Depression never ceases to amaze me. As straightforward and it is, it’s also very amorphous and lacking a definite shape. I’ve been floored more times than one at the way depression has changed in my life and has changed me. Though I’ve had this thought many times, something about it really hit me after a conversation with a friend.
In all reality, I’m certain I’ve been depressed since I was about seven. I remember at that age thinking that I never wanted to bring forth children because I didn’t want them to experience what I had (in 7 years apparently I’d gone through enough apparently). I remember telling my mother this and of course it was skipped over because what does a 7 year old know. But I remember clearly that day vowing that I’d never be like my mother, that I’d never treat my children the same way (because I was told I was definitely going to have them and didn’t know what I was saying that I didn’t want them…go figures that almost 30 years later I haven’t changed my mind), I remember vowing that I’d run away and live in an abandoned building until I got on my feet enough to take care of myself. And there it was. Depression at 7 looked like having trouble at school (paying attention and understanding concepts), preferring to hide for hours at a time under chairs, desks or anywhere I could be alone, a disconnection from those around you to the point of promising to not be the same.
By the time I was 12 I was self-harming and constantly cooking up ways to die. I remember having a small advil tube in the bathroom cabinet that I had put dirty water and stale fish water in. My plan was to drink it and poison myself. On the day when I decided I’d had enough and I went to retrieve it, it was gone. Someone had gotten to it and thrown it away. I was devastated. I cried my eyes out because I had no other plan, no other way out. At that age I had my younger brothers to live for and I teetered on the edge of having hope that I’d be able to graduate and move out and take them with me and raise them in a happy home and the alternative which was to leave this earth. At the time the only downside to that I saw was that it would put my parents out financially to have to pay for my funeral. I never realized until lately (and by lately I mean within the last 3 months or so) that 12 year olds don’t think like that. 7 year olds don’t think like that. That those age points are usually one of happiness and carefree cheer and joy. I’ve really only recently realized that I’ve been sad all my life. I don’t know what it means to be happy for more than a moment.
Point being until my late 20’s depression was feeling sad, like a burden, not enough, not valuable, unloved and unwanted. You know, all the typical symptoms. But lately it’s not so much about that. Not that they aren’t present to some degree but it’s more about being tired. It used to be that I was so sad and distraught that I couldn’t take a bath. Now I just have no motivation to do so. I have no care, no concern about myself or my hygiene. I really just can’t be bothered to do the smallest of personal care activities. I don’t want to die because I don’t feel valued or like I don’t have any value. I want to die because I’m tired. I can’t be bothered to go on doing this for the rest of my given days. I can’t bear to take another 40+ years of no motivation, no drive, no energy and then the sadness. I find that less and less do I think about being a burden to the world and more about the world being a burden to me.
I’m stuck at THE worst dead end job you can think of being paid pennies for a mountain’s worth of work and I have no motivation or energy to look for another job. Quite honestly I don’t even see the use. I’ve given up on my once held dream of being a psychologist/therapist and so what’s the use of switching up jobs without an end goal or a top potential. What’s the point in looking for scholarships? The point of going back to school? I literally see absolutely no point in anything at all much less in life itself. I’ve come to believe now that people who end their lives don’t do so solely because of the symptoms of their illness but because of how tired they’ve become.
It’s like a toxic relationship, at some point you just get tired of fighting. You get tired of the disrespect, tired of the gaslighting, tired of the fighting, tired of the loneliness until at some point you’ve had your last. You walk away, you file for divorce, you end it because no amount of “sorry” can fix it. No amount of “I’m gonna change” can help it. No amount of counseling will be enough. It’s just time to end it. You HAVE to end it, you’re too tired NOT to.
And that for me is what suicide feels like. No one feels that pain you endured in that relationship for it to have to end. No amount of cliches and profound quotes can fix it and it definitely doesn’t make people understand how, what or why you feel the way you do. At that point they could call you a quitter, tell you that you failed, say you’re a bad Christian/spiritual person. But you know the truth. You know that despite what anyone says, you had to end it or it would end you (probably in more ways than one). And that’s it. Suicide isn’t about running away from the pain, it’s not about finding a solution so to speak, it’s not about finding your place or not being able to deal/cope. It’s about being tired. Tired in more ways than one. It’s about finally deciding that you have to walk away, deciding that it’s time for it to end.
I want to put a postscript that I’m not planning my death (at least not right now anyway). It’s just a revelation.
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