If You’d Like To Meet My Brain

Hi. This is going to be me, all of me, unfiltered. I am not here for followers. Or to make friends. I don’t care if anyone is reading this, or if they’re not. I don’t need you to care, I have enough people in my life who do that, no matter how undeserving I am. I definitely don’t want your sympathy or pity or whatever you’d like to call it.

All I’m concerned with is letting some of this out. Maybe it’ll help. Maybe it won’t. I won’t know for sure until I try. Or rather, do it.

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If you know someone who you think is struggling with this, or if you’re the one who’s fighting it, then maybe my words will help.

Then again, maybe they won’t.

Regardless, this is something I feel like I need to do, so here I am.

Oh and just FYI, random unknown reader, the posts after this one are displayed from latest to oldest. I don’t know why I thought this would be relevant, but this is just in case, I guess?

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Speak Now Or Descend Into Madness

So. This Sunday I made a major decision, and I told my parents that my brain has been malfunctioning for a while and I am afraid it’s going to end up killing me.

Like it’s some sort of dangerous parasite or something.

The response I got was far from satisfactory, but almost exactly what I was expecting. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I know my mother.

I sat down with my cousin, because I needed her support and she already knew what was going on. I proceeded to pour my non-existent heart out to my mom and try to explain what was going on with me and why it was scaring me. My dad, meanwhile, was enjoying a very peaceful nap and was unaware of the havoc I was wreaking in the living room.

I was told that what I had was not depression, and I, quite understandably, lost my shit. This was one of the most difficult things I had to do and I was told that I was being ridiculous and I had no idea what was going on with me. Excuse me, but the last time I checked you were neither an empath nor a telepath, so it’s rather ridiculous to assume that you know what’s going on and not me. It’s my bloody head!

Retrospectively, I realise that mom might not have wanted to accept the fact that something was wrong with her daughter. That something so horrible was going on with me. But in that moment, I didn’t care. All I heard was that I was wrong and I was trying to stir up drama and I was simply “throwing a tantrum”.

Considering the fact that moments later when I (in a rather pissed off voice) asked her what was going on with me, she told me to stop throwing a tantrum, I’d say my assessment of her perception was pretty spot on.

She then proceeded to tell me about the problems in her life and at that point I cut her off and told her that I wanted to be selfish for once and have this just be about me.

At this point my dad emerged from his slumber, took one look at our faces and decided that he did not want to step in and incur the wrath of two very emotionally charged women and one innocent bystander who had no idea what she could do to help the situation. He made the very intelligent decision to retreat to his office. My younger brother was smarter. He didn’t even poke his head out of the room.

Meanwhile, mom started telling me about the things I could do to work through this. At that point, I knew I wasn’t being taken seriously, so I just got up and left her mid-sentence. My cousin, we’ll call her Emma, was left to answer mom’s questions.

Em told me later that mom thought I was just having anxiety about my exams. Which is bloody ridiculous, considering the fact that five years ago I had no idea I’d even be giving these tests. Em managed to convey the fact that I’d been having these problems for a long time, but I’d given up and gave no fucks.

Dad eventually came to talk to me but by that time I was so upset that all I could do was ugly cry and periodically scream “Fuck you, universe!” like it was some sort of ritualistic chant. I know, very mature. He handled it pretty well though. Just held me until I calmed down a bit. He didn’t make me talk about it.

I think mom felt bad after a while for shooting me down like that. She was a lot nicer to me the rest of the day, once she had time to process what I’d said. She did try to do a mind exercise on me, but I told her that her Jedi Mind Tricks wouldn’t work on a fellow Jedi. But that was it.

The rest of the day, I did my best to act “normal”. And I succeeded to a great extent. I figured that would be the end of it and we’d just pretend that nothing had ever happened.

I was so wrong.

The next day, I was sent to the psychiatrist – ironically, the one I’d been seeing on and off in secret for the past year to resolve my issues. Except I’d never told him that I had a problem with depression. I tried to tell him many times, but it would have made it too real. So I didn’t.

Mom had already briefed him about what I thought my problem was, so there was no escape. I told him everything. About the alcohol and the drugs and all the things I did to distract myself. About the hole inside me that either hollowed me out from the inside, or filled itself with the kind of grief that left me incapable of doing anything. Grief that had no trigger. No cause. I told him about the voice inside me that tells me that I should just end myself. I told him that I had several plans, and that didn’t bother me, because in my head it was like planning a surgery. Like it wasn’t really going to happen to me.

I told him that what scared me was that I had been getting urges to act on them. And since I already had several plans and my knowledge of medicine as a med student ensured that I knew exactly what would kill me, there was very little stopping me from doing it.

So he told my mother that I was very severely clinically depressed, which was the biggest “I told you so” moment of my life. I was sent home so they could talk in private. Like I’m not an adult.

Anyway, now I’m on medication, because if I waited any longer, my brain chemistry would have been permanently altered and no medication would have helped. Everything is out in the open. Everyone is walking on eggshells around me. I’m being paid more attention than I ever have before, and I don’t like it.

My life has actually changed, and I don’t know how to deal with that.

When Your Brain Wants To Kill You

Suicide.

The word itself has all kinds of negative associations. If someone is reading this, I can be sure you have some opinions about the topic. But unless you’ve been where I’m standing right now, or have really known someone else who has, you won’t see it the way I do. Perhaps you’re one of the few empathic souls on this planet who will understand. I don’t know.

Maybe you think it’s something for people who don’t want to deal with their responsibilities. The consequences of their actions. Maybe it’s something bratty teenagers do when they don’t get enough attention. Maybe it’s a coward’s way out. Maybe you understand it as a last resort. (And now the Papa Roach song is playing in my head.) (more…)

The Things I Didn’t Know

I’ve been told that I’m depressed.

I suppose there’s no avoiding it now. When a professional says you have a problem, there’s a good chance that there’s some truth to whatever they’re saying. But when three opinions are the same, you have to admit that maybe they’re right.

In short, I’ve recently been forced to admit that maybe I’m not as okay as I claim I am. The problem is that I don’t know where I’m supposed to go from here. Do I tell people? What do I say? I’m not financially independent yet, so what do I say to my parents if I decide I need help? Will I have to change my name and move to another country? Do I need a blue flower with red thorns? (more…)