There haven’t been many people I’ve ever hated, but consistently I’ve hated myself, to different degrees. Rarely ever have I hated myself as much as I do currently, to the point that I have multiple daily thoughts of disappearing. Erasing myself. Ceasing to exist. Killing myself.
I haven’t tried to kill myself because I don’t want my friends and family to have to deal with that (even though sweet release is so tempting). I don’t ever want them to have to deal with an attempted (or successful) suicide again, but I am at rock bottom. I am past the bare earth and am clawing at bedrock, tearing my nails and screaming with pain.
I have a mental health assessment appointment scheduled to confirm my major depression diagnosis (I think I might be bipolar, but obviously I shouldn’t use Dr. Google to confirm), to reevaluate my medication, and to find some therapy options. The appointment was originally scheduled for mid-April, and then was moved forward to this past week, and then the day of, it was postponed because the intake counsellor was sick. Less than two more weeks, which feels like a lifetime, until the rescheduled appointment now.
I have this fucking cycle going on where I start missing the stupid Pirate, blame myself for ruining things and not going to counselling when things were getting bad in all areas of my life a year ago, and then hating myself even more for getting upset over a fucking breakup that happened more than half a year ago. Then I get mad that it’s been so long and I’m still grieving him and hate myself EVEN more for being a drag on my friends and family. I don’t want my nephew’s first memories of me to always be me crying.
In my mind, I am fully aware that just because I thought he was my forever and that we were partners who would work through everything together and that I’d liked him since I met him at 15, doesn’t mean he felt the same. Things change, people change, feelings change. I was desperately unhappy living in Vancouver. I know I’ll never be able to afford a house there, there are too many people, I hated my job, I was drinking and smoking too much pot, and on and on. I wanted a baby with him so badly, but could never explain it properly. I wanted everything with him.
I feel like I’m a failure. I hate looking in the mirror. I hate having to get out of bed in the mornings. I hate having to talk to people every day, to fake my way through another day. I hate that so much of my hurting is caused by one person’s feelings for me, and it hurts so much that I am so weak and pathetic. I hate me and being me and the fact I was ever born in the first place. I have cancelled my travelling plans because I’m so unstable. I know that things will get better, that I’ll get past this, that I am just going through a down time, that my medication will get adjusted, that I will eventually date again, but all I can think about is how I don’t belong anywhere and have no home. That I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me. That I am unloved and unloveable. That I will never be satisfied and happy. That I’m going to forever blame myself and forever regret losing him. That I will forever hurt and forever hate myself.
I don’t know how I can continue living even for a few more weeks like this, let alone decades. But, I will try, even if it means just taking life one fucking painful moment after another.