This Is A Bummer...
My Seasonal Affective Disorder gets worse and worse every year.
I was lying in the bathtub and thoughtfully considering all the ways to die. I could take the razor next to me, slit my throat and wrists, saving a messy cleanup as I was already in a tub of water. I could find every pill of every kind in the house and slowly drink them bit by bit. I could drive off the bridge during the work commute and plunge into an icy, watery grip. These thoughts don't phase me anymore. I don't cry or get upset thinking about my death. I think of them as a release. For the last few years, from about November to April, these are semi-regular thoughts. Sometimes I don't think about them; sometimes it seems it's the only thing I think about. This is what I mean by my SAD getting worse.
When I was younger, I thought I wouldn't want to live beyond 75. Then it whittled down to 60. Now it's even less than that. As a child, I realized very early on that life is a fucking sham. Other kids were doing whatever kids were doing and I was sitting there knowing the truth of life. When I was 9, I was eating breakfast at a friend's house when the finality of what being dead truly meant struck me. At first, it frightened me. After more consideration, the acceptance and comfort washed over me like warm water. How is a child who comes to these realizations earlier than many expected to go with the flow? This capitalistic society and its constant demands of "more, more, more!" sickens me. And I'm sickened with myself that I have no choice but to go along with it.
I'm researching SAD lamps in hopes that it'll help. I think it may help a bit, but it won't improve the physical reality that no matter what I do I will be cold for the next 6 or so months. No amount of layers will allow me to be perfectly comfortable. And no, I will not take antidepressants. I'd rather feel something than nothing.
Posting on LJ nowadays feels more like screaming into a void.
I was lying in the bathtub and thoughtfully considering all the ways to die. I could take the razor next to me, slit my throat and wrists, saving a messy cleanup as I was already in a tub of water. I could find every pill of every kind in the house and slowly drink them bit by bit. I could drive off the bridge during the work commute and plunge into an icy, watery grip. These thoughts don't phase me anymore. I don't cry or get upset thinking about my death. I think of them as a release. For the last few years, from about November to April, these are semi-regular thoughts. Sometimes I don't think about them; sometimes it seems it's the only thing I think about. This is what I mean by my SAD getting worse.
When I was younger, I thought I wouldn't want to live beyond 75. Then it whittled down to 60. Now it's even less than that. As a child, I realized very early on that life is a fucking sham. Other kids were doing whatever kids were doing and I was sitting there knowing the truth of life. When I was 9, I was eating breakfast at a friend's house when the finality of what being dead truly meant struck me. At first, it frightened me. After more consideration, the acceptance and comfort washed over me like warm water. How is a child who comes to these realizations earlier than many expected to go with the flow? This capitalistic society and its constant demands of "more, more, more!" sickens me. And I'm sickened with myself that I have no choice but to go along with it.
I'm researching SAD lamps in hopes that it'll help. I think it may help a bit, but it won't improve the physical reality that no matter what I do I will be cold for the next 6 or so months. No amount of layers will allow me to be perfectly comfortable. And no, I will not take antidepressants. I'd rather feel something than nothing.
Posting on LJ nowadays feels more like screaming into a void.