Tag: suicide

a good but tiring day

by Midnight Demon, posted in blogging, depression, suicide, suicide attempt, suicide attempt survivor

I didn’t sleep very well last night. I was up till around five and finally took a bunch of pills to get to sleep, nothing that would hurt me. I slept for about three hours and then slept for six. I am still tired and feel like I could go back to sleep with no problems.

The stress of not being able to use my laptop and worrying that it might catch fire is not sitting well with me. I shut down the laptop after I was able to retrieve my files that I wanted from them. I then uploaded it to Dropbox for safe keeping. When I woke up this morning, or maybe it was before I finally passed out, I made a copy on my portable hard drive. Now I have three copies of all my files. I just have to keep updating it.

I am glad I didn’t give away my old laptop or I would be screwed. And because this thing weighs like 10 lbs I won’t be lugging it. It’s too heavy to carry. It is still portable but I don’t want to run the risk of hurting myself while transporting it. It is going to get used to typing on this laptop because the keys are not as spread out as my new laptop is. I am just grateful that the laptop was under warranty and I can get it fixed, though I know it is going to take several weeks to do.

When I did wake up this afternoon, I found that the Yankees were losing big time to the Red Sox. Yea baby!! We are on the verge of sweeping them!! I then tuned into the OSU game (college football) and they are still beating San Diego State 42-7. I am very happy my teams are on a roll. This will be the second OSU win of the season.

I am feeling very tired. My brain just doesn’t want to wake up despite drinking some tea. I really want to get back to sleep but I fear that I will wake up at an early hour. I don’t feel like working on my book today. I doubt I can write anything useful in it. I don’t want to get myself revved up with emotion.

On another happy note, I was able to find an article using Google that I have been searching for the past few days. It was the last article in which Edwin Shneidman was alive. I was looking for his exact words that he used in the article. I copied it and placed it in my quotes page. I think it is important to note because he was one of the best. I am lucky to have talked to him before he died.

The quote was “How many suicides do you want, and I say I don’t want any, but I want there to be the freedom to do it. I study suicide but I am not pro-suicide. I’m for suicide prevention.” I study suicide so I can possibly prevent my own. That is why I became a member of the AAS and read a lot of articles on suicide and suicide attempts. I figure the only way to conquer the demons is by knowing the demons. Not everything works and sometimes all that does is time.

drinking and cutting

by Midnight Demon, posted in blogging, depression

***warning might be triggering***

Just finished my writing of four pages today. I talked about the benefits of hospitalization and such. I have good experience with that as I have been hospitalized over 30 times in my life. I had at least twenty by the time I was 25 years old. My depressions were brutal and all I could think about was killing myself. And back then, if you had any thoughts of suicide and were thinking about acting on it, it landed you in the hospital. Now you need a specific plan, time, and date before they admit you.

I have been having big self-harm urges today. It started last night and has not let up any today. I am able to distract myself with music and playing with my phone, usually by going on twitter. I rarely talk to anyone by my therapist about this, though today she wanted to know more about it and I blew her off. I don’t know why I blew her off. I don’t really know why I have the urges. But I just didn’t want to talk about it. I felt like if I did, the urges would come back stronger and I wouldn’t be able to keep them at bay. I deal with these urges for so long on my own that I still can’t let anyone in on them. They are too private for me to talk about. I know that the paper I wrote last night about my TG issues is a cause of it. I don’t understand the link between me being a male and me wanting to cut. And I don’t think I want to know. I also have been wanting to drink to get seriously drunk. Been staring at a bottle of crown royale the past few weeks. I could empty the bottle. It has about a fourth left if I let myself. I am just afraid of what I might do if I start drinking. I could get into the fuck it modes and take more meds than I should. I could accidently try and kill myself while under the influence. That is why I don’t drink. I am too afraid of what might happen. I have never drank and used my meds inappropriately. In fact, if I do have any alcoholic beverages, I usually don’t end up taking my narcotic medication because I am afraid of the side effects. I won’t even take an Ativan for fear of it slipping me into a coma, though I don’t take that much.

Ever since I had that mini suicide attempt last October I have been fearful of mind altering drugs and cutting. Cutting might seem harmless, but it really isn’t. Not to a former cutter. It is like a drug. Once you start, you can’t stop. You want to feel that “high” again and again with each blood drop. I can’t explain it beyond that. It’s like a thrill you can’t get otherwise. It lets go of the pain with each slash. I am just afraid of going too deep and needing stitches where I most likely will be hospitalized for my actions. They rarely let you go if you need stitches. And it’s terrible to have to sit and wait and wait and wait like you are some kind of leper. Even though you didn’t mean on doing yourself harm, they (psychiatrists and such) think you could be at risk for more harm. All it takes to get started is that one cut. And one cut is usually never enough. Just like with me, one sip of whiskey is never enough. I need more and more to get drunk. I am a binge drinker. I binge drink and then I am fine for months. But sometimes, I find that I can’t stop drinking. I am not an alcoholic. I just like to drink. And sometimes just one will do it. Sometimes five will do it. Other times it is the rest of the bottle.

I have never cut while drunk and I never drink while cutting. The hazards for going too deep and wild is too great, greater than overdosing on medication. I once wanted to cut my jugular while in a drunken rage so I decided to never mix the two. It takes some deep restraint not to give into impulses for either. And despite the impulse, I some how avoid doing serious harm to myself while under the influence of either substance. No, cutting is not an abused substance but it should be.

TG Issues 2

by Midnight Demon, posted in depression, suicide, transgender

Battles with self

I talked with my therapist today about a few things. She didn’t get the packet of letters that I mailed to her last week yet so I didn’t bring up the subject of grief.

What I did bring up, I have been wrestling with all day: my transgender issue. I have been born a biological female yet my head thinks I am a male. I asked my therapist calls me and she said a heterosexual male. My fear is that talking about this is going to stir up some feelings of suicidality. It almost always does because I am not born a male. I just think that I am one. I feel like I am one. Coming to terms of this has not been easy. It has only been so for the last few years that I have been open about this. I wish I could go back and say when I first started feeling this way and it would be around the time that I was in kindergarten, when I felt different than other girls. I always liked taking things apart to see how they worked. I didn’t like dolls growing up. Though I did like trucks and stuff. I would love playing over my friend Tony’s house. He had all the cool boy toys. We would play for hours. I was also into a lot of sports growing up. When Tony started to play baseball, he was on the Oakland A’s. He then decided he was not a Sox fan because he was on the A’s. I got mad at him for that, because I always felt like you had to root for the home team no matter what.

During the registration period, I asked my father if I could play baseball. It would have made me the happiest in the world. But my father said no because that was a boy sport. I was so hurt. But I didn’t let anyone know how hurt I was. We were poor so I never got the equipment needed except when a neighbor across the street cleanout his place and threw away his gloves. It was the first time I actually had baseball equipment. Tony and I played baseball together after school for I don’t know how long. When he was off with his team, I would throw the ball against the steps making diving plays and making believe I was throwing out the runner on second base. I played like that for hours. It was really fun. I could hit better than Tony did. I guess because I had a lot more anger than he did, I could also throw the ball farther too. We would have contests as to who could throw the farthest. I always won. I also threw the highest. Red Sox baseball became my passion. I would love to watch them play. I didn’t go to many games as a kid. Again it was because sports were a boy thing not a girl thing.

The only sport that I did get involved in was basketball. I might have been able to cream Tony but I never was good enough to make varsity. My career high is 4 points in one game, and that was because only five players showed up. Me being one of the five. It was a good game as we crushed Brighton. It must have been the first game that I ever played in the whole game, minus the time I spent nursing a calf cramp.

My father and mother never went to any of my games, even though we lived only a block from the high school. They just were interested in me. My couch told me I was the shortest player to jump high. That was because there was a high beam between my parent’s bedroom and the parlor. I used to always run and jump to see if I could hit it. It took me a long time but I finally was able to do it, though the downstairs tenants didn’t like it much.

Growing up I look at all the things that I hated about myself. I hated getting my periods and that caused me so much pain. I hate developing breasts. I was always bumping into things with them. And it hurt! I never liked the way I looked because of these things. I still don’t. I still think I am the ugliest person on the planet. And who could blame me. My father helped by calling me Faccia Brutto (ugly face in Italian) everyday for as long as I can remember.

I still am not happy with my breasts over all these years. Though I am getting creative and calling them gynecomastia (male breasts) and hoping that if I lose weight, they will shrink. But losing weight is hard when all you want to do is kill yourself.

For a long time, I never put the two together, the being a male and my suicidality. I really had no clue why I was suicidal until one night I had the revelation that it could be because I think I am a male and I really am not. It is very hurtful to be called a she when you want to be called a he. There was a time that I would always get complemented as a he and when the person recognize my gender they would get all frazzled and apologize. I always said it was ok and that I liked being called a him. It just feels more natural to me than being called a her. I can’t stand it. And I guess, subconsciously, it was hurting me. It took me to a dark place where suicide became my life’s goal. All I thought about was suicide. Killing myself was the ONLY way out of my situation. If I couldn’t be a male and be called him, then what was the purpose of me living.

Last year I decided that I was going to change my name to Mike and be Mike. I didn’t realize how hard it was going to be. It still is hard. I told my middle sister this and she was supportive but scared for me. Flashbacks of when I came out gay as a teenager came flooding back. I couldn’t tell my other sister I wanted to be a male or my mother. There would be no way for them to accept me for being me. My eight year old still asks if I am a guy or a girl and I always answer with, what do you think. And she goes with girl. It hurts. I will never forget the day when she came in to the bathroom when I was going and found out the truth. I was crushed. Really crushed. If there was a noose waiting for me that day, it would have had my neck in it. I so wanted to die and still want to die because I know I can’t live my life as a male. I don’t really know what that means because technically I do live as a male. I wear the boxers and clothes that are mens. The only thing female that I own are underwear and that is when I get my stupid period that has not been able to be stopped. I can’t go on if I am bleeding monthly. I know this deep down inside because it kills me to have a monthly so bad. It hurts. And there is no other way to describe it. I can’t tell you why it hurts, it just does. I have been living this way for most of my life and it kills me when people get the wrong pronoun and such. I know that by coming open will get people confused. I feel like I am causing them a burden and believe me, I would rather die than cause this grief.

I had a talk with my mother years ago about why I need to buy male things but it went by the way side. Even my youngest sister tried to get me to buy women’s clothes. I hate them. I never have like them from day one. They just don’t fit right. They don’t feel right. I wear mens clothes because they are comfortable to me. My middle sister wanted a football jersey for Christmas last year. She got a men’s large but she didn’t like it because it didn’t feel right. She wanted me to get her a female version but the only jerseys that I could get were men’s. Oh well. I ended up returning it for a medium. Now the guy is in jail for murder so she won’t be wearing the jersey at all!

I wish I could say that I am a female but it goes against the grain. Even typing the words has my gut in agony. I am a male trapped in a female’s body. I do not like it. I hate myself because of it. And I want to take my life because of the shame it has caused me.

loss of self

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

Today I broached the subject of grief with my therapist. She hasn’t received her packet of letters that describes my grief and how I think I should address it. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I think the reason for my craziness the last few months has to do with my grief and not dealing with it. Course, I didn’t think much of it until I asked if grief can cause psychosis. Then I just shut down. And thank god, it was the end of session. She wanted to see me tomorrow but I told her Tuesday was fine. It will give me more time to think about how to approach this.

She encouraged me to write about this stuff and how I am thinking about it but I don’t know how. Just thinking about my losses just makes me extremely sad. It’s like knocking the wind out of me. I mean, I used to be able to work two friggen jobs and now I can’t even work one. I was stable enough to work in one job for fourteen years and then I messed it up because my foot got messed up. I don’t know if I could work again at the same job. I would like to. But I can’t be all running around like I used to. Thing is, being a lab assistant, you sometimes have to do phlebotomy (draw blood) and I was never keen on drawing blood. Even the easiest of veins I blew and I don’t want to go back to it ever again. I was lucky my department didn’t have to do that. There was a separate department for blood draws.

It still hurts that after fourteen years of service I was just not accommodated by my job to do my job. It really hurts. I never told anyone how bad it is losing my job. Even though it has been almost a year and a half now. It also sucks I can’t do my other job of driving around Boston picking up samples because my driving record got messed up. I got a speeding ticket one morning because I was too sleepy to notice I was over the speed limit. But a State trooper noticed and I got fined. Then because I couldn’t pay the fine, my license got suspended. It took me almost a year to get it all cleared up. But it is going to take a while for me to have a “good” driving record again. And that kills me. I know it doesn’t matter now because by the time I have a car of my own again, I will be “good” again. But the fact that I can’t get a Zipcar to have some independence just kills me. I can borrow my sister’s car to go places but mostly her husband takes it and I hate driving the truck. I know I should conquer my fears and learn to get used to it but I have a peripheral defect and I am just afraid I am going to sideswipe someone or something. And I HATE backing up in the drive way because my sense is not great. Even with the car I hate it, especially when there is a car parked across my driveway.

I really have other deep losses such as the loss of myself and the loss of my abilities. Walking used to be my joy. I was able to walk long distances and think nothing of it. It never bothered me. Sometimes it did when I used to get Charlie horses if I walked too far and didn’t drink enough. But other than that, I really enjoyed walking to the train station which is about a mile away. I used to do the Walk for Hunger, which is a 20 mile walk around Boston. Haven’t done that in years but I am determined to do it one year, long as I go slow. I will have to do mega training to work up to it as right now my limit is four blocks .

Then I have the loss of my bodily functions. I never thought that at the age of 36/37 I would have to wear diapers to events that last longer than a few hours. This is because I no longer get the signals to my brain that my bladder is full. Once I am full, I start leaking excess until I do go. It isn’t until I feel wet do I ask myself the last time I went potty. The number 2’s are a different story. I can’t feel myself went I go unless my stools are hard. If you are the squeamish type, I would stop reading right now. This could be disgusting to you. If my stools are soft I don’t feel them as they move out. If I have the runs, I can quickly have an accident as I can’t hold them long, though I have been lucky the last few times in holding them in by not letting loose my farts. If I lose control of my farts, I lose control of my stool and well, you got it. A nice number 2 in the pants. It has only happened to me a few times, the worse was when I took too much fiber pills and thought I was farting but really I was shitting myself. That was a lesson learned. I usually take senna because I find that it is the only thing that makes me go without too much trouble. Too much however can cause very bad cramps and possible accidents. Every time I have an accident or have skid marks because I didn’t wipe myself well enough, I lose it. I really go into a darker place and usually want to kill myself. Same with when I have a urine accident but I am getting used to them. Having stool in my pants is a real downer. And I don’t think anyone can get used to that. It makes you feel so small. And people take it for granted that their bodies will tell them these things. My body, because of the nerve damage, no longer does. And it is a HUGE loss. Again, not something I have dealt with nor wanted to.

Then, of course, there is the loss of where I should be now had my mental illness not shut me down and forced me to stop school once again. I call this the “if onlys”, such as if only I didn’t have a psychotic breakdown in 2008, how different my life would have been. If only I went to a four year school instead of getting just my Associate’s degree I would be better off now than I was back then. If only I had decided to work part time and go to school full time would I have been better mentally than I am now. Or would the financial strain of not working been too much? Or would the strain of going to college full time really be my downfall? Either way, I can’t change any of it, but it is a HUGE loss to me not being able to go back because I fucked up. I should have just made a simple phone call to put my loans into deferment and I would have been able to go back now that I am just sitting on my ass doing nothing most days. I think me not going to back to college is the most hurtful to me because I loved my studies, didn’t matter what they were. I just loved being in academia. Psychology is really my thing. And I know I could have been a good therapist. But I don’t think those dreams are ever going to come true. Maybe if I win the lottery.

Then you take into account all the times I have been suicidal. It is a loss because I am still having to piece back my life and I don’t like it. I rather be pushing up daisies for eternity. But as past blogs have talked about, I can’t kill myself anymore than I can make a gourmet dinner. AND it hurts to go on living like this.