Disclaimer: This post addresses mental illness and suicidal thoughts. Please read with caution and/or avoid if you are wary of triggers. Please also know that this is an outlet for me to vent; it is not a cry for help. We’re all here, blogging, as an outlet for something or other. Sometimes mine will be deeply personal. Today is one of those days.
The title of my post is totally telling on myself. (I say totally a lot. Get with the times, man.)
“I’m not crazy, I’m just a little unwell…”
You know. That little lyric from some Matchbox 20 song? I started to be embarrassed:
(a) That I quoted a Matchbox 20 song, and
(2) That I actually kinda liked some of the songs from that one album that time.
And then I said, well you know what? Fuck it! I used to like some Matchbox 20 songs! Kiss my ass! (Yeah, I’m still blushing. Suck it.)
Sometimes (nearly every day) I become convinced that I’m losing – or have already lost – huge irreplaceable chunks of my mind. Do you ever feel that way? No? Fuck me, that’s further proof, innit?
Time for a Tasters’ Choice Moment. So get ready to be made uncomfortable, or just run. Now. And far.
Why do I feel
crazy unwell? Allow me to count the ways:
- I talk to myself. Okay, look. I’m not the only one that does this at work. I talk to my computer or mumble to myself sometimes when I’m trying to work something out. But that’s not what I’m talking about here. I mean, I stand in front of a mirror and look that bitch straight in the eyes and tell her what a no good piece of shit she is. And then I enumerate the reasons. One by painful, sickening one. And I rage and cry and shake, this wild look in my eyes. It’s sick and twisted and so fucking insanely unhealthy. And I just. Keep. Doing it.
- Every single day, I harbor thoughts of death. And I don’t know whether this distinction will make any sense (or any difference) to potential readers, but…it’s not that I want to kill myself. I don’t. It’s that I no longer wish to be alive. Here. On this Earth. With no meaning. No purpose.
- Do you ever look at a coworker and (while she’s running her mouth) scream inside your head, “GO EAT A BAG OF DICKS AND JUMP INTO A FLAMING PILE OF FLAMINGO SHIT ALREADY!” Okay, somehow I don’t think this one makes me crazy. I think this one is perfectly normal.
- I sometimes sit on the floor, in the corner, at home. Curled up. For an hour or more. Staring off into space and crying. Oh yeah, we’re back into abnormal territory now, baby!
- Lately I have nightmares or bad dreams every night. This has been going on for a few weeks now. They used to be more sporadic. But they’ve been every night of late. They’re either really fucked up superscary, dark and terrifying shit. Or they’re really fucked up shit from my childhood. Which, for some reason, my lovely little
healthybrain has decided to revisit and replay in sickening detail. Over. And over. And over again. My brain is a fucking asshole.
I need to get back to nature. I’m craving it. Viscerally. I need to get the hiking boots out, dust off the tent and return to the wilderness soon. To remind myself that I have a soul. And to reconnect with it. To commune with nature and be at peace. To feel alive.
*Please know I’m neither soliciting nor hoping for sympathy or the telephone number for National Suicide Prevention. In fact, for those in need, that number is: 1 (800) 273-8255. If you feel that low, call. Call now. I will also kindly direct you to thoughtfully read this.
I just needed to vent, y’all. I really needed to vent today. And hell, I may not be done. I may be back for more. We’ll see.
Thank you, for listening.