Time to Give Up.

When I was a kid, I used to dream of being an adult. I used to look forward to the days when I’d have freedom to come and go as I wished, when I could do whatever I wanted, when I could be my own person. When I was a teenager, I used to dream of being an adult, when I’d finally have my life figured out, when I’d have worked through my issues and I’d have a speck of happiness. Today, I’m an adult, and I no longer have dreams.

The freedom I always dreamed of was taken away from me by this illness that takes over me, that controls my every move and thought, even when I think the moves and thoughts are my own. Sometimes, I don’t even realize how I’m being moved by this, until I see how erratically I’m acting or how uncontrollably my thoughts are racing. It’s then that I realize that I can no longer make my own, free decisions. Everything I do, is, somehow, influenced by this thing that has become a huge part of me.

The life I wanted to have figured out never really happened. Of course, I can never get through with any plans, because I have become an insecure, weak person, with no will power to go on. Of course, I’ll never try hard enough for anything I really want, because I’m terrified of failing and just proving by actual facts how much of a worthless piece of shit I actually am. I’d rather fool myself by not trying and give up half way through so I don’t have to deal with failure and rejection.

And the speck of happiness I wished for? I don’t even remember what it is like, to be happy. Okay days are the best I hope for right now, and they’re mostly so rare. It’s been literally fifteen years I haven’t been happy, and I see no light ahead of me for that happening any time soon. All I feel is hopelessness, rage, resent.

I feel hopeless every time I feel like I do now, like my meds are stopping working. It’s what? The 8th time? The 10th? The 15th? I don’t even know anymore which time it is, but it doesn’t really matter. It happens over and over and over again. And all it does to me is prove that this will never end. The instability will never end, the pain will never end. I’ve tried DOZENS of meds that will eventually fail me. I’ve tried therapy, I’ve tried changing major, moving half a world away, I’ve tried EVERYTHING. Nothing. Ever. Works. This will never end. How can I feel anything but hopeless?

I feel rage and resent that no one notices. No one. Not my family, not my friends, not my boyfriend. I walk among them every day. To some of them, I talk about dying and suicide. Heck, last week, I wrote this long awareness post for Suicide Prevention Day and posted for everyone to see, talking about suicide and its facts and how you should pay attention to people around you. But no. They don’t see. They couldn’t see a cry for help if one bit them in the ass. Yet, when I kill myself, I bet I’l get a bunch of shocked Facebook posts on my Wall, “Why did you do this? You were always so happy and making people laugh.” I wish I would be around to see the repercussions of it.

I wish I knew what makes me so worthless and invisible to people, why is it that no one can spare some time, or no one can get into it deep enough to deal. I wish I knew why I’m not worth it, people’s time, people’s love, people’s care. I tried, you know? I’ve always been such a good friend. Everyone talks to me about everything, and everyone leans on me. But when I need someone, there is never anyone around. I just… I can’t.

I can’t do this anymore. I’m not strong enough. I’ve spent most of my life hurting. I’ve spent my childhood, my teenage years and half of my twenties. HASN’T IT BEEN ENOUGH? Can’t it just go away? Why do I need to keep struggling to go through every day? Why does this have to be my life?

I know, no one said it would be easy. But I didn’t sign up for this. I’m tired. I’m done.

Sad thing is, there’s so many things I want to do. So many things I want to say. So many things I want to be. But I can’t. I need to go.

It’s time to give up. It’s time to throw in the towel. I’ll see you next time.

Not that anyone cares anyway, no one reads this.

When Young Successful People Kill Themselves

Even before I the tragic suicide of Lee Thompson Young, I was talking to my family about how many young famous people are dying by their own hands lately. This is something that always caught my attention, something I always sort of identified with, in a way.

Not that I’m successful, of course. But I guess that it’s because when you seem to have it all, it’s easier for your pain to go unnoticed. And that’s something that really gets to me. When I write, that’s the kind of character I like to approach.

My whole life I have been the kind of person whose pain has gone by unnoticed, while most of the time, I can’t go into a room without catching people’s attention. It’s just who I am, you know? I’m mostly an extrovert, I’m chatty, bubbly, I talk a lot. So, people just don’t see what’s under the surface. I seem to have it all.

That’s why when I see someone like Gia Allemand killed herself, something inside of me twists. I had actually never heard of the girl before, but I was reading about her, seeing her pictures, and mostly, reading the comments about her, and pretty much all of them were: “Why would someone like her, who was beautiful, bright, rich, funny end her own life?” Why would someone who had it it all just kill themselves?

And that hits me to the core. Because it just shows how shallow people are. How superficially they look. Obviously, the girl didn’t have it all. Obviously, she wasn’t happy. It makes me wonder, when was the last time someone actually sat and asked, “Hey, Gia, how are you feeling? How have things been with you?” And meant it. Because it makes all the difference, to have someone that cares. That means it.

I was reading about Lee Thompson Young, and most of the comments, were, like Gia’s, that he made everyone around him just feel good! And, it makes me wonder, could no one see the sadness in his eyes, as he brought the smile to someone else’s?

Of course, I’m not blaming anyone. If someone really is set to kill themselves, there’s little anyone can do to stop them. That’s an illusion people like to put at the back of their guilty minds, that there’s something they could have done. Really, they couldn’t.

Still, I like to call attention to it, because it really makes a difference, to someone who’s living, and hurting, and thinking of killing themselves, when someone sees their pain. Especially someone who seems to have it all. As I was saying, when I write, I like to write, often, about beautiful, “richsh”, intelligent characters, who have issues, troubles, who need to succeed in life like everyone.

I know, that seems mostly unrelatable. I guess it’s because I’m sick to people look at the underdog. Everyone knows that the people who are being bullied need help. Everyone knows people who aren’t ‘successful’ — I’m talking career wise — may need help. Everyone knows people who are far off the socially imposed beauty standards — which I in no way condone — may need help.

But what about the people who are… just there? People who walk every day with smiles on their faces, with relationships, great jobs, happy families, beautiful looks? Who pays attention to them? Sometimes, they need help, too.

When a young successful person kills themselves, everyone is judgmental, about what a waste it is. About how they threw everything away. About how they have so much. But how different are they from you and me? Just because I’m about 10 sizes bigger and still trying to find my place in the world? Just because you have to work three jobs to make ends meet? Just because your sister’s best friend gets picked on at school every day. Is our depression more dignified than theirs? Are we allowed to hurt more? Is our suicide justified?

Bullshit! I say people who seem to have it all end up going unnoticed and that’s much harder on them. It’s hard for someone to ask for help, if they feel no one will understand their needs. For one, I feel for them. I feel for their success, and for their pain. I can’t imagine. I just hope they found peace.

It Doesn’t (Always) Get Better

Don’t get put off by the post title, this post isn’t going to be nearly as uninspiring as it sounds, I promise 🙂

First off, this isn’t about sexuality, despite the obvious reference here. The title of the post comes from a recent argument I had with someone. It was the usual “It gets better” argument, something that has become a mantra to people, a way to comfort others, which started off from the advice to teenagers that will get out from a difficult situation on nonacceptance — whether it comes from themselves or others — and their lives will improve, and it started being used to people with depression from other sources, mood disorders, mental illnesses. Except people don’t seem to realize there’s a clear flaw there.

Look, I’m not gay or trans, so, I can’t say how hard it is, or how it gets better. But, from a stand point of view, and from numerous testimonials, I’m guessing, it does get better. Or at least, you have the possibility of getting better. At some point of your life, you can see the light. You can see a way out of the darkness, you can see happiness.

Which is leading me to the second part of the argument I had. It all started when someone said, another classic, “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary situation.” Again, flawed. Because not all situations temporary, are they?

I’m not here to condone suicide, though you know I’ve thought about it. I’m just saying, that while some things are temporary, some are not. While some things get better, some do not. And that’s where my problem with these motivational speeches lie.

When you’re Bipolar, that’s not temporary. That’s something you’re going to have to deal with for the rest of your life. There are meds that can help you manage it, but it’s always there. It’s always there when you snap at someone for no reason, when your boyfriend wants to have sex and you don’t because your libido doesn’t exist from the meds, when you feel yourself building up to (hypo)mania and see no way of stopping it. It’s always there when someone talks about Bipolarity and you can tell them all about it, and they look at you weird, because they have no idea how you know so much about it, “It’s for a story,” you say. It’s always there when you realize that you have so many drugs on you that you don’t know what’s you anymore. But you can’t quit them. Ever. For the res of your life, it’s going to be there. So, no it’s not temporary. It’s something you have to live with every day.

And some people, they go through every day. I do. Some days are harder than others. Some days aren’t even that bad. We keep going. Thing is, though, some people want to be done with it. Can we blame them? Can we walk up to them and say, “Hey, it’s a permanent solution to something temporary?” When you KNOW that they’l have to live every day of their lives… managing? How is that fair? That speech?

And “It Gets Better?” When I was 10, I started getting depressed. I didn’t understand it, but I get it now. When I was 12, I was thinking about killing myself. I don’t know much of what I thought back then, because I used to rip my poems (wish I didn’t!). When I was 16 and had my first very, very bad bout of depression that I remember, I waited for things to get better. I got therapy. I got meds. But they didn’t.

I graduated High School. Things still didn’t get better. College wasn’t all that great. I lived abroad for a while. Nope. I changed college majors. Maybe that was it, you know? Another very bad crisis. I got a job I loved. Still not better. I even got a hell of a nice boyfriend. Not. Better.

But, you know. maybe that’s it. Maybe realizing that things do not get better is a good start. Because when you stop expecting them to, you live each day, as a single day, you live each good isolated moment, and that’s it. Of course, there are frustrating days, and days I hate the world and lots of ‘why mes’. But… knowing that, that sometimes it doesn’t get better, it helps. It helps me enjoy the good, instead of looking for better. Maybe that’s it. The good and the bad, all rolled into one, in seconds, minutes, hours and days.

And I keep living. Until I don’t.