2012

I’m only writing this because it feels so inspired by incessant insomnia these days. I didn’t sleep last night at all. I honestly don’t know how long I’ve been awake, all I know is that it’s been longer than a day. And it reminds me of some time ago.

In 2012, I found myself couch surfing on a friends couch after moving out of my parents house. I tried to make things work at my parents house, but I wasn’t really able to. After my dad had found out what happened to me, he was extremely upset, in my face and yelling. I know that he had done it because he was sad but it was already such a hard time for me that I just couldn’t take it. So, I moved out. And that’s when the insomnia I guess got really bad.

I was sleeping on their couch, well I was supposed to be, but not much sleeping happened. I’d say goodnight to them, and then I’d find myself scrolling on Tumblr for hours, til the sun came up. I’d see poems that I could relate to, or I’d write about what happened over and over because I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. I felt guilty for moving out of my parents house. I had my fish Jimmy with me, and a few bags of clothes. That was it. This was a really hard time for me. I missed my parents. I felt like my world was falling apart. I was having nightmares and feeling so deeply depressed some days I couldn’t move. And I wasn’t sleeping.

Even as I’m writing this, I’m reminded of the immense grief I felt at the time and how lonely everything felt. No one really knew what to do with me. I didn’t know what to do with me. I have been feeling that way again recently. I’ve been afraid that I’d go back to how I was before. Back to this version of me, the 2012 version of me, if I let myself feel everything that hurt so much. How can I even be sure I’m not that person anymore?

Last week my psychiatrist was concerned about how I was doing. It was a 3 month follow up, and I explained to her that I hadn’t been sleeping, and it was getting to me. I told her I had a fleeting thought here or there, but nothing really out of the ordinary. That concerned her to the point of asking me if I was safe. Of course I said was, because in all honesty, I really am. I don’t think I’m ever going to return to the point of wanting to kill myself, even though I really want to some days. But I just know the grief that death leaves behind and I can’t leave people I love in that, carrying that. But I don’t feel right. I don’t feel like me. I sh for the first time in maybe a year or 2 this week. It hurts, but it also feels good, feeling like I can release some momentary heartache without inflicting heartache on the ones I love.

I’m not really sure how to get through this life. I always joke with my friends saying that I don’t plan on living more than 10 more years. That I don’t want to do that. It’s kind of a joke but it’s also serious. Because how can someone be my age and be so tired already? How can someone have experienced this much life and still have some will power to move forward. I’m not a victim. I’m not a survivor. I’m just really fucking tired. Too tired to be mad at the people who hurt me, too tired to envision a life with these memories. Everyone says you can move on from the pain. I don’t know if you can, at least, I don’t know if I can. I need to not remember. I need to completely forget, have my memories wiped. My brain healed. I need a fresh start. Somehow.

And Back Again.

This year has been absolutely insane. I feel tired beyond comprehension. Between working as a cardiac surgical coordinator for Doctors who throw charts and tantrums, to dealing with covid, to friends and family dying, to Hamilton. it’s just been fucking insane and I’m really feeling it lately.

In the beginning of June, the pharmacy ran out of my cymbalta. This is the first medication in 10 years that I felt was helpful and was truly making a difference. I missed a week and a half, and in that time span, I spiraled so hard. Suicidal thoughts out of nowhere and nightmares every night. I’m finally back on it, but I feel terrible. I don’t know how to get out of this funk.

I feel like my whole life I’ve just been waiting to die. The fear, the anxiety, the broken trust, the lies. I don’t identify with being a victim. I know in many ways I am but to mentally do so would destroy me. I’m not a victim. I’ve just been through a lot of shit and honestly I just don’t want to go through anymore. I’m tired. Everything that brought me joy I just don’t enjoy like I used to. Writing has been harder. I don’t sing or play piano or guitar. I work. All day, and then, when I finally come up for air, when the work day is done, I immediately put on an audiobook or a podcast until I fall asleep. I just can’t deal with what’s going on in my head. Buying groceries, trying to decide to eat. Getting up to go to the bathroom. Doing simple things like drinking water. I don’t understand why my brain is like this. Why it feels like it’s constantly just a few steps away from killing me.

In 2017, I started writing in my old computer. and in that computer I have 70 some odd pages of thoughts and feelings and frustrations. I guess for me it was like a suicide note. Not one that I ever intended on using. But just, what I would say, what I wanted to say, What I’ve kept locked up. The things I’ve never said because I don’t want to hurt people. But what hurts me is not being able to tell the truth. And I feel as if I’m living a half life.

Before what happened in September, I’d say I was relatively good at speaking up. I’d worked so hard to start opening up in small, but authentic ways. But after that happened, I knew I had to focus. I couldn’t let what happened effect my work. It did once. But that was it. But now it’s like everything is meeting in the middle all at once and I’m standing on a ledge just waiting for the perfect gust of wind.

I don’t want to die. Not really. But, the number of times I’ve said in my head this week “kill me” or “I just wish I was dead” or “I wish I could just sleep, no dreams, just sleep for a couple of year, or lose my all of memories” is concerning at this point even for me. I just really, really want to find that in between place, not asleep, not awake, just not conscious or feeling anything at all. I just need my brain to stop for a day so I can think clearly and not want to die or forget.

I grew up in a religious family. And as an adult, I eventually adopted some of that in my own way. But every time I make a mistake, or wish to die, I feel so ashamed. If I killed myself would God still love me? Does he even love me now? My head is so fucked up all the time. And sad. I just really want to not feel sad. Just for a little while. So I can stop feeling sick. And so that maybe I can find a second of happiness to remind me of what hope looks like.

I took 500mg of diphenhydramine last night. Just to sleep. Just a normal nights sleep, with no nightmares. No waking up. I still had panic attacks. 500. fucking. mg. that’s enough to kill a kid. And that’s how much I took to sleep. Is there just some point in human life when we say enough is enough, this is unbearable? Because that’s where I’m at. On the outside, I’m mildly funny, intelligent enough, a decent singer and a good enough worker. empathetic and maybe a little insecure. But more than that? I’m tired.

inside and out. I am tired. and I just need everything to stop, just so I can get my bearings and keep going with life, without switching between wanting to live and wanting to die.