Content Warning: depictions of suicidal ideation, self-harm, and depression are extensively addressed. Please keep this in mind when choosing to continue reading.
suddenly coming to the realization that my addiction to food that prevents me from losing the weight I so desperately want to shed and my addiction to streaming tv shows and movies are just manifestations of me trying to escape my depression and all feelings associated with it!!1!
in honesty, i almost tried cutting this evening. of all the times ive imagined suicide, ive never given it serious consideration for many reasons, but tonight was the first time the pain was so great that I legitimately saw cutting as an option. before i didn’t understand how the pain could drive me to that but all of a sudden i found myself clawing at my wrists and chest in tears and idk if it was just the moment but the harder i clawed, the better I felt. i went downstairs and held the knife blade but knowing I didn’t want to fuck up and kill myself in the process I pulled it together. I tried to escape by just eating. I ate some of my homemade four cheese ravioli with pesto sauce (cooking has become another escape for me recently) and a bag of panera potato chips. I also had a mug of warm milk and honey but as I looked at my reflection in the microwave I just began to cry. This is the real me, but nobody knows her. I kept trying to imagine what it would be like if I finally had the courage to tell my friends that I was dealing with depression but it would mean that I had to admit that I’d been lying to them for so long. Every time they asked how I was doing. Every second of high school and every day when I just happily took being the butt of jokes. Pretending as if I wasn’t a part of the depressive faction of my generation. But I’m not sure how they never noticed because the pretend me has no personality. They know nothing about me except that I like elephants and like to sew. So how could they possibly handle this additional layer or two of me? I’d like to think at least one of them could deal with it, but I have no reference. We’re not the most vulnerable bunch and I’m not sure they really deal with conversations that aren’t directly or indirectly academic, professional, or involving some form of media entertainment. It’s a “safe” friendship. My family is out of the question because it’s like they’ve never even heard of mental health. I know for a solid fact that my PCP told my mother that I may have depression and it was never brought up again. All these years and any time I was in a really bad place, I was just gaslit and made to believe I was the problem. I will not talk much about my dad, but it kills me how after being physically abused by the man, literally slapped, hit, and dragged across the floor, nobody in my family stood up for me. Everyone pretends it never happened. I pretend it never happened. But I know it did. And every time I passively say to my friends “Oh I don’t like my dad” for once I’d just like to fully explain why. And every time I come home now and am forced to greet him and live among him, I have to swallow any ounce of pride and dignity I have left within me.
But alas, part of me just wishes that I didn’t need to tell anyone about this. That this wasn’t my life. I think that’s what I’ve been doing to myself. Denying it’s as bad as it really is. Making people believe that I’m really okay. The second I tell anyone about this, is the second I lose the relationship we used to have. It will forever be pity. It will forever be seeing me as a victim. It will never be the same.
My last attempt to escape enough to fall asleep is watching as much SNL on Hulu as possible, so until then, good night.