside. It is also 30.2 for barometric pressure, which is why my pain is all fucking whacky. Hope it settles down. I will take another Ativan in about an hour. Hope it fucking helps.