I Write

When I'm stressed, I write.

When I'm sad, I write.

When I'm experiencing a flash back, I write.

When my racing thoughts won't stop, I write.

I know my mental illness is a heavy burden. I know people like me are burdens. So much so, there is something called "burn out" in the mental health and social work community. Mental health facilities have high turn overs for all positions, including psychiatrists. Many have left the local Washington County/western Maryland area, where I live, leaving providers at a stand still with med management. Severally mentally ill people now leaning on their Primary Care Physicians, not specialized in the care they need. The field is over booked and over worked that they beg other doctors from hours away just to have tele-spych. Where you sit in a room with a camera, a mike and a T.V. to talk to a doctor some where else in the state.

High turn overs and few specialists aren't the only proof that I and thousands of other mentally ill people are a burdens. When I say the things that are inside my head out loud, people want me to go impatient. Again. Just another loony bin. I've been impatient several dozen times, in multiple different states. It's exhausted to be treated poorly, over and over again. Impatient facilities are pretty much only for stabilizing through sedation. So that you can be discharged for weekly care. Can't harm yourself if you can't get out of bed to piss, shit, or feed yourself, huh? Don't count on forming well thought sentences and expressing yourself to a doctor who will listen either. My local hospital turns me away when I ask to go impatient- on the rare occasion I actually want to keep myself safe, because I am a frequent flier and they too know, that they can't help me. That and I'm a bitch to work with.

Why am I forced to have police stalk me for welfare check ups to try and bring me to my local hospital that only turns me away? The only logical explanation is to shut me up. You so much as mention my name to any of the police in the area and they know who I am and where I live. They have my addressed memorized. Probably Posted Noted to every dispatchers viser in their vehicles. Untrained but armed men show up at my door to "help". They handcuff and transport me to the hospital attempting small talk on why I am not getting better. "Are you even trying? I know we have been here often over the years." Making empty promises that the doctors they are taking me to see will help me. *rolls eyes* Not realizing that the hospital just discharges me 2 hours later, making me beg for a ride home.

When turning down an IV and blood work a nurse at Meritus scoffed, "You were going to kill yourself, but you can't take a needle?" I smile with a devilish grin and let her know that "phobias are irrational fears- hense my needle phobias, but that I didn't need a needle to kill myself, plenty of other ways." Her name was Brenda and she looked perplexed. Bless her stupid middle aged fucked up soul. You know what they say though C's get degree's!

All of this for talking about the things inside my brain. I am encouraged to keep them to myself, write about them someplace else, or tell a therapist. But you can't even tell a trusted therapist, they send the police too. Always the mother fucking police. We need a better way.

I'm not allowed to talk about the things that hurt me. . . even to my boyfriend.

I told him that I didn't want to die alone, and imaged once he fell asleep, I'd take a bunch of benadryll, grab the rope I planed on using to aid me kill myself in my purse next to the bed, and snuggle up beside him. Pulling the rope tight as I started to fall asleep, and be gone next to him. Then I wouldn't be alone, and he wouldn't be responsible for my death.

Of course. He broke up with me.

I don't blame him one bit. I scared the fucking shit out of him. And he didn't want to go to sleep.

His spoken thoughts aloud, through uneven breathy tears:

"Two things: (1) I can't keep doing this... (2) But I love her.

I know you won't get better even though other people think you will. It's just hard and I don't know what to do. The good times are amazing but the hard times are so intense.

You are simultaneously the best and worse relationship I have ever had."

I AM A BURDEN. Even to the people who love me the very most. They told me so. I know it. I can't un-hear their words.

Financially, emotional, physically. In every way I am a burden. Sometimes I do it on purpose, self sabotage is another symptom of mental illness. And have been since I was a child. And you literally can't prove me wrong. You can't take back their words. They said them. They are real. You could however say I haven't met the right people to love me through all the hard times. But when is enough? That just sounds like blaming me for not finding what I need to survive. It sounds like I deserve to suffer until there are people able to handle the emotional abuse I frequently hand out.

If enduring through my suffering is just suppose to "make me stronger", I choose to stay weak. I don't want this. You don't want this. No one wants this.

My mere existence causes me immense pain and suffering. You can't possibly understand how much I suffer if you don't believe that death should be an option for anyone or everyone. I know that my mental illness tells me these things. But they aren't lies, they are the truth and I have multiple suicide attempts that prove it. I am self aware enough to know that. But knowledge of where the pain is coming from, DOESN'T STOP THE PAIN.

For fucks sakes, I've been in mental health treatment for my illnesses for 15 years, and it isn't helping. I'm left thinking and believing that I am crazy and don't deserve the life many others have. After all my life has come to, I would never tell someone they had to continue to live through hard things when their life was so miserable. I have grown as a person and learned coping skills, but the struggle of wanting to take my life has not gotten any easier. I can't even say it has gotten less frequent. It's daily. And sometimes it gets so bad it takes weeks of my life away from never leaving my bed. Self harming. Crying and forcing sleep.

Even if there were more good times then bad, which there isn't, I still wouldn't chose this life.

This is why when people kill themselves successfully, they don't tell anyone, and you are often left wondering why they did it. If I ever stop talking about my mental illnesses, that is probably when you should be weary. Because talking about it now apparently prevents it. And that isn't what I want. There has been no time in my life, save it three months in 2016, that I was "okay" or "better". Bless those strange, happy, short, manic months. You're all I've ever known to be happy and right.

So if mental health professionals can't handle me and want to hand me off person to person because they can't tolerate hearing about how much I want to die and will likely kill myself, what makes you think I am handling myself any better. I'm literally stuck in a body that wants to die. I want to give it what it wants so I stop hurting. I'd love to get away from myself. I'm a fucking mess.

WHY IS THAT SO HARD TO UNDERSTAND?!

I know I need help, I just don't know where to find it.

Oh and happy fucking birthday to me. 27 feels like shit!