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Lonely days turn to lonely nights.

I have very little doubt that my life will end in suicide. I don't know when. I imagine I will need a catalyst to inspire the courage and motivation. How sad that my depression is so debilitating that I am unable to end my life.

I have been depressed since my earliest memories. My dad was an alcoholic and my mom didn't want kids. They both stole money form me as a child, any money I saved up on my own and my entire college fund. There is much suspicion that I was sexually abused as a child.

As a five or six year old, I very frequently cried myself to sleep and prayed to God to let me die in my sleep. During daylight hours, if I cried, I would take myself to a mirror and hit myself in the face and demand I stop crying.

The inevitable divorce came. It was ultimately a good thing, but it was lengthy and very cruel. Restraining orders and trips to see the judge were a regular part of my preteen life. Dear old dad recorded my phone calls without my knowledge. I always suspected but never proved that there was a camera in my room. This is also the time that my self harm graduated from hitting to cutting.

My grades did not suffer. My body did. I was nearly hospitalized for anorexia. I was going bald and my organs were beginning to fail. I wanted them to.

Anorexia gave way to bulimia. When my dad found out, he nearly hit me. I was not permitted to use the bathroom for one hour after meals. This had no impact on my illness. I merely threw up in my room, into a bin lined with two plastic bags and disposed of them the next day at school. My backpack stank.

The cutting remained a huge part of my life. I cut many times a day to keep my anxiety under control. It also helped me sleep – with great eating disorders come great insomnia. For many years, I slept a mere two to four hours a night. This did not upset my ballet, which I did for eleven years for 12-14 hours a week. Eventually I was forced to quit dancing as it was perceived to be the cause of my eating disorder. Unfortunately, I was my only passion in life.

I started dating a very nice guy, who was slightly older than me but not inappropriately so. I loved him, but he was unwilling to work on our pitiful sex life. He got what he wanted and was uninterested in what I wanted. This did not work for my voracious sexual appetite. I end it and promptly began sleeping with someone significantly older, this time inappropriately so.

The sex was great. My attention shifted to the joys of sex. The relationship was doomed, though. After moving in with this man to ironically escape my tumultuous life at home, we began doing methamphetamines and stopped having sex.

Nine months of uncontrolled drug use led to a hospital visit for a serious staph infection and an empty bank account and the realization I had to get away. I began sleeping with my best male friend. The sex was thrilling and satisfying and with someone my age.

I moved to a nearby town and was involved in a car accident that kept me from working. I transported cocaine for my dad to pay rent. Luckily, the lawsuit from the car accident paid for my medical.
My best friend and I moved to a different nearby town. I was clean and still seeing my best friend. The town was perfect and he was still good fun.

I then met an English guy. I moved to England after nine months of dating. The sex was good. He was very sweet.

I attended uni for a year and this financially hurts me to this day. I studied Cell & Molecular Bio. I felt like my life was finally going somewhere. England was harsh and the youth were cruel, though. It seems that being American was the worst thing a person could be. I didn’t make many friends. I quit uni after one year because I could not afford it.

The sex began to fade after two years of dating. We got married. I struggled with the sex enormously. Normally I was quick to move on. Instead I remained faithful. I began bartending. When I got bored with the job, I began stealing. Lots.
We moved to a Spanish island. I could not work. I got fat. I began drinking excessively. I was alone except for him. I began cutting again. The depression was severe.

We moved back to England and I went back to bartending. Living in isolation for so long made me awkward around people. I had many jobs in this town, none of them quite right. As a 24 year old who was bright, I had expected to have a career or at least be working towards one by now. The cutting continued. My husband was very sympathetic, although not fully understanding. He never asked me to stop. He just wanted me to be happy enough to not need it. I am beginning to think that this will never be the case for me.

He convinced me to quit my job to learn IT. Good idea, but it has led me to essentially being unemployed and alone and totally dependent on him. I think that last one is the worst. It is horrible. In two months we move to Sardinia – a move we are both dreading – so it would be pointless to try and get a job in a small town where I have already had to many jobs.

I see a therapist once a week. CBT. It is not helping. I still cut, after nearly thirteen years. I take ballet twice a week, but both of these things will cease in two months. I struggle with my weight. After “recovery” and all the drugs, I have gained quite a lot. I cannot stand the sight of myself. I sleep twelve or more hours a day. I cry at random. We have sex perhaps once a month. I have long since given up masturbation. Sex does not even remotely interest me, and this is particularly heartbreaking since it used to be such a wonderful part of my life.

I do not take enjoyment from anything. Not from exercise or sex. I have no friends, no independence, no money. I am often so mind numbingly depressed that simple tasks life keeping the house tidy feel impossible. I do, however, have a husband who love as much as I am capable. My emotions are largely muted and I feel little, other than sadness, of course. But I do not think my muted love for him counts for much anymore. That makes me incredibly sad. Most things do.

The upcoming move will not have a positive impact on anything. We do not know how long we will be there. I don’t know how long I can live in isolation. At least here I get out to see my therapist and go to ballet.

When I go to sleep at night, I still hope (I do not pray, that ridiculous belief ended long ago) that I will never wake up. When I wake up, I lie in bed for as long as possible because I have no reason in the world to get up or be alive. When I sleep, I dream about putting a gun to my temple and pulling the trigger.

But my preferred method of suicide is much less risky and much less messy. There will be no gruesome cleanup, just a quick call to remove my corpse. And I have no intention of letting my sweetheart find the body. After all the love he has tried to make me feel, that doesn’t seem right.

I am very tired and completely without hope for the future. I have had twenty-five depression filled years and there has not once been even a glimpse of a light at the end of this black tunnel. I am uninterested in perpetuating this pain. I just hope I can summon the courage and the energy to do it soon.

Comments

( 1 quenched the fire — Drown in good intentions )
october_sunday
Feb. 9th, 2015 05:21 am (UTC)
Our experiences are so different, but for some reason, this feels like reading pages from my own diary. I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe there's some deep seeded pain that lies common to us all.

My heart aches for you.
( 1 quenched the fire — Drown in good intentions )

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