I was going to act out. I was going to write a furious post, full of anger and bad language and vague suicidal threats. It was in my head on the way home. Already now I’m calming down, as I always do. Sometimes I wish I had the energy to just do it, do the crazy thing, isolate everyone from me, even try to kill myself, but at least to express to everyone that I feel my life is screwed up and I can’t bear it a moment longer. But it never happens.
Rewind to last night. I was agitated. I wrote a blog post and then deleted it ten minutes later, worried about who might read it (some of you might have seen it, one way or another). I was angry with HaShem (God), I said things that I probably shouldn’t have said. I don’t even remember what they were, just that I was feeling hopeless and hated by Him and wanted to last out at Him. I don’t think I even said anything that bad. I’m pretty repressed, even at this stage.
And today I felt He was punishing me again.
I was too depressed and lethargic to get going this morning. Somehow I managed to get to work on time (just). I didn’t have time to put on tallit and tefillin, though, and I hurried through a couple of prayers briefly on the Tube, sitting when I should have been standing. I felt guilty for this, but not guilty enough. Moments later the train suddenly changed destination and I had to change, nearly making me late. He can be quick when He wants to be. I didn’t have time to shave either and felt a mess the whole day.
I could hardly function at work. I somehow did some work, but I am fairly worried that at some stage it will emerge that it was substandard. I had to stop at times because I was just overwhelmed and couldn’t concentrate. I made mistakes. I felt that I am not good enough at my job, which led on to thinking that I am also not good enough at my religion or my life. I thought of resigning. I had frequent, vivid thoughts of suicide and death. I self-harmed a bit (this is still at work), pulling my hair and hitting myself when no one could see. I wanted to go to the toilet and make myself sick, but I didn’t. I’m not sure why I didn’t. I fantasised about being beaten up, I wanted to hurt myself physically because I deserve it and because I want to blot out the emotional pain.
The final straw was finding out someone I once asked out got married. I couldn’t even go into a real sulk, because I also found out her mother died a few months before, so that made me feel bad for being envious and frustrated.
This morning (this was actually before work, but it probably coloured the day, subconsciously) I felt that I could see all the great figures of Jewish history, everyone I respect and revere, from Avraham Avinu (Abraham our father) to my rabbi mentor judging me, angry and disappointed in me. I’m sure that HaShem hates me. I’m not a functioning Jew any more. I should just die. I thought of overdosing, but thought I probably don’t have enough pills and I would probably tell someone (I’m too much of a drama queen not to) and they’d pump my stomach, which would be painful, but I would survive. Jumping in front of a bus or train was dismissed as too painful and unfair to others, but I nearly got hit by a car twice on the way home – accidents, but I’ve clearly got a death wish. I don’t know how it’s possible to keep functioning while having such frequent suicidal ideation.
I feel as if I’m playing Russian roulette. I’m the only player and the game goes on indefinitely, which means that sooner or later I’m certain to shoot myself. Whenever I tell anyone this, they don’t believe me or they blame me or they try to stop me, but they can’t do the necessary thing and take the gun away from me.
I wish I could write what I feel. I mean really write it, in a book or at least a coherent blog, instead of these inane ramblings. I’ve long dreamed of writing a graphic novel about my depression, but I couldn’t do it and anyway, the idea has been done. As I said in the first paragraph, on the way home I kicked around ideas for a post with language like… I actually can’t remember what it was. It was very angry and graphic, with lots of use of the f-word (which I never use, I have literally never used it aloud) and complaints that everyone else is happy and everyone else is sexually fulfilled (neither of which is true, obviously, although it feels like they are at times; it also feels like almost everyone is more happy and more sexually fulfilled than I am). But that doesn’t feel like me now. In the security of my flat, as opposed to the depressive- socially anxious- and autistic-Hell of work and the London Underground during rush hour, I feel calmer. I don’t like myself, but I don’t particularly feel like killing myself or losing my temper with my friends or leaving self-pitying comments on other people’s blogs or self-harming or making myself sick or generally acting out in other self-destructive ways that I was thinking of doing at work or on the way home. I suppose this is how I manage to stay out of hospital: work and the commute and shul push me almost, but not quite, over the brink, then a few hours of relaxation leave me set to start all over again the next day. Nothing is ever resolved, I never try to kill myself, but I never get better either. The ‘stuckness’ remains. It’s just a question of how long I can go on like this without something giving, and what will happen when it does.