Is it wrong that I want to be left alone?

My ‘disorder’ has been peaking in the wrong direction for about a week now. I thought it would just ‘go away’, but this time it wants to keep following me around like a lost puppy. I’ve fought my entire life with thoughts of suicide and letting go of homicidal tendencies, and so far I’ve won that battle, but fear of losing that control has been weighing on my mind more frequently. I try to make myself go out and be around people, but the slightest little thing has me wanting to put my hands around their throats and choke the life out of them.

I stopped writing some time ago out of fear of what others thought about me, but in doing that, I think I lost a part of me. I want that back. I don’t know if I’m any good at writing, but it did give me peace. Writing over the years has giving me a chance to release the demons that are holding me back at being somebody; at least that’s what I’ve been told.  But dammit it’s hard to let them go when they are friendlier and more inviting to me than most people.

My dreams are of killing and being forced to do horrible, heinous crimes, and then I wake up with a smile on my face. Is it because I enjoy the crime, or it is that I’m killing a part of me that no longer needs to be there? Dreams linger throughout the day as if that was reality, and here I am in a dream doing nothing with my life.

I’m going to try and avoid doing anything really stupid, but change needs to come soon. I need to cut ‘things’. I need to shift my thoughts. A psychologist once told me to deal with my fears by exposing myself to that fear until it no longer caused me fear, and that I could do the same thing with my thoughts—expose myself to them on purpose until they no longer bother me.

My Mental War Rages On

I want to let go of the pain and let others have it.

I need a vacation or someway to get away from everybody and every stimulant. I feel blank. I can’t concentrate, I feel hopeless, helpless, you know, all the things that come along with having depression. I hate this part of being bi-polar, far worse than having the mania. I felt it coming at the beginning of the week and tried to head it off by doing activities that would lead my mind to other places, but it failed to work. Here it is the end of the week and feelings still linger around like a lost, starving puppy trying to find a home.

I went out a couple nights ago, driving around in my circles, letting the wind blow across my face, just so I could feel something more comfortable. Plus, I also have writers block going on, so getting away from others seems to sometimes help relax my mind. Problem is late at night it’s hard to find a place that is away from everybody, but still a legal place to sit in the stillness of the night air, to gather my thoughts.

I somehow thought I could get away with sitting at one of the local parks after 11p.m. I honestly believed I had until midnight, but the local PD let me know differently. At least they were nice when telling me the parks closed at 11pm, which disturbed my thoughts a little. It made my mind scatter towards reasons like, ‘why was he so nice to me?’ or ‘did he know why I was really there?’

After driving around in my circles for a little while, I settled like a old hound dog, at the end of a newly built road that would eventually led to new housing. I rolled down my car windows and enjoyed the fresh scent of the night air, drifting across the open field in front of me. I took several deep breaths, in an attempt to clear some of the clutter from my mind. But the more I thought about my daily struggles, and the struggles I would continue to have for many more years to come, the more I wanted it all to come to an end.

I let the darkness crept into my mind, and begin eating away any rational thought that might still be floating around in my head. I picked up one of the many sharp objects, I keep within reach at all times, and held the smooth metal in my right hand. Cutting for me, has always been a way to keep me from doing something even more stupid than simply laying open my skin.

I sat in the darkness with only a small light that illuminated one of my many spiral notebooks, and wrote 8 pages without looking up or letting go of the blade. The only thing that finally brought me out of thought, was the sound of sirens coming my direction. I watched a rescue unit, with lights flashing, fly past, followed by someone else with there lights going. I figured law enforcement would soon follow and one of them would surely see me sitting in the darkness. Instead of having to deal with them, or letting them see the small amount of blood that dripped from my arm, I started my car and began to leave the area. Problem was there was only one way out.

He didn’t hit his lights, but drove near my car window and told me he was just checking who was back there. He let me know that it was okay for me to park there and write if I wanted to, and to have a good night. Then he drove off in the direction the rescue unit went. Again my mind went to questions like before, ‘why was he so nice?’, ‘what did he really want?’ I didn’t want to take the chance on him or another officer returning, so I sat for only a few more minutes before I headed back to the staleness of home.

Since that night, all I’ve done is mostly sleep. I slept 12 hours, Wednesday and Thursday night, thinking that would help elevate some of the homicidal/suicidal thoughts from wrapping tightly around my throat and choking out what little life that remains. The bad days have to pass soon. I don’t want to go as far as loading the weapon, and then standing over them as they sleep, debating if I will pull the trigger or not.

I Want to End This Existence

It’s one of those days where a person like me, wants to give in to all those voices that are failing to communicate in my head. I have no motivation to write, or finish writing one of the many stories I’ve started recently. My mind is completely unfocused, unable to concentrate on one thing long enough to complete the task. It’s like a toy ball thrown against the wall, bouncing around in a thousand different directions, then suddenly it comes to a stop and just lays there.

I don’t want to post any more crap about law enforcement officers fucking up their lives, on my other site What Happened to Protect and Serve? I don’t want to post any more fucked up stories about children being abused on my other site Crimes Against Our Children. I want to shut them down. I can’t handle the disappoint of mankind for another day. Cops, judges, teachers, coaches, ministers, mothers, fathers, etc... are continually breaking the law. Who the fuck are we suppose to trust? I can’t trust anybody. I have all these people who follow my blogs, but I just don’t care anymore.

I feel like my mind will never get a break.
So, I forfeit this fight for my family’s sake.
Evil eats me up alive, taking my soul.
Leaving me where I‘ll never feel whole.

Walking Through a Wet Tunnel

I want to do something insane like: robbing a bank; stealing everything from someone else’s house; breaking into a store and looting everything I see, even if its something I don’t really want or need, I just want to take it anyway, and try to make it mine.

I want to end my life by driving my car into a head on collision with some unknown victim, knowing I will be punishing them for some past crime that they committed. Maybe a good confrontation with law enforcement will send my senses in another direction. Maybe I'll go on a violent rampage.

I want to cut my arm in one hundred different places, just to watch the blood drip down from my arm, so I will know that I am alive. I want to run butt ass naked through the sprinklers in front of the fire department, fat fully exposed, boobs flapping in the wind, then be able to snap my fingers and disappear to another time and place.

I stare incoherently at the computer screen before me, suddenly realizing I’ve read the above paragraphs a dozen time trying to figure out its meaning. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I feel so lost. I can’t concentrate, and my body feels alien to me. I want this feeling to go away...NOW!

I feel highly sensitive to taste, smell, but mostly touch. I don’t want to feel anything on my skin. I feel the need to have the outer layers removed, discarded like old trash. New flesh, replacing the old and worn out.

I can feel: every foreign thread in my underwear; every single whisper of hair heavily brushing against the back of my neck; the breathing of air moving in and out of my nasal passageway. I feel the freshly washed white tee-shirt caressing my soft nipples; the blood flowing through my veins, in a steady rush to get somewhere.

I walk with eyes lowered, not wanting to see the flawed world around me. Dressing in black, to appear as a shadow, hoping the world for one day won’t see me.

I don’t want to be touched. It sets off too many emotions, feelings I don’t want to experience. It makes me feel ill today.

Should I listen to the voices and do as they instruct? I haven’t slept in over 37 hours and counting.

What more is expected of me? I’ve done all I can, and things seem to be only getting worse. When do they get better? Deep down inside, I know they don’t like me.

Lights...there are too many. It’s too bright outside, inside I want the lights down low.

Strong odors invade my entire being, clinging to every hair follicle.

Too much clutter! Things are out of place, just have too much stuff.

Can’t seem to unwind. Moods jumping and rapidly changing from minute to minute.

Want to leave all this stimuli behind. Got to leave, got to run, just need to get away from it all.

To Kill Again

I was with him longer than any man I've ever been with, so I suppose he had to die. He wasn't the most talented man in the world, matter of fact all he could do was work a eight hour shift, and then come home and lay down. Never able to do any of the manly things that I thought a man should be able to do. Like being able to change the oil on the car, fix the leaky sink, repair the carpet, or even doing little chores around the house. He didn’t do anything of these things. If it was to be done, I had to do it all.

I have days where all I want to do is take my life, just to save myself from all this pain and misery. I yearn for a sense of purpose that will define my place in this world. But I yearn for too much. Hope and expectation cloud the mind before delivering bitter disappointment. It is a lesson I have been taught time and again. It is a lesson I keep having to re-learn.

I remember when I first met him. He was thick, but in shape with a nice muscle tone underneath, but I hated the fact that he acted like he knew it all. Still, it was easy to take advantage of him. All I had to do was show him the pussy and he would give me anything I wanted or desired.

I never really seemed to bond well with others when growing up, I mostly prefered to be alone. I would spend hours alone, thinking about ways to inflict a slow death on some small creature I had caught. At 12, I broke down, and told my father that I could kill somebody and not feel bad, he beat me with a belt and sent me on my way. Taught me to keep my mouth shut.

Now here I sit, past 40 years old in my own house, hidden deep in the woods, far from prying eyes, with another fresh corpse sitting next to me. I guess it was partly my fathers fault. Maybe if he hadn’t sexually, physically, or mentally abuse me throughout my life, my life might have went a different direction. Maybe it’s the voices that I hear in my head, that makes me commit these crimes. Or it might be the thrill, the adrenaline rush, the sexual turn-on, or the high that I get from killing. Whatever it is...I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop.

Some people might think that I’m sick, a freak, a inhuman creature, or insane, but I don't. I don't feel that it's a normal thing, but I feel completely numb about what is happening. Mostly I enjoy the sense of power that comes from terrifying victims, and confusing the police. I always wanted to prove to myself that I was capable to taking another persons life, but only one thing kept me from carrying out this nasty deed for years when I was young, I didn't want to be locked up for the rest of my life, rotting away in some stinking jail cell. Whether I admit it or not, I do value freedom, but I have become smarter.

I wouldn't do anything really sick, like fuck a dead body, but the thought is still there. I thought about it a lot when I was little, and afterwards I would lay in bed and secretly masturbate. Maybe I am sick, maybe I‘m just willing to admit to my heinous thoughts. I'd like to believe that I'm like a lot of other people, but that's only a fantasy. I’ve even been told that I’m as normal as the girl next door, but the truth is ..... Well, no one knows the real me.

Everybody has the power in themselves to kill another. I remember sitting alone in the big barn behind our house when I was young, with a black cat in my arms, thinking I could take its head and crush it with one quick show of strength. Or I could throw it on the ground with all my might and stomp it to death. I suppose talking about killing an animal is wrong, but I can’t help thinking about the feeling of warm blood splashed across my skin.

Things weren't easy for us when I was growing up. We weren't rich, so most of the time I found myself going without, while others would be proudly showing off their trinkets, I stood alone in the background. We grew food in the garden in the summertime, and hunted down and killed any other food we might need to survive. There wasn’t much, but at least we had a roof over our head, (that leaked when it rained), and food to eat every night (even if it was the same food two nights or more in a row).

At 17, I was out on my own. I bought a car, got an apartment, and supported myself in my own way. I suppose others would feel a sense of accomplishment in having their own apartment, I didn't actually care. I never needed much space to live in, just a small kitchen, one bathroom, two bedrooms; one room to sleep in, and another to put my collection of souvenirs. I lived like this for years.

Then he came along. Sex with him was great. I couldn’t seem to get enough of what he was offering. He would hold doors open for me, enjoyed going out to a fancy restaurant, or just spending a quiet evening at home entertaining me. Eventually he moved in with me, and we then we moved to a bigger place. Things changed. I changed.

It's been said that people don't care anymore, but I tried. People just never gave me the same respect that I was giving. Were they too dumb to understand? So fucking stupid that they didn’t understand that when you treat people like dogs, eventually they become the meanest dog you’ve ever come across.

Sometimes, I don’t mind being treated like trash, but at times I want to be treated like princess.

Now, I enjoy lurking in the shadows, watching other people, madly laughing to myself, making people wonder what I’m going to do next. I get off on the pure joy of telling someone something so bizarre that it fucks with their mind.

I love being around certain people. But what I love more, is when the people like being with me. I was a social recluse for quite some time, now I can never get enough of people. Maybe this is what drove me to do what I did. Maybe not. Society is warped, I see it all the time, but I can't blame society for all my actions or re-actions.

When I'm tired, I can be very disrespectful. "Fuck off," is mild for me. Don't get me going, because once I start, I'm not going to stop until something really bad happens.

They never understand my moods. MOODS. What a strong word, more powerful than most. Perhaps it's the fact that I have different personalities at times, so there is always a different reason for what I do. Hell, I'm still trying to figure that one out myself.

I hate it when he yells and threatens my life, telling me I worthless and good for nothing. I don’t know how many times I’ve told him to leave, but he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stand there like a fool and argue. I face reality and realize I can find another person just like him. He just makes me so crazy that all I can think about is killing him, and burying his body in a deep hole in the backyard.

Sometimes I get in this weird mood where all I want to do is listen to sad, dreary and depressing songs. Not happy songs. He hates this, and only wants to listen to his favorite type of music, calling my music nothing but crap, and giving me this look of hatred when he turns mine off and turns his on.

You know the letter 'y' in the word 'happy' makes the word look happy. Happ. That looks better. Like someone was trying to say 'happy' and their throat was slit in the process.

I could easily break someone’s bones, because the sound of the snapping bones drive me over the edge and sends me into a frenzy of inflicting pain. I want to make them curl up in the corner, and beg for their life.

I could easily cut a person. Blood doesn't bother me like it does some people. I've sat for hours, putting scars on my legs, arms, and stomach with one of the many blades that I own. I suppose that I'm rambling again, but I'll be strong and not apologize for it, because then I'd be weak.

He yelled at me, and read me like a book. He saw right through my moods. Saw the inner me. I don’t like that. I don’t want people to know me like that. We’ve been together to long.

What is the problem? You really want to know? I just wanted him to shut up, and stop telling me what I did wrong, over and over again until I want to throw up. I‘m not a dumb ass, I know I fucked up.

Then later, when I’m still mad, I didn’t want him to make believe everything is okay, and then tie me down to the bed and fuck me with all his strength...well maybe that was okay. I just wanted a word or two about how ‘the house looks nice’, or ‘dinner was good’, ‘your hair looks nice’, ‘don’t worry, I’ll take care of things’, that’s what I want him to say at least once.

The gun barely made a sound when it went off. I had put on the latex gloves, and wrapped a pillow fully around the gun before I placed it against his left temple. I was expecting a much louder noise, and at first I worried that it didn‘t really go off, and he would wake up shouting at me to leave him the fuck alone. But then I saw the blood beginning to pour from his mouth and quickly soaking into the sheets. I knew he was dead.

The blood meant something. It meant it was over. I didn’t have to deal with the way he treated me, ever again. I could move on and find someone new, someone better, someone I wouldn’t want to kill.

It feels good to scream, loudly. I felt like a God, standing in my big house waving the gun around in the air. Maybe I went back to some primal instincts of kill or be killed. I took the first step. There are no tears. I feel nothing.

So, now I sit here writing this, and I’m beginning to realize what I’ve done to him. He was my life for the past 20 years, and I've just altered that way of life forever. His death will mean my freedom again if anyone finds his body. But he has no family, no close friends, he won‘t be missed for a very long time. It will be time enough for me to move on, to begin again what I started so many years ago. I can’t let anybody find out. It has brought back all the old memories of when I killed years ago. Once again I am free to go out and freely kill and fuck at will. Some people might not understand this, but it is a part of me.

After I buried his body in a deep hole in the backyard, I took a long hot shower, blow-dried and straightened my hair, and now I'm deciding how to finish this story.

If a murderer moved next door, would you know it just by looking at them? Could you tell from your interactions with a person, that they were capable of committing unspeakable acts against other human beings? Could someone you love and have regular contact with, be a serial killer without you suspecting a thing?

The room he was in, now smells different. It's not the usual smell of his body odor, or his cologne that I bought for him last year at Christmas. It smells strange, and I feel like I don’t belong here any more. I cut up the mattress and buried most of it with him, but the smell of dead blood lingers, like dust in the air after a storm.

A gallon of bleach and a bottle of pine-sol should do the trick. I like to be clean, I hate it when things are dirty. Everything has to have its own proper place, and it is a must that things smell nice. Smell is very important to a woman. But they wouldn't listen! I'd like to take their words and shove them down their throats.

I figure people kill themselves because they feel they have nothing to live for. Nothing. Their life was wasted early, and that affects them later. So, they sit in one place, and look at all the dirt and filth around them, never finding happiness until the day they die. Nobody cares for them, and they don’t care for anybody. That's the reason. Maybe. I know how they feel now. I know, I understand.

My life is wasted, but his death fixed that.

I kissed him lightly on the forehead before I dumped his body in the hole. It sent goose-bumps through me, and made me wonder if I had done the wrong thing. Was it time to begin my plan? It felt like the first time all over again. The adrenaline rush like I got from my first kill was back. I had quit so many years ago because I was no longer getting the thrill that I had received the first time I took a life.

Society is going to hate me as much as I hate them. But I’m going to do it anyway, and not anybody is going to know the truth. Even if there was somebody who KNEW how I was feeling, what I'm thinking, and what I did, I would still deny it. It's like a disease, and it's not stoppable. Afterwards, I will feel bad, but right now, I don't care anymore. I feel alive, like Dr Frankenstein’s monster.

Who gives a fuck anyway? I should die. I am a sinner, and no one can save me now. What I’ve done is sick, disgusting, immoral, and I should die for my crimes. If somebody else had done the same thing, I would not hesitate to kill them. But, I am me, and so I am above the laws? No, I should die, and die I will by the hands of another...someday. That almost sounds poetic. I always wanted to be a poet, or a writer, but I don’t have the talent. I could have, but people are always telling me how much better they are than me, and how I'll never be anybody. People with more talent, more ideas, more feelings...normal people. People I don’t like. People that need to die.

This next weekend might be a good time to start this planned thought. Planning is important part... I don't want to make a mistake. Maybe I'll wait until my court date and explode in a violent frenzy, and not stop until I take my last breath.

If there is a hell, then surely I'll be there,

laying in my bed of hot coals, staring aimlessly at the ceiling,

unable to sleep.

Can I Swim in the Ocean While I Write Poetry?

It’s past 3am and I still can’t seem to relax, so I’ll turn to the only thing that seems to quiet my mind...writing. My mind has been having so many killer thoughts, that some of the stories running through my mind even frighten me a little. But I can’t slow down...I’m full of endless energy at the moment. It’s way better than that shithole depression cycle that I’ve been in, but that also means my mind has ten thousand things going on at the same time, making it almost impossible to finish one thing before I’m ready to do something else.

I averaged around 6 hours sleep yesterday, and around the same last night, and surprisingly I’m not sleepy at all. Today I got ready and did some spending at the grocery store, and spent more than what I should have, but I just felt the need to get things. It probably didn’t help out with this manic phase I’m going though, by drinking too much coffee this morning around 9am, skipping breakfast and lunch because I took a phentermine, low blood sugar, had an encounter with a highway patrol officer...nice conversation...lol, not much sleep, and then throw in the mania....WOW!!! Talk about high-strung.

I’m also thinking about my court date...it’s this fucking Thursday!!! Good thing I looked today, I thought it wasn’t until later in the month. I’ll probably wait until that day to decide if I’m going to court, or just pay the damn thing. It was my faulty ass brain, not thinking clearly, as the reason why I got the damn ticket.

It’s now way past 3 am and I’m still up flipping through the dictionary and surfing online to find the words that describes EXACTLY how I feel. Can I run away just to see if anyone cares? I just have all this unbridled mania and I don’t know what to do with it. I’ve tried finding things to occupy my mind and take me away from the intrusive thoughts, but nothing seems to be working tonight. It’s just sometimes I’m so afraid of failing that I don’t even want to try.

Enough psycho thoughts for the night, maybe I’ll go lay down and stare at the ceiling for the next few hours.

My mind occasionally drifts away into little fantasies of what life would be like had I pulled the trigger on him that day.

Scars are like tattoos...but with better stories.

It always rains the hardest, on the people who deserve the sun.

The stars will cry the blackest tears tonight.

I’m going to smile like nothings wrong.


Suicide is a cry for help ... a last ditch attempt to communicate from a private hell.

Suicide

I am stumbling,
struggling,
desperately trying not to fall,
but inside I'm crumbling,
wishing I could end it all...

I'm trying not to break apart
because of this ache in my battered heart,
trying so hard not to slip,
but I am losing my grip...

The chronic tears I am crying,
I can't stand being a prisoner to this pain,
my scarred soul is dying,
and out comes the razor to punish again...

I'm trying to hold on tight,
but I am losing my will to fight,
fading with the light,
dying with all my might...

I am just so broken,
in such horrible disrepair,
in these words I have spoken,
my utter despair...

I am trying not to lose sight,
of the last bit of life's light,
but I'm losing it tonight,
I am so far from being alright....

I'm dying so quickly inside,
I can't stop thinking suicide...

The Shame...so much shame

Tonight I’ve got suicide on the brain
over here typing because my head is screaming angrily at me
trying to rally other parts of my brain to shout the voices down
I hate myself for thinking like this.
I hate my mind for working this way.
inability to conduct coherent conversations
do excuse me if I go quiet,
or chuck a half-assed rant your way sometime soon.


I'm not feeling so good recently. My mood has switched into something nameless. I can’t describe it; a kind of shaky deadness. It is so strange how you can be okay for a while, enjoy life, live normally, and then, just when you breathe, overnight it all comes back. You’re crazy again, hurt again, suicidal again.

When I am stable, I don’t think about my mood every day, every hour, every minute. When I fully recover from a mood episode, I am horrified at myself, the monster that took over my body for a while. I think back to my meticulous suicide plans and all of the details and it is as frightening to me as if I had planned a murder. And how I acted. The shame, so much shame. Worse than being drunk in front of everyone, but similar in tone.

A few rough days and nights, a heat wave, exhaustion, the mood swings again, and I am back to wishing I weren’t alive. Moreover, I’m so restless and so very fucking angry that I can’t help thinking about jumping off buildings, a giant fuck you to the universe, for giving me everything except the ability to live with it. And for some quiet. To know that I will never, ever, have to do anything I don’t want to do again.

When every moment of every hour of every day consists of something you don’t want to do, and everything you see in the possible next ten years is more of the same.

Do you ever get the urge to run and run and then run some more? I’m not necessarily thinking of the Forest Gump type of leaps and bounds, but just something to shake off the feeling I have right now. I feel so restless that I wish I could be in a field and just run to the mountains, and never look back.

But it’s dark, and 2 in the morning. Besides the roaming bears, wolves, coyotes or cougars would consider me fair game and probably find me hard to resist.

So I think a shot or two of Jack is in order and then it’s time for bed.
Damn.

Late Night

Tomorrow night I’m going over to Sand Springs and see what kind of shit I can get started. I’ve got a big roll of yellow police tape and some other supplies, and I’m going to go around town and mark a few places just for fun. I think I might even start a couple of fires, just to see what will happened. Nothing serious, just a little fun...hehe.

There is this bar that ‘thief’ stopped at a few years ago, that is not far from the police department, so I’m going to stop in and drink a few tomorrow night between causing problems all over town. But, I’m only going to drink a few though, because I found out I’m pregnant again. I don’t want another piece of shit child, so I’m probably going to get rid of this one anyway. I might bring a bottle with me. I want to be drunk at least one last time.

Afterwards I’m going to go around town shooting off a gun in different directions, then leave the scene before the police get there. But you know me, I’ll have to drive back around later and look at all the confusion...ha! If I get bored I might pull a couple of robberies just for fun. Then when I’m done for the day, I’m going to call the police department and tell them that thief is in town, so they better have their guns ready. Late at night, if I haven’t been caught yet, I’m going to find a lone officer on a back road and make him shoot me.

Look’s like I’m going to have a lot of fun. See you around yaS.
Have a great life. Thanks for playing the game.

Depression is a Killer

There are many ways to insult someone with depression, without even trying very hard. The best way is to give them some unsolicited advice. Something that you think is simple, yet profound, and potentially life changing. But said in ignorance. Nothing cuts deeper to someone with depression, than when their illness, which is serious, is trivialized by another who doesn’t understand it.

Here are the some of the terrible things that people say:
“This is what life is like. Get used to it.”
“Life isn’t meant to be easy.”
“Pull yourself together.”
“You just have to get on with things.”
“At least it’s not that bad.”
“You just need to cheer up.”
“Quit trying to be a martyr.”
“I know how you feel. I’ve been depressed for whole days at a time.”
“You don’t like feeling that way? So change it!”

These are my favorites:
“What you need is a good kick up the backside.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Get a job!”
“Who said that life is fair?”
“Just snap out of it!”
“If you’re really that miserable, just off yourself”.


And the all time best:
“Why don’t you try not being depressed.”

I know Depression very well. Recently someone said to me, “You know there comes a time in your life, when you just have to sit down and decide what is important to you.” That was supposed to be helpful?

I can’t just wake up some morning and decide I’m not going to be depressed today, it just doesn’t work that way. People can’t see a wheelchair or me holding a cane so they don’t see anything wrong with me. Its not like the depression people get when a loved one dies, you lose a job, or a family pet dies, it is way more serious, and doesn’t just go away with time.

I have major depression which means I get depressed for absolutely no reason at all. Nothing is wrong, no one has run over my dog, or altered my perception of myself. My brain simply does not receive enough chemicals that it need to maintain a healthy state of mind. This is were the ‘just snap out of it’ falls flat on its face and becomes hurtful.

In my mind its like have a radio station in my head playing nothing but songs like ‘You‘re A Loser!, Concrete Angel, Because of You, Tears in Heaven, Nobody Knows, Broken, Never had a Dream Come True’ and so on. I guess I’ve got to learn how to fire that DJ sitting up there playing all those records, and instead but on some positive music.

Most of the time when I am in deep depression, I want to totally left alone to rot in my own deeply dug hole. Still if said repeatedly and with absolute sincerity then it is helpful to say “If you ever need a friend, I am here.”

Resistance is Futile

If every scar tells a story, run your fingers over my body and read my novel.

I think one of the hardest things about having depression, is not being able to tell the people that I am the closest to that I’m depressed or having suicidal thoughts. I can tell it to complete strangers online, but I can’t come right out and tell those around me that sometimes I just don’t feel okay.
Most of the time I hide those feelings during the day, it is only at night when I am completely alone that I allow my feelings to surface. Writing down my crazy thoughts is my way of releasing the stress in my life.
For the past almost 3 years, I feel I’ve given up. I injured my knees so bad that I have pain everyday, I don’t sleep very well, I developed diabetes, high blood pressure, and several other medical problems that I take medicine for. I rarely leave my house any more...if I do it is usually just to go to Wal-Mart, then it’s right back inside my house. I just don’t want to be a part of the world anymore.
They don’t want me in it...I don’t want to be a part of it.

Suicide by Cop

AND JUST SO HE KNOWS FOR A WHILE I WASN'T ALIVE

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Suicide by Cop

Be my bottle of sleeping pills,
The carbon monoxide,
Or a gun in my hand.
Be my bridge I jump from.
It is a simple phrase,
All too inclusive.
Provide me one final service.
I leave you no other choice.
Frequently depression and rage as well.
Be my executioner.
The ultimate decision is up to you.
Who better than a police officer.
I am the bad guy. The perpetrator.
Pushed over the edge.
Everyday I feel dead.
It won’t be your fault.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Every person has one secret that will break your heart.

Out of Service

It tastes like suicide

I’m trying my best to pull the chair up to the desk and write here just so I don’t lie in bed all day staring at the ceiling.

My brain is becoming incredibly noisy again. I don’t feel I can even properly articulate myself today as I can’t make sense of what is going on.

Recently the noise has been turned up again. It’s almost white noise; a rush of thoughts that flood in and swirl around. I have trouble coping when my mind is like this; I can’t get my thoughts straight and it makes it difficult to sleep or hold a conversation. It’s distracting and depressing. Depressing because the thoughts are almost wholly negative, but so very fast. Distracting because I can’t focus on the same thing for more than a few seconds before my mind takes me elsewhere.

What is also bothering and scaring me are “intrusive thoughts”- not the type you get with OCD. This is something I’ve lived with for years but they still frighten me and make me incredibly anxious and uncomfortable. They come from absolutely nowhere, quite suddenly and I feel like I don’t have control over them. I don’t want them and the things that I think of are things I do not want to do or see. I get images, like flashbacks, that strike out from the mess. Horrible things, like rotting images of my father, of myself, violent thoughts, thoughts of suicide, images of death and dying and decay. There are words and phrases too that stick in my mind and start skipping like a faulty record. I find it so hard to get past it that I either start writing, saying or forcefully thinking of something else. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t and drives me to frustration. It happens when I’m trying to sleep too so I have to talk myself down from complete panic.

When I’m out and about, if someone is near me, I have this thought that they’re going to hurt me, so I get panicked and have to get away, somewhere lonely and safe. I get convinced that they have a knife or gun or are looking at me oddly. I freeze and then begin to get anxious. And run off, or walk quickly away.

These thoughts have been keeping me awake recently and making me burst into tears. Sometimes I wish I had a dial I could use to turn down the volume.


When I die and my life flashes before me, I wonder if it will be worth watching.
Suicide---Don’t do it...Why make all your enemies happy?

Death Waits and Lingers

Truth or Reality

I'm lost somewhere inbetween.

Have you been to the edge? Crossed over, and felt the cold steal metal in your hand as you slide the razors sharp edge across your body? Watched as you skin spreads apart and reveals the blood soaked tender tissue below?

Have you ever held a weapon so tightly in your hands, that not even God himself could pry it away from you? Holding the gun to your head, finger on the trigger…asking out loud …is Today the day? Would anybody notice? Would anybody REALLY care?

Have you ever taken one too many pills, but then discovered even that one more wasn’t enough? Have you ever thought about refusing to sign that speeding ticket, forcing the officer into a confrontation to end your years of torment? Are you willing to admit that you’re that much of a chicken?

What about a rope? Cutting off your air supply and letting your body freely swing through the air? Do you find peace?

These are just a few of the ways that I have thought about ending my life. Everyday at least once without warning or thought, I think about suicide. Sometimes a place, a smell, a sound, or a person will remind me of something from my past. And for those brief few seconds, sometimes minutes, sometimes hours, even all day sometimes, I think about death.

Dealing with what life gives you.

A man had just been laid off from work. He was standing on the railing of a high bridge getting read to jump off, when he happened to look down and see a little man with no arms dancing all around on the river bank below.

He thought to himself, "Life isn't so bad after all," and got off the railing.

He then walked down to the river bank to thank the little man for saving his life.

"Thank you," he said. "I was going to jump off that bridge and kill myself, but when I saw you dancing even though you have no arms, I changed my mind."

"Dancing? I'm not dancing!" the armless man replied bitterly..."My asshole itches, and I can't scratch it!"

Shocking and alarming Thoughts

Society turned me into a disease.

Sometimes I feel like I want to do the craziest of things.

You know, like killing something or someone just to watch it die.

Spit open its stomach and feel the hand warming sensation of ruby red blood as it slowly drains from your victims body.

Sometimes I hear voices and they tell me to do things.

Where darkness stands defiant to the break of day.

You spend a lifetime of walking...but where did you go?

I relive the past. I feel the past.

I have such vivid, painful memories, flashbacks, if you will.

I can almost feel 'their' hands painfully squeezing me.

I can even sometimes smell the stench around me.

Contemplating suicide.

You wish you were already dead as you hold the gun up to your head.

I want to take him and string him up by the hind

quarters like a deer being hung up and skinned.

I want him to be alive as I run the sharp knife blade down his stomach to his nut sack.

I just like to watch sometimes.

More weird shit…I’m hooked on watching violent pornography.

I’m not gay but I like watching a man get fucked hard in the ass.

I like watching the pain on his face.

Antisocial personality with intermittent psychotic decompensation.

What it's like when I cut myself.

When I feel the need to cut, I'm usually very anger about something or in a situation where I can escape from what’s happening around me. It’s an intense feeling that I believe is 10 times stronger than what a ‘normal’ person would feel. It becomes such an overwhelming feeling of doom that you’ll do whatever it takes to take away that feeling. The voices from inside of me, tell me to injury myself, and the feeling will go away. I won’t have to think about why I’m angry, annoyed, or feeling like I want to throw up big chunks of food everywhere.
I run to a place where I think no one will see me, and I take out my secretly hidden sharp object.
Another voice from within shouts out, ‘What are you doing?”
I don’t answer back, because I feel shame.
My heart races, as I think about the blade being drawn across my already scarred wrist. I choose a place higher up, where others can’t see.
Voices….Voices…..Voices…Voices.
“Stop being a chicken about it…Just do it!!”
I think to myself why do I feel this way. And why won’t it stop. I have to make it stop. I can’t take the way I feel. I want to feel something else. Pain; that will take me to a place that is more comfortable.
I’m not sure if I believe in heaven, but I sure can give you a tour of hell.
I look intently at my cutting area, knowing I’m about to feel intense pain. I really don’t like feeling the pain, but it brings me back to reality. My heart races as I hold the blade with intense pressure against my skin.
“Just close your eyes and quickly draw the blade across your skin. Do it now and quit being a fucking chicken.”
I take several deeps breathes…Is this really what I want to do?
“Just make the feeling stop!”
“You don’t have to injury yourself”
“Do it now! You won’t have to feel the pain of feeling like you have no control!”
“You are a worthless piece of shit, and will always be a drain on society.”
Blood is already starting to appear from where you are holding the blade so firmly against your exposed body.
Deep breath.
'Quickly now!!!!!!'
A rush of adrenaline surges throughout your body, making you to take several deep breathes.
Quickly the blade goes across your flesh, and the skin lays open. Blood flows. But more important is the feeling. It’s like experiencing your very first breath. Your heart is racing. You feel alive. You have control. A sigh of relief. Knowing the feeling is going to quickly fade, you close your eyes and enjoy the brief moment of feeling alive.
Your anger disappears, and is replaced with the feeling your are more familiar with, and can understand. This wound you know how to heal. You open your eyes to see how bad the damage is this time.
A far away voices screams, “Shit!!! Look what you have done!!”
“What are you going to tell people?”
You grab the washrag you have sitting on the counter waiting to absorb the blood before it falls to the floor. You hold it there catching the blood, only removing it to see how bad your ‘accident’ looks. That’s what you’re going to tell people if they find out…I accidentally cut myself when…..I’ll think about it later.
That’s why I did it in a secret place, where no one will see but me. It will be another one of my secrets.

Today, I cut myself.

I need to empty my mind again so here goes my ramblings, and we’ll see if it helps me to sleep a little better.

Last week I had appointments set up to once again to see a psychiatrist and a therapist. I went to Parkside (our local nut house) and saw a intake counselor to ‘evaluate’ my needs. I already knew what I needed, it was just the going through the process to get the help that I need that really sucks.

Part of getting my license back is going to intensive outpatient treatment, so I want to do that but also I know inside I need some sort of ‘intervention’ again.
After 2 hours of being asked ever question about my state of mind, the counselor set me up into the outpatient drug treatment class, which wasn’t going to cost me a dime, that’s why I decided to go there. He also set me up with a psychiatrist and therapist, one appointment after the other. The only catch was the appointments weren’t for a couple of weeks. I thought okay great, I can wait that long, because I know when I finally tell more of my secrets I’m going to feel some relief….Right?
Things never work out right for me.
The counselor told me the out-patient drug treatment could start the next week, but the problem was the only time the they held the class was from 9:00am to 12noon, and I couldn’t find a way to get there. The more I thought about it, the more I decided to just wait until the kids go back to school then I try again. The next day the therapist I was going to see calls me, and I tell her I have to wait because I don’t have transportation during the morning hours. Somehow she took that as I wasn’t going to come to any of the appointments, and she cancels both of my other appointments without telling me.
As the day nears to my appointment I’m actually feeling some sort of relief knowing that I’m soon going to be emptying my mind. The morning of my appointment I’m up early and go out to get the mail from the previous day that I forgot to get, and there’s this letter from Parkside. I’m thinking they are just confirming my appointments, but I open it and it states that my case has been closed.

WTF? So I call Parkside and ask what’s going on. The therapist that I’m supposed to see isn’t in her office, she’s gone for the day. I then ask about the appointment for the Psychiatrist and of course he is already gone for the day. I’m thinking, okay this must be fate. Or something. Every time I try to see someone it never works out. Why?
I was glad the boys were gone to the pool, but then again if they would have been there I probably wouldn’t have cut myself. I never do things like that when they are around. It was nothing serious, just enough to bring a little blood, and give me a feeling that helped to temporarily wake me up. I had to do something or I might have done something that I would have really regretted.
I need to collect my thoughts.

What the fuck am I doing?

I have moments of clarity in my life and it is then that I have to ask myself, ‘What the fuck am I doing?” I think I know what I want from life, but I feel I have no way to achieve that goal. I can’t do it alone, and I hate asking for help from others, but what other choice do I have? I try to maintain and be as normal as possible; again it’s just not easy. Sometimes I want to listen to the voices in my head, but there are so many that it makes it hard to know which one I should listen too.

The more I think about suicide the more the voices from my past come slamming forth like someone hitting me in the head with a sledge hammer. They remind me of how Tommy couldn’t handle life either and took his own life with a gun to the head. He had been at my house just he day before, telling me how things were just not going good for him, and he felt like giving up. He said he was still going to work everyday, but at every chance he got he smoked weed, and drank until he passed out. And on his days off he would become so intoxicated that he barely remembered the next day what he had done the night before.

I told him he couldn’t give up, and some how when he wasn’t looking things would get better. That’s what I should have fucking said, BUT I DIDN’T. Instead, I told him people either get off of drugs or they eventually die from drugs. I wasn’t using at the time and thought I had beat drugs, so I figured I had the right to say what I did. His fear was that he would forever go through life being drunk and high, and inside he didn’t want to live that way. Inside, he just wanted to feel normal.

Is that such a terrible thing for a God is who is all powerful, to be able to do? Just give us strength to feel normal long enough to get our life together. Is that really so much to ask? That’s why I don’t believe God is alive today. If He is up there listening and watching, when I die I want to go up to Him and ask Him what the fuck his problem is. Hope He has enjoyed the show. But alas, I believe we are nothing but worm bait when we die and nothing more.