What The F*ck Is Wrong With Me

I hate labels.

I don't hate labels because I'm a 26 year old Millennial. I hate them because since I've been 11, everyone gives me a name. I mean, I suppose that started at birth. I hate my last name and family association, therefore I go by first and middle. Anyways, I hate labels because in order to treat an illness, you need a diagnosis, aka label. But no "treatment", i.e. medicine, has helped my "label". So.... if it's not helping, do I even have that illness?

I fit several diagnoses in the big mental health book!

I read another blog, just today, about a person talking about their mental illness. Specifically bipolar disorder; one of the many mental illnesses I've been diagnosed with. It instantly inspired me to write this blog. He talked about doing things that he doesn't understand doing, but doing it on purpose for seemingly no reason at all. Even to hurt other people. Even to hurt himself.

I relate to that.

He talked about rescuing a dog at one point, loving it, and keeping it for years. Then one day while on a hike, he randomly decided he didn't want it anymore. He gave it away to people he saw on the trail saying he "found it wandering" and asked them to "take it somewhere safe." He never saw that dog again.

I felt that.

He talked about spending all he had ($6k) when his intention was just to gamble $20 and have a good evening.

I felt that.

But he didn't mention anything regarding suicide. And most of the time I do the things I do because I want people to hate me. I want people to not want to be around me. I do this so I can attempt to kill myself easier. If no one cares and no one wants to be there, then it's easier. Indeed I truly would prefer to be dead, even at this very moment.

I've never really liked animals, but I have understood that emotion. I've gotten rid of people, and never talked to them again. My best friend asked me to be her bridesmaid. I was finally in the season of life to plan and do things for my loved friends, i.e. bridal shower. We held it in my home, it was so fun. I couldn't wait to be a cute bridesmaid. Days before her wedding after I had the dress, nails and shaved (because I don't usually and she asked nicely), I told her I wasn't coming. And didn't go. I'm just now finally donating my brides maid dress that still has the tags, never worn. I told her my mental health was bad, it was, and that I wanted to go to the hospital again.

Regarding money, I'm not a gambler, I guess I still have some Mormon qualities in me... But I did drop $500 cash (as a 1/3rd payment) once buying heroin and someones time to do an assisted suicide for me to ensure my death. And then, never showed up. Never saw any drugs. Didn't go through with it. Poof money gone.

This barn.

Once when I was homeless and staying with my grandparents, I used scissors to cut up all the money I had left to my name. $750 cut into random pieces right in front of my grandmother, and then thrown around her house. I was angry, I was going to kill myself and I figured the money couldn't be salvaged if destroyed. If I wasn't going to use it, then no one was. I was going to hang myself in their barn that day. Police found me first.

This blogger continued..

"And the absolute worst part of it all...

I hardly ever do any of those destructive things at all.

Those bipolar parts of my life are teeny tiny blips here and there. They are always shorted lived and within hours, days, or weeks I go back to normal functional living for quite some time. It never lasts long.

When my bipolar disorder isn't being triggered...

I'm so thoughtful of others the vast majority of the time.

I'm frugal and smart with my money the vast majority of the time.

I absolutely thrive the vast majority of the time."

And that hit me too. Everything except thriving on my own majority of the time, was me. I'm frugal, thoughtful, smart. Why am I not thriving? Well, I have other illnesses. My bipolar depression, Complex PTSD, anxiety, Borderline Personality-tornado-whirlwind-I-don't-know-what's-wrong-with-me-bull-shit... keeps going. It's harder for me to catch up.

He continues...

"My life is always almost functional. My life is always almost thriving. My relationships are always almost unbreakable. I just never...quite...get there, and I always am so keenly aware of just how close I am."

And I almost wish I was like that. I am aware of how close I could be. Because there have been good parts of my life. I've had good stretches where I want to say while reading his blog "YES I'M JUST LIKE YOU". But I'm currently going through a very long struggle. I'm no longer a high functioning mentally ill person. I'm just an educated one, with above average self esteem, and a toxic fake smile, bubbly disposition, and upbringing that interviews well.

His blog continues to talk about things that touch me emotionally. About having a monster inside me. Everyone experiences their mental illness differently. But there has to be enough similarities to be given the diagnosis. So what then? I just have it worse than him? "It" being mental illness. Well, the way I'm writing today sure sounds like it. You know what they say? You're your own worst enemy.

He said "It just fucking hurts. It's also often confusing." I feel like I'm quoting his entire blog. Trust me I will link it, but...

"It's like running inside of a giant paradoxical hamster wheel that never stops turning and never takes me where I think I'm going. And while I am running at full speed to no where fast, I also constantly trip over my own shoe laces. I get up. I always go. I keep running. I keep trying to get there. Then I trip on those same shoelaces again because they're always untied for some reason.

That's what bipolar disorder is to me. Or a big part of it anyway.

It's not just 'I feel depressed a lot, and then I feel crazy happy a lot.' "

I think the biggest difference between him and I is that he bounces back quicker. Way quicker. Or so it seems. I spend a lot more time dusting myself down between my falls.

Being on an off meds has hurt me more than helped me. And it hurts me deeply to say that. I wish something worked that didn't give me high blood pressure, hair loss, vomiting, nausea, daily migraines, intense weight gain, or trigger me to starve myself with disordered eating. I've felt more like that hamster being tested on than the hamster just running to run. Poked and prodded. Told that the reason I'm not doing well is because I "come off my meds." Um, no. That's not the case for me. Sorry.

I've had the woman at the ER triage roll her eyes at and scold me after giving her my diagnoses and after confirming I'm not on any medicine.

I've had EMTs pick me up from one of my suicide attempts (for over dosing on house hold meds) tell me that people who want to call the police during suicides are pussies. If I wanted to do it, do it. But since I made him work on a snowy day and come get me, that I need to stay awake with 30 plus benadryll in my system on the way to the hospital. (I was out for two days and remember very little after that.)

I've had a lot of bad things happen to me. And I hurt. I don't know what's wrong with me. Which is why I yearn for death. It's so simple. People try and talk me out of it ever being a solution, but it is. My suffering life would end. Suffering would end. Do you hear that? IT WOULD BE GONE! Why wouldn't you want that for me?

You do. Most of you reading this do. You just want it for me while I'm alive.

I've just lost hope it's possible. So I live life as a shell of someone I'm suppose to fill, often empty on the inside.

I have a mental health team. Yes they are aware of how I feel. Yes I go to my appointments. I'm doing these things without seemingly reaping any benefits. It's tiring to say in the least.

People say they wouldn't wish their worst pain on their enemies. Not me. I wish more people could sit here with me. And just understand. And love me anyways. As the broken, fucked up mess I am. No more debating with me. I've heard the pep talks. You don't know what this feels like, but I wish you did. I want you to know. I don't want to get closer to you, I want you closer to me. Because then you wouldn't ask me to keep living for you because you'd miss me. You'd want to die, too. You'd sit here, feel my pain as I felt yours as the empaths we are, and just cry. And then we might feel better for a few days until we that darkness becomes too much again. And again. And again.

I've met a few people like that. We are intense people. This is the spot where it feels like I'm suppose to give advice. But I don't have any today. Pick another one of my blogs.

His blog

Edited by: mc_hammer