Tick tock motherfucker

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Here goes another day. I don’t know what’s an accomplished day anymore but this definitely isn’t it.

I have zero appetite so there’s no food in the fridge. I haven’t done laundry in weeks. Yet another weekend when I have no plans. All I want to do is to wrap myself into a ball and hibernate until the day I’m well again.

I’m not saying my life was perfect until I got ill but it sure wasn’t like this.

Another day closer to death and I’m reminded that the past eighteen months of my life could just be written off.

I used to have a future. Plans and passions. I used to want for things. I wanted to become the first foreign female editor of a major British newspaper.

Now I couldn’t give a shit. It’s all out of the window. What does it fucking matter if I never become anything? There’s always going to be some bright-eyed and bushy-tailed young reporter with sharp elbows to take my place. As long as I don’t cause any trouble or expenses, this world does not give a single flying fuck about Ida Väisänen or anyone else for that matter.

I’m twenty five years old. I know that’s not old. But I feel like my life is going to waste. I don’t live, I exist. When that thought hits you there’s no point in rationalising it or pointing out how far I’ve come in that time.

At my darkest moments I could claim that we could’ve stopped this nonsense eighteen months ago. What’s point in a losing battle?

I thought about whether I should write this post or not because I want to offer peer support to others. I guess in a way I am, because that’s what this is isn’t it?

This is what depression is like. It’s fucking horrible. It’s an open wound filled with puss in your heart that keeps on reopening no matter what you do to it. When you least expect it, the dainty strands of skin that have slowly grown over the wound are ripped violently open and it all comes out. The rotten, the abhorrent and the absolutely disgusting.

I can be many things but I’m not a hypocrite. If I were to save up the most hideous thoughts just to myself and pretend to the world otherwise I’d be just that.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m pretty level-headed most of the time. Ask any professional who has ever dealt with me. But at times I’d just like kick and scream and cry for the simple reason that it’s so fucking unfair that I got ill.

I lost my job.

My plans for the future have gone out the window.

The medications I’m on have changed my appearance.

I have no fucking clue what am I going to do.

Who knows, I might never work as a reporter again. It might be that I’ll never be an author like I always imagined as a kid. Maybe I’ll become a Spar clerk until I’m 90 or whatever the retirement age at that point will be. I. Don’t. Care.

What is a posh title or a snazzy office if hell on earth is muted from the rest of the world and only exists inside your head?

As long as I recover, I won’t care.

I want to get better. I so want to get well again. But I’m once again faced with the terrifying fact that all I can really do in the face of this illness is to do what I’ve been doing so far: take my meds, go to my appointments, keep existing.

As that has worked fucking wonders for me so far.

It’s going to get better, it’s going to get better. Just keep holding on, it’s going to get better!

Yeah, yeah, yeah. It just gets so hard at times to keep believing that.

When I wanted to die I was perfectly aware that I was loved and cared for and that I had the world on my feet.

I just didn’t want it.

This is one thing that I want people who haven’t experienced suicidal emotions themselves to understand: when they say that a person wouldn’t had ended up with their decision had they known how loved they were.

Yes they would’ve.

Once you’re at that brink it becomes secondary.

The thing with suicidal behaviour is that you don’t just back away from the decision once and then forget about it.

You have to decide to keep on living every day. That’s why it’s so hard.

This is why I get so angry when people call suicide a selfish decision. I’d like to argue that if anyone is selfish, it’s the people who want someone who is battling hell inside their head every single second of every single day of their existence to keep on living for their sake.

Don’t add insult to injury by calling someone who succumbed to pain selfish. We don’t do that to cancer patients either.

I’m not telling this as an order for everyone to go top themselves. Quite the opposite actually. If I wasn’t talking about this, that would be worrying. That’s what I did in the past. Didn’t tell anyone, just off I went. So progress I’d call it, no?

And I make things worse by talking about this in public. With my own face and name no less! Out of everyone I should be aware of the importance of social media presence if I ever plan to salvage my career.

I couldn’t give a shit if someone reads this post and decides that I’m too mental to be hired to any job ever again. Once you’ve hit rock bottom you stop caring. I’m not afraid of anything in this world anymore. Why would I be? Why should I give a single fuck what anyone thinks about me? I’ve already seen the worst of it.

I’ve spoken with my loved ones on phone while being the only one to know that this would be the last time I’d ever speak to them again.

Why would I be afraid?

I’m not afraid to die. Still, I don’t want to give up. I don’t want to be a life claimed by a horrible illness. I deserve to be happy and healthy just like everyone else. What has happened to me isn’t my fault.

Why should I have to pay the price for it?

But this what a fight against an illness is like.

Fucking exhausting.

But this is why I keep talking about it, despite the fact that I’ve probably lost all the dignity I’ve ever held in the eyes of the world.

This is why I do this. Maybe someone reads this and now knows they’re not alone.

This is why.

 

6 comments

  1. Amazing, as ever. The ‘existing not living’ thing is a huge, gaping hole of a pain in the arse, to say the least. It’s fucking horrible. It’s like all you can see ahead and behind are days grey with fog that mean fuck all. The living will come back, though. It might be different, but it comes. 💚💚

    Liked by 2 people

  2. I love this post. It’s so raw and honest, which is what more people need to be reading and hearing. I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder after admitting myself to the hospital for almost 3 straight weeks of suicidal thoughts. It is absolute hell. But I talk about it because people who have never had suicidal ideations have no clue what it’s like. Thank you for posting this.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Yep – depression and suicidal thoughts are beyond hell. It’s like a black hole in your heart that just sucks all the joy and energy out of you, leaving nothing to fight with. I hear you. With the shitstorm you’ve been through in the past few weeks, who wouldn’t be feeling like utter crap? Here’s the deal – as Seeds said, It will get better. There will be an interest or something that slowly pushes you into a new direction. Maybe your path isn’t how you laid it out – but maybe this is a better one? Sending you warm and healing thoughts…

    Liked by 1 person

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