Like a mac truck
On my shoulders
Like I’m buried
And I can’t breath
And I can’t see
I yearn for the end
But death turns its back on me!
This is DEPRESSION!
I don't remember being a happy kid. To be honest, I don't remember too much about being a kid at all. Sometimes I say I was born an adult. A sad, depressed, miserable adult. If I think really hard, I can remember back to some of my childhood. I didn't realize how good I had gotten at blocking things out until I tried to remember. Was I always sad? When did it start? Was there one specific trigger, one moment in time I could pin point? Or was I born this way? Can you be born depressed? I always thought I was the personification of Murphy's Law (What can go wrong, will go wrong). I've always had bad luck. Always got the short end of the stick. I could never really catch a break. I always felt like Eeyore on Winnie the Pooh, before I even knew his character represented depression. I just thought I wasn't meant to be happy. And then I kind of stopped thinking about it and just accepted that that's the way things were going to be for me. Just get through life waiting to die. Waiting! To. DIE! Waiting!
I was suicidal before I even knew what that meant. As a kid; I don't even know how young (6 or 7), as far back as I can remember, I always thought about death or dying. It didn't scare me. It was something I wanted. Something I've always been waiting for. But, for some reason, I always knew in the back of my head, deep down inside, it was something that I (most likely) wouldn't be able to do myself. Not because I was afraid. But because I had this nagging feeling that it wouldn't work. That I would attempt suicide, rather than commit suicide and then just end up looking and feeling like a fucking idiot and failure and even be worse off that I already am. What if I slit my wrists but I don't bleed out and they sew me up? What If I down a bunch of pills and they pump my stomach? I wouldn't even know how to tie a proper not to hang myself, nor have anywhere to hang myself from, my fat ass would probably break the rope. Then, there's the trusty gun to the head. One, I don't even have a gun, nor did I have access to one as a kid. Two, what if I just nick my brain enough to be cause brain damage but not death? That would really suck.
There were times in my life, including childhood, that I thought death and killing myself everyday; for months, years even. Literally, not a day would go by when I didn't think about it, imagine it, envision it (in graphic detail), sometimes several times a day. It got more graphic and detailed and inventive the older I got. I thought it was normal. I mean when you grow up having these thoughts your whole life, it is normal, for you. People who have never experienced suicidal thoughts are quick to call those who have attempted or committed suicide weak. They gave up. They couldn't handle the pressures of life. They were weak.
Those people have no idea what it's like live with those thoughts and feelings everyday. To be sitting at a restaurant and not even feeling sad but look down at the knife on your place mat and envision stabbing yourself in the neck. To be driving in your car, singing your favorite song and envision yourself going full speed into a brick wall and flying through your windshield head first. Standing at a crosswalk and envisioning jumping in front of the oncoming bus. The list goes on and on. They have no idea the strength it takes to keep going. They also have no idea the strength it takes to commit to the end. To know, if you take that step, everything you know and everyone you know will be gone. And to be ok with that.
People think we just want attention, it's a cry for a help. They think we just need to try harder to be happy. "Choose happiness!" As if we chose to be like this. As if I wake up everyday saying, "You know what, I think I want to be miserable as fuck today and think of all the ways I should kill myself and all the reasons why I'm a pathetic fucking loser." Cause that just sounds like so much fun! Attention? If we wanted attention, we wouldn't suffer so long in silence. Most people with depression and suicidal thoughts don't run around telling people about it, bragging about it. There's a whole spectrum of depression. Some people stay in bed for days. Some people cry. Some people act normal. I went to work. I went to the gym. I hung out with friends. I fake smiled. I fake laughed. I tried my damnedest to be normal and not appear "weak." Attention was the last thing I wanted.
People look at people like me and think we just make excuses to die. Like we're just looking for a way out. A reason to give up. Because we're weak. I always made excuses to stay. No matter how bad it got, no matter how much I wanted to end it, no matter how vivid those images were and how strong those feelings got, and how much they controlled my mind, I always had an excuse . . . to stay! The older I get, the less excuses I have. But they're still here, for now. As am I.