Lost at Sea

sI don’t know why I’ve decided to do this … I guess because for me, typing has become a lot easier than writing (it feels like it takes so much energy to write sometimes), it’s much more anonymous than writing things in a physical journal that someone could find and read, and I’m always on my computer anyway. I guess too, that maybe some part of me, even though I’m writing this only for myself, thinks that maybe one day someone going through the same thing might find this, and realize that they are not alone in their suffering. I know what it’s like to feel psycho crazy and to have no one listen to your or believe you. I want to be a good person, but I am controlled by a mind that I just do not understand. I want to seek help, but it seems like it is always unavailable. I feel like I am lost at sea – adrift alone in the ocean, close enough to see the shore but too weak to ever swim to it, and every now and again I set off a flair, but passing ships think that I should just be able to paddle myself there. Is this a good metaphor? Maybe not. Maybe it is confusing and doesn’t fully describe what my life feels like. I don’t know. I’m unsure about everything now. I don’t even know whether or not my reality aligns with everyone else’s, or whether or not I’m a good person. I like to think that I am, on my best days. But maybe not.

I don’t know what my future looks like. But I hope that if I chronicle my own struggles, that maybe one day someone will notice how difficult it is to find real help when you have a terrible mental illness.

I don’t know why I’ve decided to do this … I guess because for me, typing has become a lot easier than writing (it feels like it takes so much energy to write sometimes), it’s much more anonymous than writing things in a physical journal that someone could find and read, and I’m always on my computer anyway. I guess too, that maybe some part of me, even though I’m writing this only for myself, thinks that maybe one day someone going through the same thing might find this, and realize that they are not alone in their suffering. I know what it’s like to feel psycho crazy and to have no one listen to your or believe you. I want to be a good person, but I am controlled by a mind that I just do not understand. I want to seek help, but it seems like it is always unavailable. I feel like I am lost at sea – adrift alone in the ocean, close enough to see the shore but too weak to ever swim to it, and every now and again I set off a flair, but passing ships think that I should just be able to paddle myself there. Is this a good metaphor? Maybe not. Maybe it is confusing and doesn’t fully describe what my life feels like. I don’t know. I’m unsure about everything now. I don’t even know whether or not my reality aligns with everyone else’s, or whether or not I’m a good person. I like to think that I am, on my best days. But maybe not.

Let me back up a smidge. I am convinced that I have BDP. I have been depressed for as long as I can remember. Back in my religious days, I used to pray at night that I wouldn’t have to wake up. But lately, things have gotten so much worse. I’m depressed nearly all of the time. I go to work, come home, lie in bed. I can’t bring myself to eat, bathe, or walk my poor dog. Every little thing sets me off and makes me explode in hate at myself and at my only friend. I think about how I should not exist all the time. The pain would be less for me, and for those who know me. I think about how no one would even notice I was dead until the smell of me rotting spread outwards into my house, maybe after a few days or weeks. I think about ways I can kill myself all the time. Before, my plan was pills and alcohol. Now it is a quick cut to the throat. But I don’t want to die, really; I just want to be normal. To be able to connect with people, and love, and be loved, like everyone else. But I can’t do it.

I tried to get help. Twice now, I’ve been to the emergency room. Once about six months ago, and once just last week. Both times I told them I want to die. I’m trying to get a psychiatrist to see me, to diagnose me. To help me, and set me up with DBT and the right medication. But both times, the hospital locked me in all day, and then told me I wasn’t a danger to myself, I should talk to my family doctor about depression medication, and that a psychologist would follow up with me. A psychologist has never followed up with me. I don’t have a family doctor. So here I am. Hopeless, afraid, alone, and undiagnosed (possibly) with BDP.

I don’t know what my future looks like. But I hope that if I chronicle my own struggles, that maybe one day someone will notice how difficult it is to find real help when you have a terrible mental illness. How everyone shrugs you off, no one wants to deal with you, and you lose all hope. If I didn’t have a dog to take care of, I think I would be dead already.

nobody knows how my hopelessness grows … nothing I do means anything to you. — renata suzuki

Author: undiagnoseddiary

I write about my ongoing struggles with mental illness. I hope my anonymity lends itself to honesty so that someone else who is struggling can see that they are not alone. View all posts by undiagnoseddiary

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