25 October 2009
Written by emie289
Published on October 25th, 2009 @ 05:37:40 pm, using 410 words, 4387 views
I have three numbers, two that should be helpful, sitting about three feet away from me right now. All of them recommended by my last psychologist, all of them accepted by my insurance. All I have to do is pick up the phone and dial.
Luckily, it is 7:22 on a Sunday. But, that is no excuse. I have been not-calling-them for over a week now. It took me two months just to bother to take five minutes to look up insurance-friendly psychologists in my area. It sickens me that it has taken me so long.
Paul tells me that I have defined myself as depressed. Can someone do that to themselves? But it's kind of true, isn't it? I mean, I can tell myself I "don't have energy" but how much energy does it really take to pick up a phone and dial a number?
Paul is a "cognitive behaviorist" meaning that he tells me to "be happy" and expects me to be. It's very annoying. The theory is, if you do what makes you happy, then you will be happy. For minor cases of depression, that is all it takes. From there, more therapy can be done. Paul doesn't take me seriously. He's convinced that it really will just take me "trying" to be happy. I can see it on his face every time I start to cry, every time I try to talk to him-- it crushes me. How can people be so unsympathetic? But then, I'm the one not calling the psychologist. I'm the one not helping myself. So, it seems hard to hate him for it.
What does it mean to "make onself happy?" How can we ever really know in advance what will make us happy? I'm unhappy here. So, I've been thinking about something that might solve that problem, graduating early. But will that really do anything, or just open up a whole different can of worms?
Ugh. It's depressing to think that the time that should be the "best time of my life!" is really not... But, I have enough credits to graduate a semester early. This would leave me with a semester to do whatever I want. But... it would also mean I would have a semester shorter than the "typical" college experience. Am I cheating myself? Would this be letting my depressive tendencies get the better of me, and in fact be setting myself up for spiraling further out of control?
14 October 2009
Written by emie289
Published on October 14th, 2009 @ 05:35:38 pm, using 805 words, 2749 views
I'm writing as a last resort to sanity. A secret blog for all the secrets that I keep. Actually, keeping secrets in one of my secrets. I pretend I don't have any. I even kept that secret from myself for a long time-- I thought I didn't have any. But, you guessed it, I do.
Everyone needs someone to tell the truth. The random internet void is my silent confessor.
I'm trying not to kill myself tonight. I've been thinking about it for a while now, and not really doing anything. God, I don't know. At least since school started. So, a month, maybe. It's weird, though. Classes aren't that bad-- I think they're interesting. Not too stressful. I'm doing my best not to be stressed. I'm taking a yoga class, I'm trying.... I've been trying to be happy for years. I'm sick of trying.
And, I hate sex. Who hates sex? Seriously. I didn't used to. That's the weird thing. I used to be the "guy" in the relationship--always pushing for sex, always into it, always wanting to be closer. Then one day-- I don't know when-- it all shut off. I don't like it anymore.
My poor boyfriend. I told him today that he should find someone else. His name, let's pretend his name is Paul. He could be a Paul. He loves me. I don't know why, but I find it highly suspect. He's suffering. Trying to be the perfect boyfriend. Trying not to care that I don't want to have sex. Sometimes it seems like everyone's trying so hard it seems incredibly that nothing ever changes.
He pushed me on it tonight. We were walking out of the pizza place and he was going off to work. He was annoyed because he hit on me today and I pretended not to understand him. He's hurt. I'm a cruel person. I don't even know why I'm cruel. "I'm your boyfriend, Emily" He said to me. Not in a threatening way, but in a "you should be able to trust me--I'm the person you're supposed to want to have sex with" sort of way. "I just wanted to explore you sexually." He talks like that sometimes. He says it cute-like, as if the explicitness makes it sweet. I shuddered and turned away. I couldn't help it, but he was really hurt. Then, he tried to push me on that-- why it was so disgusting. But I couldn't answer him. WHY IS IT SO DISGUSTING TO ME? There's nothing wrong with him. He's a cute guy. It's not really him that disgusts me, it's me. The image of ME, there, on the bed--spread.... It's just... ugh.
I came home fighting off tears. Storm upstairs and shut myself in my room. I live in a house with six other people. None of them noticed me. I'm not really close to any of them except Paul. "I need to just do it" I tell myself as I shut the door, "I need to just get it over with." But I told myself I'd write the blog first.
The truth is, I don't really want to kill myself. I mean, I do in that it is a solution to everything, but it is not the preferred solution. I would prefer a pill. Wouldn't it be a great if the doctor could hand me a pill and say, take this-- everything in your life will be happy? Or, not even everything. Maybe just-- take this, you will have the energy to make happy things in your life and the self-confidence to persevere through the unhappy ones. Or even, not a pill. Better than that-- I wish I could just wake up one day and my life was completely different. I don't live in a crappy house with seven other people who only know me as their roommate's girlfriend. I'm not a junior in college, but out of school. I have a job-- I'm a writer. I HAVE FRIENDS. Wouldn't it be great if other people weren't complete pricks? That's the bitterness talking. The truth is, and I know it, other people are great. They just don't think I am.
Anyways, I'm a writer at heart. So, writing a blog to get through a suicidal breakdown seems to make sense. Sometimes it feels like writing is the only thing that makes sense. One day I'm going to go off and be a big-shot screenwriter. I know I can do it. Kind of weird that I'm convinced no one in the world gives a crap about me, but I have enough ego to believe that I can write movies everyone else will be thrilled to watch. I can do it though. I'm working on my first one now. Writing. It's the only thing that's going to get me through this.