The last time I received the diagnosis ‘depression’ I was 16 years old. It was little over a month before my 17th birthday, and I had taken an overdose of aspirin, paracetamol and ibuprofen. Of course it didn’t kill me. I took enough to make me ill and lose consciousness, but by the time my friends at school realised what I had done, it was too late to pump my stomach. My mentor and the woman who wrote down students that went AWOL drove me to hospital, rather than calling an ambulance. In the hospital they checked if my liver and kidneys were still OK. I spent the weekend on the psychiatric ward and wanted to go back to school the next Monday. Looking back on it I don’t think I really wanted to die. I was just so desperate to be seen and felt stuck. I didn’t want to do anything. I wanted someone to care about me and I just wanted to lie in bed and sleep. Or lie on the sofa and sleep. Mainly sleep. I’d read books to escape reality. Depression, for me at least, has always been associated with this complete apathy, this lack of motivation to do anything. I felt no sadness (or happiness for that matter). The only thing I felt was a mild annoyance at having to continue with my life: Go to school, do my homework etcetera. I quit my part-time job as a postwoman, because I struggled enough with the act of going to school. Maybe I was more lazy than truly depressed.
Right now, I received the diagnosis ‘depression’ for the second time in my life. Except this time I am not completely indifferent. This time I am so sad it physically hurts. If sad is the correct word. I struggle to keep myself together. I am constantly on the verge of hysterical crying. And I have everything to live for. I will finish my degree this May, I have a boyfriend who loves me, despite the complications that my eating disorder causes in our relationship.
But I can’t seem to focus on any of that. If it was up to me, I would pause my life and sort my shit out. Lose weight till I’m no longer overweight, sort out the issues of my past (sexual abuse and assault amongst other things). And then carry on with life. But unfortunately that is not an option. And so close to the end of my degree, I don’t want to quit uni now as it would be such a waste. I’m so close to having a degree, and I think that having it would take away a lot of the stress I have been experiencing.
Yet all of that does not take away the fact that I seem to have lost the ability to understand the point of life. Part of me doesn’t care whether or not I get a degree. What will I do with that degree? Get a job, and work for the rest of my life? What is the point in that? Why do people do that? At the present time I do not think I actively want to die. I just don’t want to live anymore. I have been feeling like this for a while now. I told myself it wasn’t bad, and that it was just a phase because of the stress of my degree and my eating disorder. And I justified it, by thinking that even normal person have the random thought every once in a while. The ”Oh, I could just drive off this cliff” thought you get when you have had a shitty day.
But they are no longer random thoughts. I got prescribed a week’s worth of the sleeping pill zopiclone a while back. Only half a dosage per pill (3.5 gram rather than the 7 grams). I’ve been taking 2 pills in order to get to sleep. My brain is full, I dislike watching tv because the adverts get stuck in my head. I dislike listening to radio or any music because the melody gets stuck in my head. I hate outside noises of cars and people because they disturb the rare moments of peace in my head. I mix regular over-the-counter sleeping pills with alcohol to be able to find some rest. And even then it is not a proper REM sleep. I wake up constantly and am exhausted, can’t concentrate on anything.
And I see opportunities everywhere. If I do the washing up and see the big knives my boyfriend uses when he cooks I think I can slice my wrists, or start cutting again, even though I don’t actually have the guts to do that anymore. If I go for a walk on the beach, something that normally calms me down, I think that I can just walk in the water, swim out to sea far enough so I can’t get back and get caught up in the stream so I drown. If I walk alongside the cliff tops I think about jumping off them. If I walk to the bus stop to get the bus to uni I think that I can jump in front of it. I clean up the bedroom and find a belt underneath the pile of dirty laundry and think about hanging myself.
And every time I don’t do anything, because I don’t want to put Mike (the boyfriend) through losing a loved one. Despite thinking that he would honestly be better off without me, without a girlfriend with an eating disorder and other psychological problems. That he should go out there and find someone who truly deserves him.
But I am growing tired of fighting the urge to do something stupid. Part of me thinks Mike will get over me killing myself, and carry on with life. Even though the sane bit of me knows that, as he is already 40 it will take a while to get over me and fall in love with someone else. It will most likely cause him not to have children as he would deem himself too old. And I don’t want to ruin his life.
I don’t want the responsibility of my own life at the moment. I don’t think I can handle it. I don’t actually want to commit suicide. I just don’t want to live anymore. It sounds like the same thing, but I think there is a very fine line between wanting to die and not wanting to live. I think, for as long as I ‘just’ don’t want to live I can manage by myself. I think the moment I actually want to die is where the real danger lies.