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Empty, Hopeless Days
Even with the right medication, I sometimes wish I was dead.
That’s a bold statement, and I know it will probably freak out my mother and other family members who follow me, but it is far from hyperbole. At least, the sensation of wishing I would just stop being alive anymore only lasts a few hours to a few days, now, rather than stretching into months of frustration and anger at my own existence.
Not much of an at least, but its significant improvement. I can be thankful for that.
It is a different sensation from contemplating suicide — something I’m less familiar with, but have experienced, all the same. I have no desire to harm myself, or take my own life, even on the lowest of my days. It just always seemed impractical to me, that it would only cause more problems I was too sad to deal with. I already struggled to pull myself out of bed every day; I didn’t have the energy to find a blade, clean the blood, dress the wounds, and think of excuses for them, you know? And even if I had the guts to try and end my own life (I don’t) what if it failed? What if it left me permanently disabled, or with hefty hospital bills? What if a friend or family member walked in on me, and had me sent away for help I can’t afford?
Psychologically, it never appealed or made sense to me. In more practical terms, I was too busy, too broke, and too sad…
