On Not Wanting To Die Anymore

Or, "I'm definitely at the tail end of this depression thing and it's so weird to think of who I'm gonna be when it actually ends".

I wrote suicide fic today for the first time in roughly a year. Well, technically not fic - it was going to be, because a throwaway line in something I read a few days ago got my brain spinning, but then I decided it was too much angst to inflict on that side of that fandom and turned it into an original thing instead. It's actually more painful in that form, which is not something I thought would be possible but here we are. I mean, I dunno if it'll have that effect on anyone who ultimately reads the piece, but it hurt me to write it. And that, in turn, has me realizing a few things I wasn't expecting about my own journey and what's next for me.

I was diagnosed with depression at age eighteen. I probably should've been diagnosed when I was quite a few years younger - high school was not a good era for me, and in hindsight I probably developed everything by about age fifteen - but that didn't happen because of my mother. I know I make her look like a terrible person on here, and I swear she isn't, but I've been more affected by her "eccentricities" than my siblings have been. The one in play here was her deep desire to be considered acceptable by the people we know. (She's since begun to get over that, but as of when all my issues started manifesting, I was pretty sure she never would.) Keep in mind that I originated in super-religious homeschool-bubble hell. With the people I know in particular, mental illness is not something that's talked about. Ever. It's one of those "if we don't talk about it then it can't happen to any of our kids" things, on about the same level as the sexual orientation umbrella and underage pregnancy. (The umbrella is a story for another day, but as far as I know, no one who grew up in that community has gotten pregnant out of wedlock. Yet.) Honestly, I was a victim of circumstances here. I didn't know what I was feeling beyond that it sucked, and yet I knew better than to tell anyone. Weird dichotomy, but at the same time totally normal at that point.

The reason I finally did get diagnosed was the fallout of my first heartbreak. I've already written about the Vulcan, so I'm not going to do a detailed recap here, but sufficient to say, I did not know how to handle being turned down and did the bad-human thing and intentionally fed those feelings and... cut to two months after the heartbreak, me curled up in the fetal position in a bathroom during a church event of some sort, trying to figure out if there was any possible way to hurt myself and make it all stop. Even my mother couldn't ignore something on that scale. We both knew I could keep quiet (as I did for a while until I got sick of social taboos // my nonexistent verbal filter got the better of me once more). We both knew what it'd do to her reputation if I did successfully off myself. Getting help was finally the right answer.

I was in counseling for a while. My former speech coach knew someone (weird how that connection worked out, less weird considering the bridge woman probably called my issues two or three years earlier) and that was an interesting year or so of self-discovery. Didn't fix anything, but we did learn quite a bit about my fears and exactly how dysfunctional certain elements of my life were so that was fun.

More effectively, I got put on meds. I was medicated for a little under three years, and I will never fault anyone who needs that to stay alive and functional. It worked for me. It also gave me really bad headaches and upped my sex drive, which is apparently such a rare side effect that it isn't on the lists (apparently most people on antidepressants have zero physical desire; I was a hormonal nightmare and boy was that a fun convo to have with my doctor). And then there were the crying episodes. The crying episodes are why I stopped taking meds, because I had them while I was on three different things and it just got worse and I couldn't deal with it. Better to fight my demons on my own without any chemical help than to go through that again.

During this cycle, I read a lot about what I was dealing with. I made sure I was labeled with the right things. I know way more than I actually need to know about how depression works and how people get through it (or don't). I know that more likely than not, I will have several more dark periods at different points in my life, and I know how to handle them when they happen. I know how to take care of myself. But the thing about something as big as the desperate desire to just make everything stop is that after a while, it defines you. I didn't mean for that to happen, but eventually I got to the point where when I chose to tell someone why I acted the way I did, they weren't surprised. About a year ago, when I interviewed for my current job, I mentioned my mental health issues just to warn them that there would be days when I wouldn't be as consistent as usual because I was too busy trying to stay alive. It became my primary identifier - Depressed Girl. I didn't even mind.

Lately, though, things have been better. Screw it, things are a lot better. I don't want to die anymore, and I'm not sure how or why that clicked. It's not like I have anything going for me at the moment. I am completely ordinary. I have no friends in the face-to-face world (internet friends are amazing but sadly unhelpful here). I have no romantic prospects. I'm drowning in loneliness and disappointment. And yet, somewhere out there is something worth living for. I dunno what that something is yet. I know in my heart that there's someone out there who's going to love me even when I lapse again (and I'm not expecting much more than a warm body next to mine, I do not have high standards, that'd be enough I swear), but waiting sucks and knowing my luck, it's gonna be a few years. (I mean, obviously I would love to meet my Person ASAP, but with things as they are, the odds of anyone acceptable wandering into my life anytime soon are tiny.) I know I'm gonna have kids someday and I'm gonna be an excellent mother. But... I dunno, that isn't what's bringing me out of this. I'm not sure what is, but it's nice. Just needs to hurry up and define itself.

I don't want to die anymore. Six very powerful words. I'm moving forward, and I dunno what that means but it's going to be beautiful. I just need to... y'know, figure out who I am without the depressive cloud over me. Because honestly, I don't know. I don't know who I am anymore. The thing about developing something like this when you're a young kid is that when it finally stops, you don't exactly have anything to run back to. There's not that linear perfect restart point. There's nothing, and... it freaks me out. A lot. Because I have to start over, and I don't know who I want to become or how to do that, and I hate uncertainty more than anything. I wish there was a guide for doing this, getting your life back and becoming a person again, but... there isn't. I'm not that lucky. Guess I just have to wing it.

Song of the day - "The Whisperer", Sia // David Guetta.