I attempted to read my blog

... as an aggregated whole, as objectively as I can. It sure “ain’t look too pretty.” My posts reveal me to be not a storm, but a long chilly bought of rain. The type of low pressure that sticks around for a while. Not one that is celebrated in a drought, but one that trickles down the dam threatening villages downstream.
As if in my life, my real life, I often hold back emotions so strongly, I often cannot articulate or even understand my feelings, or their origins.
It is true that my emotions are tainted with the strong scent of a serious mental illness. One in which I have had a history of depressive symptoms that started sometime before I even hit puberty. I remember being alone in my room, very often, at the age of 9-10. I once remember painting a masterpiece of black over black, in watercolors. I remember at a very young age, somewhere around third grade, in which I believed that no one around me was real, That only I existed and everyone around me were robots, or I just lived in a dream. WTF How phenomenological of me.
Thinking back, that just seems such a lonely experience for a child, and I wonder what triggered these thoughts and feelings. I certainly have many happy childhood memories, but I do wonder one thing… WAS THIS FUCKING NORMAL?
So what came first, the “life experience” or the “mental illness?”
Anyways, I have been under the care of professionals for a few years now. I have issues .
I have had multiple M.D.s and one useless N.P. that told me I needed to talk to someone. I have been talking to the same person for a couple of years now. I am not sure what is really being said, or if I am truly listening.

My main issues are my recent masochistic tendencies. I some ways, they are sickly recreational. I know…”overshare” But essentially, whenever I feel distressed, my instinctual (or anti-instinctual) reaction to think of violent ways to self-destruct. My thinking has become more and more creative, even though my mood has been appreciating.

What is most upsetting to me, is my fear that someday I may actually, perhaps accidentally, kill myself. And it bothers me even more, because somehow, I think of death in hellish sorts of ways. I do not think of pretty little clouds and angels, but of pure…extinction.

Perhaps in very wise and successful fashion I have been taught and practiced the act of avoidance. The idea to swallow those feelings and move on. “Just get past them, don’t think about it, and go to bed. Put as much space between those feelings and yourself.” So they ride in the trunk on my road throughout life.

But I still don’t talk about it. Not even to those professionals.
Until this week. Someone called me on it.

No surprise, It wasn’t my tried (tired?) and true therapist who I keep because he can actually talk me down from the top of the cliff. He who reminds me consistently how much better I am doing, and that everything is going to be okay.

So I got called to the carpet… Who am I protecting? My friends, family, and um….therapist? Therapist?

So I apologize my dear readers (which at last count may have been 7 people). I am sorry that you have been reading my angst. Perhaps I should actually talk to my um…therapist.

(image: recklessly stolen from sources forgotten)