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juushikaIn those late-night conversations I have with Express, I find myself ending every third rambling soliloquy with "and then I realize that everything I say is incredibly depressing." This bout of back pain has been weighing on my thoughts, but it's more general than that. It's a ubiquitous slew of small details.
Amy (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cerulean_chains) finally convinced me to watch (the Vienna 2005 production of) Elizabeth the musical on the basis of these characters and relationships are totally up my alley. And they are, but it's something I've had to watch in pieces—in part because I'm in flighty "play video games for three solid hours, concentrate on anything else for thirty scarce minutes" mode, in part because...
I know how I would kill myself. It's part thought experiment and part solid plan. There's comfort in having a plan—one that you know you could carry out, that you would carry out. Mine is asphyxiation. It's a sensation I find enjoyable, it's not too ugly or too messy, it's fairly easy to pull off even with limited resources (and to carry through even when the body's survival instincts kick in). Suicidal ideation for me has always been that: rarely the impulse but frequently the idea. It accompanies me like a companion, the plan like a pet, another face of my black dog but the face I like most—many of his aspects frighten me, but this one is a comfort.
I know that not everyone makes these plans, but it always surprises me to realize it. Conversely, when the people I care for talk about these things it can't quite scare me. It's not that I don't see the negative associations—I know my depression is linked to my suicidal ideation, I know it's another aspect of being Unwell. It's not that I wish any of it on anyone else—I don't want them to be Unwell, or to suffer, and least of all to die, of course not. The negative associations pain me, but actual thoughts of death ... my instinct is to see a quiet comfort in that. I talk about my pet death with a smile. It's one of my before-sleep fantasies, in the same way that I build my dream home or pretend to be cat-bodied. I feel like the better I know it, the closer I keep it, the safer I am; the safer I am, even, from death. Seeing the out to my depression makes the burden of my depression easier to bear; it makes me need the out a little less. I don't have to set a date, I just have to know that some day, if I need it, I know what it is and it will be there.
Express looks at the rest of his life half in anticipation and half in fear: he has this great checklist of Life Goals but rails against the idea of longterm commitment. I think it'll work out for the best. He'll angst about choices forever, but his decisions will be good ones. He'll do pretty awesome things.
When I dropped out of college I stopped having goals. For a while, that was because I was unwell and recovering from being unwell. These days I rarely have to notice that I'm still sick—I'm safe, secure, and surrounded by love, I have no responsibilities and few stresses, etc. Life is good. But goals are my trade off. I'm well on a day to day basis because I only function on a day to day basis; looking beyond that could bring all the worst things crashing back, but more than that it just seems impossible. I feel like I couldn't, even if I tried.
I'm premenstrual, in one of those rare cycles where being emotional feels rewarding. Cathartic, maybe; indulgent. Almost relaxing. Today none of this is a bad thing, but it's still a realization of ... something. I have this pain and it isn't going away: this back pain, this depression. Even when I feel like I've forgotten about it, it defines who I am. I know that that's a bad thing, but it doesn't always feel like it. Sometimes it feels like just being me. Sometimes what it means to be me hits me out of the blue, and I notice again that every third thing I say is pretty darn depressing.
Amy (
cerulean_chains) finally convinced me to watch (the Vienna 2005 production of) Elizabeth the musical on the basis of these characters and relationships are totally up my alley. And they are, but it's something I've had to watch in pieces—in part because I'm in flighty "play video games for three solid hours, concentrate on anything else for thirty scarce minutes" mode, in part because...I know how I would kill myself. It's part thought experiment and part solid plan. There's comfort in having a plan—one that you know you could carry out, that you would carry out. Mine is asphyxiation. It's a sensation I find enjoyable, it's not too ugly or too messy, it's fairly easy to pull off even with limited resources (and to carry through even when the body's survival instincts kick in). Suicidal ideation for me has always been that: rarely the impulse but frequently the idea. It accompanies me like a companion, the plan like a pet, another face of my black dog but the face I like most—many of his aspects frighten me, but this one is a comfort.
I know that not everyone makes these plans, but it always surprises me to realize it. Conversely, when the people I care for talk about these things it can't quite scare me. It's not that I don't see the negative associations—I know my depression is linked to my suicidal ideation, I know it's another aspect of being Unwell. It's not that I wish any of it on anyone else—I don't want them to be Unwell, or to suffer, and least of all to die, of course not. The negative associations pain me, but actual thoughts of death ... my instinct is to see a quiet comfort in that. I talk about my pet death with a smile. It's one of my before-sleep fantasies, in the same way that I build my dream home or pretend to be cat-bodied. I feel like the better I know it, the closer I keep it, the safer I am; the safer I am, even, from death. Seeing the out to my depression makes the burden of my depression easier to bear; it makes me need the out a little less. I don't have to set a date, I just have to know that some day, if I need it, I know what it is and it will be there.
Express looks at the rest of his life half in anticipation and half in fear: he has this great checklist of Life Goals but rails against the idea of longterm commitment. I think it'll work out for the best. He'll angst about choices forever, but his decisions will be good ones. He'll do pretty awesome things.
When I dropped out of college I stopped having goals. For a while, that was because I was unwell and recovering from being unwell. These days I rarely have to notice that I'm still sick—I'm safe, secure, and surrounded by love, I have no responsibilities and few stresses, etc. Life is good. But goals are my trade off. I'm well on a day to day basis because I only function on a day to day basis; looking beyond that could bring all the worst things crashing back, but more than that it just seems impossible. I feel like I couldn't, even if I tried.
I'm premenstrual, in one of those rare cycles where being emotional feels rewarding. Cathartic, maybe; indulgent. Almost relaxing. Today none of this is a bad thing, but it's still a realization of ... something. I have this pain and it isn't going away: this back pain, this depression. Even when I feel like I've forgotten about it, it defines who I am. I know that that's a bad thing, but it doesn't always feel like it. Sometimes it feels like just being me. Sometimes what it means to be me hits me out of the blue, and I notice again that every third thing I say is pretty darn depressing.
