I feel shitty, and I feel guilty for feeling shitty. It’s not even an “I shouldn’t feel shitty because it’s Christmas” thing; it’s just this general feeling that I’m an ungrateful entitlement bitch who needs to just get over it already.
I asked my mother and grandparents for a light box for Christmas so I could fix my sleep. They’re pretty expensive, in the league of $200, which is why that’s all I asked for from all of them.
Know what I got?
A knitting stitch dictionary and an oven mitt.
I feel like an asshole for complaining, I really do. I mean, at least I got something, right?
What I didn’t get was anything for me. I got things for the person my family wants me to be.
I want to be seen and known and lived for who I am, but they don’t want to see me. They’re afraid of me. They think I’m a bad person. So they try to remake me into someone else: talk about football, cook, don’t ask for anything to deal with your mental health issues because they’re not real anyway. But it’s all disguised as caring. Makes it even more insidious.
I want to kill myself so much. I keep having these dreams where I do it. It never hurts, and when it’s over there’s just warmth and peace.
There are people who really care about me, which makes me feel guilty too. The second session with the potential new therapist went well. Janet came and hung out for a couple hours on Friday. Hell, the only Christmas gift I’ve gotten that means anything was from my team counselor–a sonic screwdriver that lights up, makes noise, and screws screws. People care about me, do how fucking selfish is it to be suicidal? It’s just a rejection of their kindness.
But I still want to die; it’s my strongest wish. I’m mostly spending my time in bed, drugging myself with melatonin and Benadryl so I don’t have to be conscious. I take Winston out to pee, bring him in, and drug myself to sleep again. I haven’t taken him on a walk for more than a week. I’m a terrible dog mom, and he deserves better. I tried to get the team to find someone to take him because I’m obviously too fucked up to have a dog, but they wouldn’t take him. Pretty sure they thought I’d try to kill myself if they did. But as much as I live him, I know he deserves better than me. And the way things are going, I may very well kill myself even if he is still here.
I just don’t know how to keep doing it. No–what I don’t know is why. I see no convincing reason to keep living. I’m not worth it, and I don’t want it. Nobody can make the pain bearable while I’m alive, so apparently the only way is to die.