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yapping about suicidal thoughts, agency in life
I think about how much time I wasted living with my parents during COVID. If someone had told me I could quit my job, I would’ve left after a week instead of 3 years. If someone had suggested moving out, finding a roommate, I would’ve done it in 2022. Instead it took me until late 2024 to do anything for myself.
But everyone in my life was fine with watching me, well, kill myself. It was a passive suicide but I was intent on dying. I can’t pretend that’s not what it was. I can’t pretend I didn’t silently live there for years just waiting to be saved, or just to die. It will always feel like I failed to build relationships sufficient enough to work myself out of an unworkable situation. It will always be my fault. And sometimes I think about the four years I wasted and it’s like, there’s no catching up. I’m a toddler with a master’s degree. Hopelessly stunted.
Like, why. Why didn’t they say “do you like your job?” “Do you miss music?” “it’s weird that you stopped doing things you love literally overnight” “Wendy nobody has heard from you in 2 years.” “Wendy why did you leave the group chat?” “Wendy why did you post that stuff about doing that?” Maybe they wanted me to get worse. Maybe everyone said “Wendy wants to die and far be it from me to intervene”.
I truly would have left. I would’ve moved out, I would’ve tried. I would’ve done something if it felt like it had mattered to anyone in my life, but it didn’t and doesn’t. If someone had been there to help me figure some of this out, I would have felt like I could try. Am I stupid? Like what am I not getting, what am I not seeing here. I’ve helped people make decisions before and when i had to make a decision, I had nobody. Was I literally supposed to say “I think the events of the novel coronavirus lockdown have left me with irreparable mental trauma and trust issues, would you be willing to aid me in the emotional healing journey that is required for my return to polite society so i may be less of a stupid baby”?
I don’t know. I don’t know. Why do people let people stay stuck. I was withering away and the people who know me best, they approved. I shudder to think about if I had gone through with something, and nobody knew a goddamn thing about me.
If I admitted that I think about 2020 on a daily basis, and the events that caused my education to be interrupted, is that normal? Is that indicative of a bigger problem? Is anything indicative of anything? At some point, something’s gotta be a big enough problem that someone else in my life will grant some sort of legitimacy to the things I have experienced. Do people not sense or notice the feelings of others? am I just wrong in thinking that people would sense that something was up?
pleakley is pissed
If someone had told me I really really really would have figured this out. That nobody did can only mean that they didn’t care if I made it through, right? There’s so much I could do and say and be if I had someone who showed me even half a breadcrumb of any sort of emotion. You don’t know what it’s like to fully absorb and internalize that nobody cares about you and see it in the world. You don’t know what it’s like to need to be shown some kindness to even begin to consider the possibility that you can handle anything on your own, that you aren’t some horrible monster who will make everyone scream if you try and show up in spaces as yourself. You don’t know what it’s like to have every attempt to initiate anything go so horribly that you internalize that you cannot make the first move and that people have to come to you. You don’t know what it’s like to have everyone in your life view you as a background character or an accessory or someone to ignore or someone to contain or someone to placate. You don’t know what it;s like to just sit and imagine your own death for years at a time and just want someone to tell you that they’d be upset if you drowned yourself. Because my friends weren’t there for me, but the intrusive thoughts were. WHERE WERE YOU.
I don’t know if you know what it’s like to just surrender to the idea that you might do it and nobody is even aware you’re having these thoughts, be it from a moral belief rthat I shouldn’t bother others, social anxiety, depression, gender dysphoria. Nobody is willing to sit down with a depressed person and help them connect the dots, observe the wreckage, what went wrong, what caused trauma, why does it affect you, how does it affect you, i am here for you, you are not alone, emotional comfort and actionable solutions that involve community building instead of just addressing symptoms in isolation and checking in in half a year to see if you’re still weird, or whatever.
This was me trying to be easy to connect with. This was me asking for help. I am at no point not asking for help because I am at no point not depressed. So the idea that I have to keep raking myself over the coals to explain myself perfectly to everyone so that someone might understand is genuinely tearing me apart. Suicide is not suicide. Making me ask direct questions is.
I wasted so much of the last several years self-isolating and making zero progress with anything in life, so I sympathize.