Tag: mental pain

motions of living

by Midnight Demon, posted in Bipolar Disorder, blogging, chronic physical pain, depression, psychache, suicidality

It’s after midnight. With all the meds that I have taken because of my back pain, I should be out like a light. But as usual, the darkness has taken over me and I feel the need to write. I am thinking about my suicide plan, again. I can’t seem to not think about it. I know people need me to be here. And I want to be there for them, but I am suffering to the tenth degree of hell and I don’t know how much more I can take. I am not in serious pain, though my foot is throbbing like my heart beats. I can never get away from the throbbing.

I was reading a self-help book tonight about shame and perfectionism. It got me thinking about how much I am hurting because I was abused but I never talked about the abuse. My therapist calls it “loyalty” to my parents. I won’t say that about my cousin because I have little to no contact with him. It makes me sick and triggers me every time I see him or hear his name. What is worse is that he has a brother that looks just like him. Freaks me out every time I see him. But I have to remind myself that he is not the one that hurt me. I don’t know why this stuff is coming up now. I guess it’s because it hasn’t been dealt with and keeps surfacing at inopportune times. Like do I really need to talk about this stuff? It’s not the reason why I want to kill myself. Though maybe the shame is. Shame is a big thing. But most of it has to do with the fact, I am ashamed of who I am. I am not a male like my brain thinks I am. And it hurts. Being in chronic shame hurts. I feel disgusted with myself about this. I am appalled that I have breasts and get a menstrual cycle. In a few weeks, I will have to have a pap smear. I am not sure how it will go as it is a new person. I don’t know if she will be good or bad. But I am a trusting type. I will tell her to use a small speculum and pray that I don’t feel anything because of my nerve injury. I think the stress of this has spilled over to shame. I hate my privates being looked at, even by a medical professional. It just makes me feel dirty though I know logically, there is nothing wrong with this. It is a medical examination to make sure things are “normal”. It has been ten long years since I last had an exam of this nature so I am long overdue. This person doesn’t know my history of abuse, my history of nerve damage, nothing of the nature. I just hope I don’t shock her when I tell her I can’t feel her touching me. It’s just another thing that I am embarrassed about.

Then I think, why bother with this exam when I am going to kill myself in a few weeks from the time of the exam. It makes no sense, but yet I go through the motions of living because it is expected of me. I hate this responsibility to others that is preventing me from killing myself. And why do I have it!?? My therapist says it’s because I am not an impulsive person. I used to be an impulsive person, but that was more than 20 years ago. I used to cut back then because it was my only way of coping with the pain. Now, I just think of these elaborate ways to kill myself that doesn’t involve drugs or cutting. I have moved past that and that scares me because the methods that I have chosen are more lethal. More lethal and less window of survival. I have thought it out very carefully. But again, my heart is conflicted. As much as it wants to die, it doesn’t want to cause others pain. I know that I will be dead and that it shouldn’t matter, but I am a sensitive person that thinks of these things. I wish I could be selfish, just a little bit of the time so I could try and take my life. But I am not. It was drilled into me at a young age to always put others first. And I am putting others first before taking my life. My therapist says that she will never recover from my death and I know that is true. UGH. I hate her for doing this to me! Why did she have to shed a tear when I told her years ago that I was going to take my life? It was that tear that is killing me today and part of the reason I am still here. Without her passion and love, I wouldn’t be here. I don’t mean love in a sexual sense. We are not “lovers”, just have a huge feelings toward one another. With my psychiatrist, there is a pride and joy I get from her. Her smile and comfort keeps me going. I know she will always be there for me, no matter the hour. And I do love her for that.

I really don’t think that if I didn’t have their belief in me when I feel so worthless and hopeless, I would still be here. Yet I still struggle to take my life. The constriction has its hold on me during these dark hours of the night. Yet they don’t show their face in the morning light. It’s terrible going through this night after night with no relief. If I could, I would end things now. But I don’t want my mother to find me. I feel that will kill her. I have to find a place to do the deed. And I have been lazy trying to find a spot. It’s not like I can google it. Why must suicide be so hard? Yet people do it every day. I envy them, I really do. No one sees this side of me. No one is there. Sure, there might be a hotline or crisis center I can call, but why bother. I am not in distress. I am not in imminent danger. I just feel like killing myself because my heart hurts. The heaviness is back and it’s hard to breathe. My left breast feels like it weighs 6,000 pounds upon my chest. Yet I often think of cutting it off with piano wire. I just am afraid of the ensuing blood coming out of me that I won’t be able to stop. I will bleed to death and that is not a good way to go. I hate myself for feeling this way. I feel evil. I feel like I have to do something to ease my ache in my chest but what? Tylenol won’t work or any other analgesic. Even my opioid pain meds won’t touch this ache. How am I to relieve this suffering? I can’t sleep. My brain won’t shut down. I am dying a slow death. I am tired of hurting this degree night after night. And it’s a lonely struggle. I smile it away so no one can see the hurt beneath the surface. It is for me to bear and me only. It’s called the motions of living and it sucks.

Writing Bug and Suicidal Risk

by Midnight Demon, posted in Bipolar Disorder, blogging, Chronic pain, chronic physical pain, depression, mood disorders, psychache, suicidality, suicide

Writing bug and Suicide Risk

I have the insatiable need to write. I thought about journaling but I don’t feel like entering my thoughts in a private journal. What I have to say is too important. It is about my suicidal feelings. I am torn, really torn, about what to do with them. I am in no danger tonight. But I picked a date and that date is slowly approaching. I have been trying not to think about it but it’s in the back of my head. I keep thinking/telling myself I don’t have to go through with this. That I can make it through. A friend of mine would be crushed without my help. And would be devastated with my loss. I can’t help but feel trapped. Like I can’t take my life because people need me to be here and I don’t want to be here any more. It’s a struggle I have been dealing with for years. I am tired of fighting this. I just want to give in to my thoughts, to not exist anymore. It’s painful to breathe. I am tired of the heaviness on my chest and the accompanying chest pains that magically appear and disappear on their own. Sometimes an Ativan is needed to get rid of these pains. I know it’s my anxiety when the pain goes away and the heaviness lessens.

Right now I feel like I am a burden to myself. I almost told my therapist today that I don’t want to meet twice a week anymore. I know she wouldn’t approve. She knows I have a date but I have not given it to her. I just can’t because I know she will try and stop me. It’s not like she is going to be okay with me dying by suicide. No therapist will. Then I have the agony of sending a copy of my book to a former therapist. If I send it now and she tries to get in touch with me after I die, I know the book was written in vain. Some writer I am. I write how much this process has helped me, how CAMS has helped me and then I kill myself? Good going. It just doesn’t make sense. I am afraid. I am afraid of getting older and I don’t want to live because I never wanted to be an adult. But my support system kept on telling me I was worth it and I believed them. So I am still here today.

I know one day I will end my life by my own hand. It is written in the statistics of suicide research. I fit every model. I am high risk because I have attempted multiple times, I have an abuse history, I am transgender, and I am hopelessly depressed. All these factors are not good in assessing suicide risk. The only thing I have not done is give away my most prized possessions. Though I really don’t have any. I have my suicide library that I value dearly but it hasn’t helped me deal with my suicide thoughts. I have not been cured of them and as one person in my life has said, I never will. I will always have these thoughts of ending my life. But do I have to act on them? Should I just let them fester until they boil over? I don’t know. Right now I am calm. I am just going through the motions of life as if I were living without thinking of taking my life. No one knows except my therapist and psychiatrist. (And now the blogosphere.) I really want to end my life yet I still want something from it. What I want, I don’t know what that is. I would love to complete my degree but I don’t have the money for it. I don’t even know if the stress of school will activate my paranoia and psychosis again. I do want to write another book. But I have no ideas. They are few and far between. Then I think I should go back to the hospital where I will be safe and possibly be able to think of something to write. But why bother with that if I just want to end my life in a month and a half or so. I am so torn. Ambivalence is such a bitch. And it’s not like you can do a pro/con thing when contemplating ending your life. Every time I do it, I seem to have more pros than cons. There are reasons why I want to end my life. I don’t want to be in chronic physical pain anymore. I don’t want to have psychache. I don’t want to live because I just can’t tolerate my self hate. I can’t tolerate being a woman when my brain keeps telling me I am a man. And the only reason I have not gone through with transition is because my mother won’t accept me as a man. So I rather die as her daughter than her son. I have nothing else to live for. I am only alive to keep my therapist and family happy. They know my suffering. I guess they rather see me suffer than to be dead. I have been fighting this depression for a really long time. I have been suicidal since I was eight. I first attempted when I was ten. That was thirty years ago. I think that is a long time to suffer from a depression that defies treatment. No pill alleviates my suffering and I have been on many. I am just a hopeless case.

I thought about sending this to my therapist but I am not going to. It is written by me and not my alter, Hyde. I am very tired but I am not in pain, least not physically. My brain just wouldn’t shut off until I wrote this stuff out. Now I am feeling sleepy and I think I can call it a night. These suicidal thoughts that come out are my midnight demons. They come out after midnight and I am truly in their grip. My heart is heavy and there is nothing I can take to make it light. My world is dark and gray. It has been like this for a very long time.

Night Rants

by Midnight Demon, posted in Bipolar Disorder, blogging, depression, mood disorders

Night Rants

I am having a hard time sleeping because I am so pissed off. A friend of mine commented on my 😦 profile pic on Facebook, saying that I “should get rid of that shit and put on the other pic” as it wasn’t me. My experiment is a success. People cannot tolerate another’s sadness. It has to go underground in order for people to ignore it. Well, I am keeping the profile pic up. I responded with “if you don’t like my profile pic, unfriend me. I don’t need negativity in my life. This is how I feel on a regular basis so if you can’t deal with it, BYE!” I then got a response saying that they like the “smiling” face better. I am tired of the fake smiles. She obviously didn’t get the point I was/am trying to make. It is so frustrating.

Then I was in a chat where a fella was arguing about suicide training. I really wanted to ask him if he had any training, whatsoever, that made him think he was superior than what my friend was trying to make in her statements. That really, really ticked me off. It’s bad enough that I can’t see my therapist because she is miles and miles away from me because I don’t have a car. I can’t see someone close to me because I don’t have the right “criteria” to be seen. I am too much of a high risk because of my suicidal history. I kid you not. When I found out that my therapist was making her home office 30 miles away from me, I called not one, not two, not three therapists but 10!!! And they ALL said the same thing. They would refer me to another therapist or clinic. One therapist, to be fair, I couldn’t see because she was on the 3rd floor of an apartment building with no elevator and I couldn’t make it up the stairs. So she said happy hunting. I wish I could have seen my Twitter buddy that is in the town over by me. Maybe he would be helpful to me, even though, at the time, we weren’t Twitter buddies. I wasn’t even active in Twitter land. My psychiatrist even tried finding me a therapist and that didn’t work out. You just mention suicide and there is a shut down of communication. Or people go berserk and flip out into hyperdrive. The question on the table that started it all was if a patient was in distress, should a healthcare provider respond to that distress on social media (social media are things like Facebook and Twitter). It was an interesting discussion but after a while, I lost interest. I had nothing to comment on and what I did, it wasn’t being responded to. I left half way through the chat.

I texted my “hubby” about people being jerks and he responded on my FB page about it. I had to laugh. It was so out of context it was funny. I call him my “hubby” because of an old joke I played on a coworker. She didn’t know I was gay and when my friend (hubby) and I started to have dinner together, she thought we were married because I had my claddaugh ring on my 4th finger on my left hand. She thought it was a wedding band. Since then, he became my hubby, though if his ex-wife ever found out, I think I would be dead.

My foot is starting to bother me and maybe I should listen to the voices telling me to take my pain medication. I hate taking the pills because they are so bitter. I have to swallow them quickly or they begin to melt, causing them to further be difficult to swallow. I would take them but I feel sick, probably because I haven’t took my night time meds and I am still not sleep. I sometimes get nauseous if I am sleepy and can’t sleep. But my tummy is doing flip flops for some reason. I don’t think it liked the combination of cole slaw and potato salad. I think I will stop here. I ran out of gas for my rants anyways.

Don’t Want This Night To End

by Midnight Demon, posted in Bipolar Disorder, blogging, cauda equina syndrome, chronic physical pain, depression

Don’t Want This Night to End

This is a song that I love by Luke Bryan. The video is fricken awesome. Though I don’t really like the follow up video. I was kind of hoping it was going to be another song on his album Tailights and Tailgates.

I had therapy today. It went okay though I don’t think we really talk about anything that was of importance. I brought up the letter and we talked about Hyde. I felt him brewing inside but she and I really didn’t want him to come out. He really is another part of me that is purely suicidal. And I think my menses has something to do with it as well as being in chronic pain. The perfect storm for him to come out is when I am in severe, excruciating pain, late at night, and I can’t sleep. It is the midnight demon quality. I also have to be in a writing mood. For some reason, he expresses himself through writing the most suicidal letters possible. The reason we didn’t want him to come out is because there is always the chance I could attempt suicide while in that frame of mind. I have never really attempted with him in control but that doesn’t mean that I can trust him. She didn’t say, exactly, what the letter did but it apparently had a devastating effect on her.

I went to Starbucks after session like I usually do. I had a Snicker’s latte (2 pumps mocha, 2 pumps caramel, 2 pumps toffee nut) and was contemplating something to eat but didn’t get anything. I journaled a bit while drinking my latte. I wrote a little more in detail about the session as it was fresh off my memory banks. I then wrote about other things. I think the last thing I wrote about was the horrific Amtrak train accident this morning. Seven people are dead because the train was going really fast in a slow zone, 100 MPH in a 50. It’s so sad.

I drank a lot of liquid between the latte and the iced tea I had for supper. I didn’t feel the need to go to the bathroom until I left my house to pick up my prescription at Walgreens. The leaking started and I didn’t feel anything. I hate dribbling. Even as I was approaching the house, the urge to go wasn’t strong, yet I had a full bladder. There was no way I didn’t. You can’t have a twenty ounce drink followed by a sixteen ounce and not be full. That’s over 1000 cc’s of fluid right there! I also wasn’t happy to find out that I am having break through bleeding. Looks like I will be stopping the pill next week so I can have a mense. I went through five packs of pills so it was a good run. I am averaging about 5-6 packs between break throughs. It just sucks because I have to wear female underwear and feminine products for a week. It’s just a big blow to my ego.