I don't know what else to do.
I'm just...
...
For those who don't know...and I know none of you do...I've been suffering from depression for...many...many years. I don't go into the long...annoying...dead-end story. "Dead-end" because it hasn't gotten better. In fact...it's gotten worse.
Painfully, unbelievably worse.
To add icing to the cake, I have suicidal ideation. Suicidal thoughts. In the past two weeks, past months, and two years, they have increased...exponentially. They've even taken me by surprise a bit, but I'm used to it, really. The years have made me numb. Only more...confused. Broken. Jaded. Cynical...and really fucking sad.
Confused as to why I drag myself through this mess. Confused and angry and hurt that I continue to live, to put my loved ones through my shit, my problems just because I can't be brave enough to take whatever pain comes through offing myself. Just one time, and they will be free of a lifetime of nuances.
I wonder when that unexpected bullet runs through my skull.
I wonder when someone will finally kill me randomly on the street. In a store. Whatever they do with my body will mean nothing to me when I'm gone.
I wonder when someone will threaten someone I love enough that I will openly engage them without fear of dying.
Because I want to die.
More than anything.
And the worst part?
...I don't think anyone truly believes me.
Not my mother.
Not my brother.
Not my partner.
Not my therapist.
Not my psychiatrist.
...No one.
Because I believe if they did understand how much I want to die...they sure as hell wouldn't just have me sitting alone in my room, lost in my mind, day-in, day-out, when I cannot escape the person I despise most: myself.
Because that's where most of this all stems from.
It's all me.
It's not...really, anyone. Anything.
Just me.
Lil' ol'...annoying...useless...pathetic...me.
There are only two things holding me back from killing myself. I must have put a knife to my wrist at least twice recently, in this month, alone. But no one cares, methinks, because I'm still here, aren't I? Fucking coward, scaring people like that.
1) I don't want to suffer before I die.
2) I don't want to go to the very possible human construct we call Hell. If it exists.
Hopefully, there is nothing after we die.
Just...blissful non-existence.
I quit my job last Friday. Put in my two weeks notice. I have only four days before I'm done with that miserable place...or was it only me...that was miserable...at all?
Probably.
Wouldn't be a surprise, knowing how fucking pathetic I am.
Maybe not.
I do suffer from depression.
But where does it all...come from...?
...To sum it up?
Why, it's me, of course.
Were you expecting some...blame, somewhere?
Typical.
That, at least, would be interesting.
...No.
It's just me.
Pathetic, useless Maryam.
I could explain why, if you want to read a piss-poor pathetic excuse for a story.
I was born into a religion that was never mine. I followed it, believe it...until I grew old enough to ask questions and realize I didn't believe the same. I kept quiet for many years...more years and far quieter than even those closest to me probably know or understand. But I remember. I know. From childhood to teenhood, I was bombarded with the teachings of this religion. I became scared of what I really was. Of who I really was. Or who I was at the time, even. Still am, really...So I began to...self-loath. Because of course it had to be my fault. Oh, yes, lingering blame to this day rattles in my head, mocking me over something that cannot change and was never even taken into account: my parents had me. I might never be able to overcome this...internal blame I have for them to have had me. ME. I had no say in being here. I never wanted to be here. But my parents...just...of course...being saner than me...never thought about that.
And as the sad years went by, I just came to hate my existence. For reasons too complicated for even me to understand, but I do know this much, without a doubt:
I don't see myself and my existence the way saner "normal" people do. I see myself as two people. Oh, my...in many ways, I always have. I even gave that other person a name....once...and heard their voice at least...once...But there is that other me, too. The one I talk about all the time, the one melded with me, yet separate, but not like that other me that counts as the second. The one I see in the mirror and cannot tell if I am the victim or if I am the one I hate. The one I blame. I blame me just for...existing.
Because I'm too much of a coward to end my life, myself. I never wanted to be here.
The two sides have been fighting again...
One, who is obviously more powerful; "powerful" in that they have held onto the tiniest shred of possibility—not "hope"—that things can get better. The fucker.
Two, who is the dominant one; "dominant" in that they hold the strongest emotion, make the most noise—or lack thereof—in my fucking head and won't SHUT THE FUCK UP, DAMNIT because they are tired, so very tired and uselessly hopes this is all a dream my ten year old self made up. The fucker.
And if I die before I wake— goddamnit, what the fuck took you so long?
Going back to the present instead of the incessantly pissant mind of mine, this two weeks notice was supposed to be a blessing for me. It meant time to focus on myself, my health and making me better. Somehow. But it wasn't an impossible thought...even for me...
But, of course...reality hits.
And then you realize, "Well, Mar, you're an ASSHOLE because this means your dear Mr. Stark will have to take on the load of blah bleh pig latin red tape humanssuck 'cause your sad, pathetic self couldn't handle even three days of work out of an entire week!!"
"Oh, and did I mention the fact that you won't be able to DO anything while in this supposed 'self-healing' time? Not enough money. 'Cause you fucking QUIT YOUR JOB."
The fucker.
"Not to mention the additional stress this puts on poor Mr. Stark 'cause blah bleh blech blargh red tape humanssuck!"
Son of a BITCH, they're RIGHT!
I'm just making things worse! How dare I try to do what I think is best for me, the selfish materialistic kufr, while my dearly beloved has to take on all of this SHIT that was...well, already pre(eeeeeeee)tty shitty!!
"You wouldn't be doing this if you didn't have someone to lean back on!!"
DAMN RIGHT! I'd probably be dead by now, in fact!
...
Kind of sad when you think about it that way, actually. By "sad" I mean "Man, what am I still living for? Don't I have shaper knives in the kitchen?", by the way. No positive thoughts, here, nooooo ho-ho, not for ol' Mae-am...
Positive thoughts are fake.
I don't believe them.
Not for me.
How can I, when there's really...no proof? Of anything, really. Don't get me started...
...Whatever.
I'm still here. Unfortunately.
Why, I don't know.
I've done every passive thing in the books to get myself killed. Deathly thinking. Being reckless crossing the street. Not caring where I walk at night. Not paying attention at night. Praying to my childhood god to kill me like one prays for good health. Not taking care of myself. Pushing myself too hard. Not eating well on top of all of that...
I think, in fact, all I've managed to do is damage my brain quite a bit. My body isn't doing too good, either. I'm just going to suffer before I inevitably die, anyway, if I keep this up.
So again, that godawful powerful side of my being used override commands and I made the dumbass smart decision to quit my job. Because I personally believe my possible road to recovery begins with stopping something that brings me constant stress, self-loathing, self-doubt, anxiety, panic, and more deeply suicidal tendencies, as it is something I DON'T WANT TO DO.
Which is working. I don't want to work.
Get the fuck used to it, society.
...
On a lighter note. All I meant to say was that by next week I shouldn't be working anymore.
...
Yay.
More stress at home and the inability to do things that will actually make me happier, thus improve my overall health.
Pfft, 'course my fuckin' ass can't even be seem thankful Mr. Stark exists at all...
2016 – E.N.D.
Era Now Dies
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