Sunday, 14 August 2016

Dealing with depression, or: why do other people even exist?

It's commonly known that the first step towards dealing with a problem is to admit that the problem exists.

For mental health problems there is no exception. You admit there is a problem, you get it diagnosed, and then... well, theoretically solutions could then be found and implemented, but beyond stuffing the person suffering from the mental health problems full with drugs, one may as well not even try to find help. Sure, for serious things like schizophrenia we know too little to provide any proper solutions, but there are so many cases where solutions are easy and permanent.

I was officially diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in 2009, along with a host of other, related mental health problems. Along with this PTSD I suffer from frequent periods of depression, suicidal thoughts (with one failed attempt), and a general state of mental suffering. Daily life is difficult to get through, with very little required to send me spiralling back into another depression, PTSD episode, or worse.

To these problems I have admitted and I am frankly quite open about it. I'm chronically depressed. I have a severe stress disorder. I tried to commit suicide once before and may try again in the future. I admit to none of these things being a good thing, and I would be more than overjoyed to fix these problems.

I can have pills, sure.

Find justice for the traumatic things which were done to me? Nope. Get help with finding a place where I can live without risking triggering my PTSD and suicidal depressions? Nope. Reach a level of emotional and mental stability where I can maybe feel relaxed and happy? Forget it.

I survived horrible things, and I frankly wish I hadn't. The bleak outlook for my future as I consider my mental health issues and being stuck in a situation where it is only exacerbated makes me think that it would perhaps have been better if I had succeeded with that suicide attempt, a number of years ago. I didn't want to survive it. I'm not glad I did.

A handful of people truly do care about me and would help me if they could. The rest might as well not exist for all the effect they have on my life. From 'professionals' calling me insane for claiming to be intersex or making fun of me for saying that I suffer from PTSD, to regular people taking advantage of me.

I think something broke again inside of me a while ago. I'm currently keeping myself somewhat sane by focusing on work and hobbies. Things unrelated to emotions. Everything else will just go wrong on its own anyway. I'll get kicked out of my current apartment at some point, I'm sure. If it doesn't drive me to commit suicide first, that is. More people will come along to claim money from me and to generally make me feel even less safe and happy.

It's pointless to fight against those things. Whatever I do is pointless. Whatever I try is meaningless. Nobody who can help me will help me. Admitting to having a mental health problem is utterly useless. There's no hope. No salvation. Just hanging around, waiting for the inevitable.

The last time I felt truly happy was when I thought I was about to end my life.

I couldn't even do that.


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