All the king's horses
Originally, today's post was going to be on how I've been feeling somewhat better over the past couple of days. I'd planned on musing on how the urge to harm myself had lessened, how I didn't feel a strong compulsion to drink, how the endless ruminating on death and how best to bring about my own was less constant.
That's changed. I've returned to how I've been.
I made it home a bit earlier than I usually do yesterday, early enough that there was still activity in the house. Likewise, I turned in earlier than I normally do, and for a while, as I worked to quiet my thoughts for long enough to fall asleep, I found it impossible to tear my attention away from the conversations happening in other rooms. The apartment's walls are paper-thin, and I can hear essentially anything said on my floor or on the main level.
I found the sounds of voices incredibly loud. They were no higher in volume than normal, and yet the discussions were intolerably loud.
Aside from (in addition to?) the sounds in and of themselves, I found the specific sound of Favorite Person talking to be highly, highly distressing. It's an occurrence that I've been aware of for months now - listening to her talk is physically distressing, and I don't understand precisely why. Whether the speech is being specifically directed at me - an event that grows ever rarer - or is directed at someone else, the physiological outcome is the same. Along with the physical distress is a psychological wave, the familiar feelings of being an outsider in my place of residence, of being fundamentally incapable of truly belonging to any interpersonal group, of not having a place where I fit. With that, the suicidality came roaring back.
I'm not surprised by how little it took to drive me back down into the pit that's become so familiar. A voice and all the meanings attached to it.
At this point in time, it feels like there's nothing that can actually be done to repair or rectify whatever in me's been broken. Checking myself into the hospital has been something that's floated around in my mind for a long time, albeit more strongly in the past week, but I doubt how much good that would do me. My depression, this double depression, has been going on for so long and emerged so early (relatively speaking, at least) that I don't think that a stay in the hospital for a few days, a week, two weeks would be highly beneficial. It would be different if this were something that just started for the first time altogether a month ago, and if this were the first time that I felt near the edge of crisis, but it isn't. A chronic condition can't be fixed in a short period, even with intensive care.
I'd be the same when I come out as I am going in.
This can't be fixed. I want it to, more badly than I've ever wanted anything, but I know in my heart that it can't really be done. I'm sick of existing like this, continuously tormented by thoughts that I have no hope of controlling, pushing people away in accordance to beliefs that are twisted representations of reality. I'm sick of it, I hate it, and there's nothing that I can do to fix it.
Illegitimi non carborundum - but how can you avoid being ground down when the bastards are internal?
That's changed. I've returned to how I've been.
I made it home a bit earlier than I usually do yesterday, early enough that there was still activity in the house. Likewise, I turned in earlier than I normally do, and for a while, as I worked to quiet my thoughts for long enough to fall asleep, I found it impossible to tear my attention away from the conversations happening in other rooms. The apartment's walls are paper-thin, and I can hear essentially anything said on my floor or on the main level.
I found the sounds of voices incredibly loud. They were no higher in volume than normal, and yet the discussions were intolerably loud.
Aside from (in addition to?) the sounds in and of themselves, I found the specific sound of Favorite Person talking to be highly, highly distressing. It's an occurrence that I've been aware of for months now - listening to her talk is physically distressing, and I don't understand precisely why. Whether the speech is being specifically directed at me - an event that grows ever rarer - or is directed at someone else, the physiological outcome is the same. Along with the physical distress is a psychological wave, the familiar feelings of being an outsider in my place of residence, of being fundamentally incapable of truly belonging to any interpersonal group, of not having a place where I fit. With that, the suicidality came roaring back.
I'm not surprised by how little it took to drive me back down into the pit that's become so familiar. A voice and all the meanings attached to it.
At this point in time, it feels like there's nothing that can actually be done to repair or rectify whatever in me's been broken. Checking myself into the hospital has been something that's floated around in my mind for a long time, albeit more strongly in the past week, but I doubt how much good that would do me. My depression, this double depression, has been going on for so long and emerged so early (relatively speaking, at least) that I don't think that a stay in the hospital for a few days, a week, two weeks would be highly beneficial. It would be different if this were something that just started for the first time altogether a month ago, and if this were the first time that I felt near the edge of crisis, but it isn't. A chronic condition can't be fixed in a short period, even with intensive care.
I'd be the same when I come out as I am going in.
This can't be fixed. I want it to, more badly than I've ever wanted anything, but I know in my heart that it can't really be done. I'm sick of existing like this, continuously tormented by thoughts that I have no hope of controlling, pushing people away in accordance to beliefs that are twisted representations of reality. I'm sick of it, I hate it, and there's nothing that I can do to fix it.
Illegitimi non carborundum - but how can you avoid being ground down when the bastards are internal?
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