The story is a sad one, told many times… the story of my life in trying times.
I’m reading a (painfully slowly updated) Cabin Pressure fan fiction full of Martin!whump. Basically, he’s all depressed and suicidal and Douglas comes to the rescue. While the author is talented, and the story is decent, I feel like they don’t get depression. Especially a suicidal depression.
You can’t just bounce back from wanting to kill yourself / jumping off a bridge as quickly as Martin seems to. At least, I can’t. It takes time, love, patience, love, and time. And patience. Did I say that already?
While I don’t want the author to have ever gone through what I have, I do believe in writing what you know. Research can only take you so far.
I’m not saying that I’m writing what I know (hello! gay sex!), but I’m touchy about people who write about mental illness. And yes, I’m a bazillionty hundred thousandy percent that there are gay men reading fan fic written by women who probably get pissed at unrealistic portrayals, too. Actually, I know for a fact that a gay guy took the time and wrote a guide on gay sex for fan fic authors… and I’m not ashamed to say I have it bookmarked. Just in case I want to pull a lemon out of my citrus pocket.
(I always feel like I need to preface shit like that with: “Pot. Kettle. Got it. Movin’ on.”)
But since I feel like the internet’s poster child for mental illness in my corner of the world, I want everyone to know exactly what it feels like to be suicidal. To plan the day you’re going to kill yourself. To face rushing water under a bridge and prepare to jump. I don’t want it glossed over which is what a lot of fiction writers do…
We’re never going to get the understanding, love, time and patience we need until people KNOW, until they get that punch in the gut that clues them into the fact that it’s not all in a depressed person’s head.
That this is real.
That this is painful.
That it fucking sucks.
I hate Martin!whump. I hate whump in all forms, so I’ll never write it, but damn, some days I want to.
Just so the authors can see how it really is.
stormageddon wishes you a happy not mum’s day!
I hate Facebook on holidays.
Especially holidays banned by The Dead Parents Club general membership.
I can’t deal with the tributes to the dead parents.
I can’t deal with the tributes to the living parents.
I just can’t deal. Period.
Talk to me when today is over…
if it wasn’t 90 degrees in this house, i’d be wearing a shock blanket, too
Normal people hate Sundays because it means they have to go back to work on Monday. I hate Sundays because it means J has to go back to work and I’m left here.
Sundays always tend to find me in a really bad space because of that.
I’m in such a bad place, that I broke down earlier…
J was going grocery shopping and he asked me what I wanted. I pretty much screamed, “I WANT A FUCKING JOB!”
From there it went from bad to worse as I laid the following out for him:
I have a second interview with the industry place on Tuesday. I know - this is a TERRIBLE thing. How DARE they ask me back?!
The interview I was supposed to have on Friday for the Cost job has not yet been rescheduled.
The second interview - if there is one for the retirement place - won’t be until next week. Possibly. Or the week after.
Still no word from the hotel place regarding a second.
Let’s not forget, I passed up a second. (Granted, a place I didn’t want to work at, but still…)
My biggest fear now is that, because of shitty timing, I’ll be offered the job at the industry place before I know about any other position I might be the least bit interested in (i.e., the cost job, or the retirement place). It’s what happened when I took that temp job in March. I took the one that sounded good, that offered first, because I got twitchy about being stuck at home. In the end, I missed out on a second, and a first interview at two different places that would have probably been much better fits.
I don’t want to make the wrong choice.
I’m TERRIFIED to make the wrong choice.
How the hell am I supposed to get past this and trust myself?!?!
For one child who is considering suicide:
Sweetheart, I am so sorry you hurt. I would so like to hold you and rock you and kiss the top of your head and tell you there are voices so much stronger than theirs that you can choose to hear. That the world is so much bigger than their tiny minds. That you will be okay. Don’t go.
I am forty-four years old today. I am a rape victim, a sufferer of bullying, the adult child of an alcoholic, an orphan thanks to one parent who blew his brains out last year and one who died due to his drunken idiocy, a chronic pain sufferer, an addict as a result, the mother of an autistic child, unemployed with zero opportunities on the horizon, I’ve lost my home, my waistline and my ego. And ya know what? I am happy as hell.
I was playing cards with one of my best friends on the planet the other night. We have held each other’s hands through life and death, laughing through tears and making inopportune masturbation or Tarot card references for over twenty-five years. We were both not okay last year, as we walk remarkably similar paths. The other night we were discussing how actually okay we were, in light of everything we had gone through. We weren’t sure how we GOT to “okay”, but we were there and could appreciate it.
In the past, I have not been able to take care of myself. I either waited for someone to do it for me, or I waited until I was so damaged and enraged that I could explode in a ball of fury, annihilating everything in my path, so that I would feel safe again. This, for the record, was not okay. I didn’t really get that, in any moment, I had the power to affect my own life and, well, not to quote at you, but to “change what I can.” I was a victim, a martyr, a rager, a stoic, an actor…. any one of which I thought could make people do what I thought I needed them to do to make me feel okay. Unfortunately, this meant that any cruelty, intended or not, cut me to the core. If someone didn’t react the way I thought I needed, I was destroyed. I was pretty fucking miserable.
My people walk twelve steps, over and over. The first one is admitting I am powerless over alcohol. The work of this step expands and teaches me I’m actually powerless over pretty much everything, which is shocking when you’ve been raised to believe you are God. (If everything is my fault, it must all be my doing. If only God does everything, I must be God. That’s some solid logic, I tell ya!) When I confronted the fact that I might not be the Highest Power, it felt like I was giving something up. My machinations and manipulations I believed made the world dance on strings were hard to cut, as imaginary as they were. I lost my identity. Who was I if not the person trying desperately to make the reflection in your eyes something I could stand?
However the transition into being Me… I have no clue how it happened. I just know I quit worrying about who I was to everyone else. I quit trying to read your mind to find out who you wanted me to be and then molding myself into that shape to receive the approval that would make me feel loved but somehow never really did, since it wasn’t really me being loved. My friend and I agreed that a year ago even, we were sitting in the tunnel, PRAYING for a train so at least we could see some light. Now we’re breathing air and wishing on stars.
The only thing we knew for sure is that we didn’t quit. Now we are here.
It’s not the perfect I thought perfect was. But it’s perfect and I’m IN it. And because I came out of that place, I know it and I know I can come out again. So….
Whatever your pain, whatever you see in the mirror, whatever heartache you know, whatever name you’ve been called, whatever anger is eating you, I’m telling you, you can take power away from it and give it back to yourself again. It will happen if you don’t quit. There is no other option.
I wish my father hadn’t killed himself. I am so grateful I did not make the same choice.
Please stay here. It’s worth it. YOU are worth it.
this makes me want to sing the moo cow song
moo moo moo cow, moo cow, moo
moo moo moo cow, moo cow, moo
moo moo moo cow, moo cow, moo
moo moo moo cow, moo cow, MOOOOOOOOO!!!
Yup. That’s what I got out my four years at UConn… the moo cow song.
If you’re ever REALLY unlucky, you’ll get to hear me sing it. (It’s not that I can’t sing… well, I can’t, but that’s not the point of the moo cow song.)
I’ve been such a lump on the couch all day.
Not that that’s anything new during my forced and unpaid staycation, but it’s starting to wear on me.
Like I want to go do stuff… I’m just not physically capable of it. (Hello, darkness, my old friend…)
Shit, I don’t even have the energy to engage in basic human needs like eating. And I am FUCKING starving.
But that means getting off the couch, walking twenty feet into the kitchen, opening the fridge… and shit, I’m already feeling overwhelmed. Better to stay on the couch.
I’ve become addicted to checking my FFN email address… and I’ve gotten one review: Wow! That’s such a lovely story! Thx!
Amazingly, that makes me feel well enough to sit up and grab the last, warm, sip of the vanilla coke that’s been sitting on the table since 9AM.
Any one who wants to argue that this shit is all in my head (which, yes, to some degree it is), needs to feel like this. This is decidedly not in my head - it’s in every joint of my body. Every cell of my skin… Remember when I said my hair hurts? IT STILL DOES. WORSE THAN THE OTHER DAY.
I don’t know how any one can survive this shit without meds…