Why do you hate yourself?

1900 - eight nation alliance

Oh, I know why. There is always a why. It starts with one or two thoughts, and then you spiral. You think of more and more reasons you are a worthless piece of shit. Go.

  • Fat
  • Working a job beneath you, yet you stay
  • Lazy
  • Slow
  • A mess
  • Desperate
  • Stupid, go do something worthwhile
  • Under-educated
  • Depressed
  • Disappear tomorrow, no one would fucking care
  • Weak
  • Mentally ill, mentally fucking weak
  • Boring, get a fucking hobby
  • Socially awkward, find a friend
  • Self pietying
  • Pathetic, waste time on this blog you fuck
  • A failure, go get a real education or job
  • A quitter, I probably should even try
  • Scared
  • Crave fucking attention
  • Crazy
  • Whiny, I hate you
  • Fucked
  • Dependent on your meds
  • Poor, fuck you
  • Unhealthy, eat more shit you shit
  • Ugly, why? look above, christ
  • Forgettable, why would they invite you
  • Shitty
  • Friendless, and you deserve it
  • Unlovable
  • Effeminate
  • God damn drug addict
  • Med abuser
  • You use alcohol sometimes to escape your problems
  • Really weak
  • Alone
  • Gay, homo, fag, fairy, fatty
  • Die
  • Christ, fuck you

Current Medication: Nuvigil 250mg, Seroquel XR 200mg, Strattera 100mg, Pristiq 100mg, Memantine 10mg, Lamictal 200mg

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Why do you hate yourself?

Choosing Happiness – You’re Welcome

firefox_2016-10-03_11-25-06“Happiness is a choice,” she said.

“Thanks, of course,” I lied.

What I actually meant? Fuck you. If you believe that, you don’t know real depression, fuck, you have no idea. Sad? No. It is not sadness, at least not what I have, “severe depression.” It is constantly fighting the thought that you are so god damn worthless you should be executed. The executioner, myself. I don’t even believe in capital punishment, it is a racist and barbaric practice. Yet, when it comes to me?

Apparently, I consider myself worse than murders, rapist and terrorist, because in the depths of depression, I entirely believe I should blow my fucking head off. And I fight. God, do I fight. I try to stay positive, remind myself it is just a passing mood, I don’t have a real reason to feel so awful. All of this helps, because happiness is a choice. Fuck. None of it helps. Nothing helps. I wait for the mood to pass. Then I remember that I’m not great, but not horrible enough to merit remove from this planet.

“Happiness is a choice,” she said.

“Thanks, of course,” I lied.

Having zero self-confidence, constantly needing external validation often leads me to playing a role for people. I know few who dislike me, I constantly play roles for those around me. I’ll make jokes about fashion, musicals and Cher for those who appreciate a gay schtick and I couldn’t care less about any of the three. Religious? I’ll say “bless” and pretend that I pray. Whatever gets me positive reinforcement. Please, validate me.

It is pathetic. I know that. It is exhausting. And yet the fear of rejection conquers all.

I don’t love myself, but maybe you will. Please, at least pretend.

 

Choosing Happiness – You’re Welcome

Dr: “You’re unlikely to experience pleasure in life”

captain 1911Just read the report from my psychological evaluation that I had done last week. The line I can’t let go, “His personality is such that he may have only a small capacity to experience pleasure in life.”

It feels and sounds true. Yet, reading it, so damning, part of me is devastated. A little of the hope I still have just died.

Below is a section of my psychological evaluation:

Psychological Functioning: The patient completed the MMPI-2, an empirically based measure of personality and psychopathology. His responses suggest that he cooperated with the evaluation enough to provide useful interpretive information and the resulting profile is considered an adequate indication of his present personality functioning.

The patient’s profile was developed using the D (depression), Pt (psychasthenia – fear, anxiety, tension, depression, intruding thoughts, and obsessive-compulsive symptoms); and, Pd (psychopathic deviant – rebellious, non-‐conforming; family problems; impulsive, angry, irritable, and dissatisfied) scales. Patients with this pattern tend to exhibit a pattern of chronic psychological maladjustment.

The patient appears to be quite anxious and depressed at this time. He may be feeling some tension and somatic distress along with his psychological problems. He endorsed several items related to suicidal ideation and should be monitored for risk. He indicated a history of impulsive acting-out and substance abuse for which he expressed guilt and remorse.

His personality is such that he may have only a small capacity to experience pleasure in life and tends to be pessimistic in outlook. It appears he is experiencing disturbed interpersonal relationships. Patients with this profile are prone to substance use and abuse disorders and all treatments involving medication should be carefully monitored.

Dr: “You’re unlikely to experience pleasure in life”

Pull the trigger you fuck

 I’ve been sad for much of the day. Issues at work prompted this sadness, but they are actually issues, I have a tangible reason for my sadness. That is odd, a good odd.

It only dipped into the familiar sucidal thoughts occasionally, not the constant and debilitating thoughts Im use to

I’ve been on Lamictal at 200mg for over two weeks, it is definitely helping. Today, knowing it was going to be rough, I also took to much Adderall, out of fear and desperation. I don’t want to go back to the non-functional state of just a few months ago. I’m not going to tolerate constant thoughts of suicidal anymore. So, instead I’m using drugs.

After twelve hours Lamictal stops helping. Always. And I know the second it stops. Yesterday I reached out to grab a cup, brushed against my stomach that has lost all trace of the decade long earned six-pack of six months ago. As my arm pushed against the new fat, my thought, “You have turned into a fat disgusting unfuckable shit. Kill yourself.” Yep, my mind at work.

That is where I am. Not sure if tonight if the coming down from a substantial dose of Adderall is also contributing, it does sometimes but not always. And I do dip at the twelve nourish point. Technically, I’m fairly close to my the six-week mark, the point it is entirely in your system. Lamictal has been a godsend. 

However, getting twelve hours of peace, knowing how a brain can work, entirely foreign to my own, the depressive streak in my nights is even more unbearable. I debate, well you’re not only thinking of suicide. You did have thirty seconds of thoughts on that video game, that you decided not to play. It could be worse, I could not even have passing thoughts. 

I could be back in the pit. The pit of being immobilized by the depression, suicidal is my only and constant thought. So, hey, my nights are fine. No they aren’t. Fuck I am sick of wanting my brains on the wall, on the ceiling, anywhere other then my head. Fuck. Fuck you. You weak pathetic faggot. Fuck. You worthless god dramatic fucking bitch. Worthless piece of shit. Fuck you.

And yet — Much of the past week has been good. I treasure the time I function, I don’t want to write a bitch pathetic blog, I want to use that time to accomplish normal life tasks. Sometimes I can even go to the grocery store without stress. How depressing is that? I feel the need to pat myself on the back for nothing worthy of celebration.

As has become routine, I’m posting when I just wish I had  to the balls to fucking end this. I don’t. Something that makes me feel more pathetic and ducking worthless. 

More beer now and a sleeping pill or five in an hour, then waking not up to a Lamictal. And my thought typing that line, “I hope I don’t wake up.” Fuck.

And dear god, don’t respond with some life is worth it horse shit. Rationally I understand this. Unfortunately, my mind doesn’t allow me to be just rational. If you get this, you aren’t naive enough to think a virtual “hug” or “positive vibes your way” does anything. In fact, it is depressing that people can think and validate themselves on prayers and hugs, I tried to help. Fuck you.

This state makes me to wish I never told my partner about my mental struggles. That way we could have a gun in the house. I’m not capable of killing myself. But I’d enjoy pushing an empty one into the back of my throat. Just to let my body know if I keep being a bitchy shit, I’m going to opt out.

Pull the trigger you fuck