Another Example Of My Oddness.
I've been thinking about this stuff for a little bit, and I came across a little blob of information on some obscure corner of the web last night that just kind of brought it all to a head.
I worry about strangers. More specifically, I worry about people that I've never met, that I will likely never meet, and who probably don't need/want me to worry about them. I can't help it, though, because I've read something about them that makes me hurt for them; makes me want to sit down and write them a letter telling them that it's all right, they're not alone, that they're still worthwhile people and that if they need someone to listen to them I'm right here.
It's silly, sort of, because what am I gonna do with someone else's pain? It's not like I've got a degree or a license or anything. I'm just some dork with her own issues, and who happens to know someone with at least as many issues. It's also silly because, as I said, these are people that have plenty of people that worry about them already and my concern isn't really all that necessary.
And the next bit is cut because it's not-fun, not-happy, definitely raw, and may be trigger-y. Proceed with caution.
It's just that... I know. I've been there, at the point where it all looks like maybe the only thing that'll fix everything is to remove yourself from the picture. Where there seems to be nothing to keep you around, where your heart isn't a heart but a poisonous abcess that's never going to be anything but.
I thought about killing myself, but it took me a long time to come up with a method that would work for me -- I couldn't bring myself to use the gun my father gave me for my 21st birthday, because it was a birthday present, and it would have been messy besides and I didn't want to do that to my mom. I didn't want to overdose on something except maybe sleeping pills and we never had any in the house. I didn't want to open a vein, because that would be messy, too, and I'm a big baby who doesn't like pain except apparently psychologically speaking because why the hell ELSE would I take so long to get help?
When I lived in Seattle, I finally figured it out: the perfect way to kill myself would be to go to the nearest body of saltwater and go swimming. Since the water in Elliott Bay/Puget Sound is only about 34 degrees (and the water here in the Inlet is about the same), hypothermia would set in pretty quickly, I'd fall asleep, and then I'd drown. I love the ocean anyhow, so that would be okay. I could tape a baggie with a note in it to myself, so that when someone found my body they could alert the proper people. (I'd leave a note, too, because I'd want to at least try to explain.)
I've never tried killing myself, but I've thought about it. In retrospect, this isn't terribly odd -- at least two family members have confessed to me that they've contemplated suicide, too. One of them actually did try to kill themselves, but fortunately they tried it in front of someone with (thank God) good reflexes and they didn't even really get hurt. I've written suicide notes, the most recent being just after I was fired from my last real job.
I wrote it, trying to apologize and explain and justify, and I was thinking about where the access to the water was close and easy, and then Boycat #1 jumped on my bed and I realized that if I killed myself, no one would be around to feed him or love him and what if he ended up going to a shelter? Or getting hurt while I was, y'know, off being dead? So then I just cried harder and closed the note without saving. (My aunt showed up the next day or the day after and said 'you come with me because we're all worried about you' and I said 'okay' because she's one of those people you just obey.)
So I know about being down at the bottom a very dark place where everything is a shadow and it's never innocuous. I've got irrational fears that ride around with me, making it hard for me to do things like travel. (It's frustrating as hell for me, because, dude. I have places I want to go before I die, and the best/fastest/cheapest way to get there is a transoceanic flight. Gah.) Since I like being Me, like I was before I was about 15, I've got a perscription for expensive generics with side effects I hate (but I hate the idea of trying something new even more -- I just want a generic version of the extended-release formula because it works beautifully for me). I know about not wanting to have to take a pill (or two, or more) for the rest of my life -- and I know someone who has to take a LOT more pills than I do, but they do it because they, like me, know that it's better than the alternative.
Some people may have already guessed this, but a lot of Finch's Issues/meds/reactions are based on mine or those of the person I just mentioned. Not all of them; neither of us have issues stemming from the homicide of a parent, for which I am deeply grateful, but enough that if the person were to read about some of the things that Finch experiences they'd say 'oh, yeah, totally know how that goes'. I have to say that it's a pretty fucking lousy way to get source material, though.
Since I've been there, I worry. I worry about people with potential and talent and abilities that allow them to do amazing things, because I know that it's hard to admit that things aren't fine. It's harder still to say 'help, please', especially when you're already feeling like shit because hey, you feel kind of abnormal/freakish to begin with and now you're maybe crazy on top of it! (See? Been there.)
Except that depression, being bipolar, or having schizoid issues doesn't make you crazy (other people who love you, yes, you, no); doesn't make you a freak; doesn't make you worthless or horrible or evil. They make you sad or whip you between extremes of feeling or deeply freak you out, but they're not a moral failing. (Moral failings are different and can/often result in jail time.) Dealing with those sorts of things is hard, especially if you're used to trying to muddle through on your own.
I'm frankly amazed that of my entire family, I have one uncle who committed suicide and a great-grandfather who was an alcoholic because he had issues of his own (hands up if you didn't see that coming!) and that was the only medication that he'd ever known. My problems are honestly come by -- we've been passing them along for at least four generations. (This is reason number two on my Big List Of Reasons I Do NOT Want Biological Children.)
And I also know that just because you get help doesn't mean life is all sparkly sunshine and adorable puppies. Pills aren't magical; sometimes you have to spend a lot of time fiddling with them to get things working. (The person that takes all the medication spent like 2 years on the wrong dose of one of their meds. They did get things worked out, though, so now things are much better for them.) (This is also why I'm working very hard to make sure Finch stays Finch, instead of becoming Magically All Better through the application of True Love. It doesn't work like that! He's better, now, but not Totally Fixed.)
My medication makes me happy, but only in the sense that it allows me to feel something besides either completely and utterly worthless or irrationally angry about seriously unimportant crap. You think some of the rants I've written about annoying little dogs or their owners' housekeeping were vitriolic! I'm sure I could dig up something from when I my blog at Lady's Secret Life that would make us all cringe in horror. It's nice to be me. I like being able to go places and get called 'sir' and laugh it off, instead of being terrified to go anywhere for fear that someone would say... Well, even 'hello'. (I did say they're irrational fears.) For me, my meds are human-being-pills. They only induce an artificial and occasiona state of giddiness when I've been off for a while, and then it passes and I'm back to being me.
So. I worry about you, whoever you are, famous or not, whatever your issues. (I don't spend hours on it every day, but it still happens.) I know it's hard, but sometimes you just have to make yourself say 'I'm not okay and I need some help'. I managed to do it, so I know it's possible. It wasn't easy, it wasn't fun, and it took me over a month to really start feeling better, but it happened. And really, I'd managed to live through all of the days and months preceding my teeny little breakdown (if breakdowns had a Richter scale, mine would have been, like, 1.2, 1.4 tops), and that was as least as hard as saying 'I feel like crap, mentally'.
Be good to yourselves and to one another, okay? We're all we've got on this planet.
I worry about strangers. More specifically, I worry about people that I've never met, that I will likely never meet, and who probably don't need/want me to worry about them. I can't help it, though, because I've read something about them that makes me hurt for them; makes me want to sit down and write them a letter telling them that it's all right, they're not alone, that they're still worthwhile people and that if they need someone to listen to them I'm right here.
It's silly, sort of, because what am I gonna do with someone else's pain? It's not like I've got a degree or a license or anything. I'm just some dork with her own issues, and who happens to know someone with at least as many issues. It's also silly because, as I said, these are people that have plenty of people that worry about them already and my concern isn't really all that necessary.
And the next bit is cut because it's not-fun, not-happy, definitely raw, and may be trigger-y. Proceed with caution.
It's just that... I know. I've been there, at the point where it all looks like maybe the only thing that'll fix everything is to remove yourself from the picture. Where there seems to be nothing to keep you around, where your heart isn't a heart but a poisonous abcess that's never going to be anything but.
I thought about killing myself, but it took me a long time to come up with a method that would work for me -- I couldn't bring myself to use the gun my father gave me for my 21st birthday, because it was a birthday present, and it would have been messy besides and I didn't want to do that to my mom. I didn't want to overdose on something except maybe sleeping pills and we never had any in the house. I didn't want to open a vein, because that would be messy, too, and I'm a big baby who doesn't like pain except apparently psychologically speaking because why the hell ELSE would I take so long to get help?
When I lived in Seattle, I finally figured it out: the perfect way to kill myself would be to go to the nearest body of saltwater and go swimming. Since the water in Elliott Bay/Puget Sound is only about 34 degrees (and the water here in the Inlet is about the same), hypothermia would set in pretty quickly, I'd fall asleep, and then I'd drown. I love the ocean anyhow, so that would be okay. I could tape a baggie with a note in it to myself, so that when someone found my body they could alert the proper people. (I'd leave a note, too, because I'd want to at least try to explain.)
I've never tried killing myself, but I've thought about it. In retrospect, this isn't terribly odd -- at least two family members have confessed to me that they've contemplated suicide, too. One of them actually did try to kill themselves, but fortunately they tried it in front of someone with (thank God) good reflexes and they didn't even really get hurt. I've written suicide notes, the most recent being just after I was fired from my last real job.
I wrote it, trying to apologize and explain and justify, and I was thinking about where the access to the water was close and easy, and then Boycat #1 jumped on my bed and I realized that if I killed myself, no one would be around to feed him or love him and what if he ended up going to a shelter? Or getting hurt while I was, y'know, off being dead? So then I just cried harder and closed the note without saving. (My aunt showed up the next day or the day after and said 'you come with me because we're all worried about you' and I said 'okay' because she's one of those people you just obey.)
So I know about being down at the bottom a very dark place where everything is a shadow and it's never innocuous. I've got irrational fears that ride around with me, making it hard for me to do things like travel. (It's frustrating as hell for me, because, dude. I have places I want to go before I die, and the best/fastest/cheapest way to get there is a transoceanic flight. Gah.) Since I like being Me, like I was before I was about 15, I've got a perscription for expensive generics with side effects I hate (but I hate the idea of trying something new even more -- I just want a generic version of the extended-release formula because it works beautifully for me). I know about not wanting to have to take a pill (or two, or more) for the rest of my life -- and I know someone who has to take a LOT more pills than I do, but they do it because they, like me, know that it's better than the alternative.
Some people may have already guessed this, but a lot of Finch's Issues/meds/reactions are based on mine or those of the person I just mentioned. Not all of them; neither of us have issues stemming from the homicide of a parent, for which I am deeply grateful, but enough that if the person were to read about some of the things that Finch experiences they'd say 'oh, yeah, totally know how that goes'. I have to say that it's a pretty fucking lousy way to get source material, though.
Since I've been there, I worry. I worry about people with potential and talent and abilities that allow them to do amazing things, because I know that it's hard to admit that things aren't fine. It's harder still to say 'help, please', especially when you're already feeling like shit because hey, you feel kind of abnormal/freakish to begin with and now you're maybe crazy on top of it! (See? Been there.)
Except that depression, being bipolar, or having schizoid issues doesn't make you crazy (other people who love you, yes, you, no); doesn't make you a freak; doesn't make you worthless or horrible or evil. They make you sad or whip you between extremes of feeling or deeply freak you out, but they're not a moral failing. (Moral failings are different and can/often result in jail time.) Dealing with those sorts of things is hard, especially if you're used to trying to muddle through on your own.
I'm frankly amazed that of my entire family, I have one uncle who committed suicide and a great-grandfather who was an alcoholic because he had issues of his own (hands up if you didn't see that coming!) and that was the only medication that he'd ever known. My problems are honestly come by -- we've been passing them along for at least four generations. (This is reason number two on my Big List Of Reasons I Do NOT Want Biological Children.)
And I also know that just because you get help doesn't mean life is all sparkly sunshine and adorable puppies. Pills aren't magical; sometimes you have to spend a lot of time fiddling with them to get things working. (The person that takes all the medication spent like 2 years on the wrong dose of one of their meds. They did get things worked out, though, so now things are much better for them.) (This is also why I'm working very hard to make sure Finch stays Finch, instead of becoming Magically All Better through the application of True Love. It doesn't work like that! He's better, now, but not Totally Fixed.)
My medication makes me happy, but only in the sense that it allows me to feel something besides either completely and utterly worthless or irrationally angry about seriously unimportant crap. You think some of the rants I've written about annoying little dogs or their owners' housekeeping were vitriolic! I'm sure I could dig up something from when I my blog at Lady's Secret Life that would make us all cringe in horror. It's nice to be me. I like being able to go places and get called 'sir' and laugh it off, instead of being terrified to go anywhere for fear that someone would say... Well, even 'hello'. (I did say they're irrational fears.) For me, my meds are human-being-pills. They only induce an artificial and occasiona state of giddiness when I've been off for a while, and then it passes and I'm back to being me.
So. I worry about you, whoever you are, famous or not, whatever your issues. (I don't spend hours on it every day, but it still happens.) I know it's hard, but sometimes you just have to make yourself say 'I'm not okay and I need some help'. I managed to do it, so I know it's possible. It wasn't easy, it wasn't fun, and it took me over a month to really start feeling better, but it happened. And really, I'd managed to live through all of the days and months preceding my teeny little breakdown (if breakdowns had a Richter scale, mine would have been, like, 1.2, 1.4 tops), and that was as least as hard as saying 'I feel like crap, mentally'.
Be good to yourselves and to one another, okay? We're all we've got on this planet.