I Want To Disappear

Last night I had some serious thoughts about harming myself, and even thought the world would be better off if I simply disappeared. It's been awhile since I've been that low, last night I was low. . . Falling deep into depression. In fact I've been circling the depression drain since the turn of the new year, and yesterday it came to ahead. I didn't have the strength to fight anymore.

You'll be happy to know I didn't harm myself and my suicidal thoughts were thrown away after I confided in my husband. That alone is something that takes a lot of strength for me to do, because when I'm in the mood I was last night—when the depression takes that strong of a hold—all I want to do is be left alone. I want to wallow in misery because I feel I deserve it. The belief that I'm no good sticks inside my head, and I hear my mother's voice telling me “you're just fishing for compliments.” And that's why I'm depressed or say negative things about myself. I'm simply looking for a compliment, but the truth is compliments make me feel worse than the degrading self-talk.

I cringe when my husband calls me beautiful, sexy, talented, amazing. They make me awkward and sometimes they depress me even more because I feel as if I'm tricking him—like I'm conning him into seeing something that isn't true about me.

How I see myself, especially on bad days, is a dirty, ungodly fat, lazy ass worthless artist following a broken hopeless dream. A disillusioned dreamer that is a selfish bastard, and at every turn finds a new way to fuck up despite knowing what they should be doing. A talent-less fraud. . . pathetic.

Someone not worthy of the man I married, hell not even worthy to live a day without being abused.

That's the woman my mother raised. Someone who believes her only purpose in life is to be used as a doormat and to suffer. A woman that tries to fight her way out, but does everything to keep herself falling backwards. It's a life of contradictions. . Utterly maddening.

So this first week of 2018 has been a struggle. . . A big struggle.

I want to write and work on my books, but I can't. The mental monster of my mother is there telling me I got lucky winning the award on my last novel. It tells me I lost my talent for story telling. . . That I suck at everything and will never make any type of living from this. Trying to sell your creative works is hard enough without internal slings.

Of course all this has been made worse by two things.

1. My one goal this year is to be running a mile by the end of the year. I've always loved running as a child, and I was fast. It was a joy I lost over the years, and one my mother often hammered down. So that is something I would like to work towards getting back. I started out trying to walk for ten minutes a day. This resulted in my Achilles tendon flaring up. I can now barely walk and I'm in pain all from a little walk. Not a good way to start the year off. Plus I hate myself for allowing my body to get this out of shape over the years. My husband tells me it really isn't my fault, that depression and anxiety has had a tight hold on me, and simply getting out of bed has been a battle since 2012. But that's not good enough for my internal critic.

2. My birthday is next Friday, and that is. . . No matter how hard I try to alter my way of thinking—of telling myself I no long live in the hell I once did—my birthday continues to be an awful time for me. In my family the one day of the year I looked forward to was my birthday. It was the one day my mom had to be nice to me, and the day was all about me (those were the house rules). However, that stopped being the case after I turned 15, and even before then I didn't get a birthday party. I ended getting a dinner out and that's it. My 16^th birthday. . . nightmare. No one ever made my birthday special, generally I got a “Happy Birthday, sorry I don't have money for gifts or a party. I'll make it up to you around tax time.” But my mother never did. That day has always been a big disappointment to me, so now my mind naturally prepares for it.

The gifts never mattered to me, the amount of money didn't matter. What I wanted—what I've always wanted was simply to feel like my mother gave a damn. . . That for one day I was a special person. A nice breakfast, a day out shopping or just window shopping, spending time together. Getting our nails done, getting our hair done. A nice surprise dinner with a few friends and cake. You have to have cake.

For my birthday I want to be surrounded by laughing and good times. Friends, family. That's all. I've never gotten any of that. Instead my birthday has always been as cold as the month it's in. Lonely. . . My husband tries but the damage has already been done. Now, if I actually got what I wanted for my birthday, I would feel very uncomfortable and awkward. I can't stand to have a day where I am in the spotlight, and yet that's what I want. It's a hell of a way to live.

And that's where I am right now. Between complete depression and wanting to be happier. It's miserable and I want to disappear.

Happy Birthday to me, and all the awful memories it brings up.

#Depression #SelfHarm #Suicide #2018 #SucksSoFar

~Jax~