desiderata310
VIP Member
Oh, hello suicidal thoughts. Took a long weekend, eh? Not certain I understand why you're back but come join the party. No, please, didn't really miss you all that much. Had a lovely endorphin filled weekend, complete with my car's arrival, an awkward new… acquaintance, short chat with my oldest son and a lovely text exchange with my daughter. My daughter even told me she was proud of me and the new place I've found for us (she hasn't joined me yet)
I've even taken the risk of telling my son who's still at home that I'm in therapy. He didn't pry. Accepted my basic explanation of PTSD and let it go.
I've fought off my terror of seeing where S called me and have managed to hold together quite nicely given that I recently stirred up old memories of something that I don't want to remember. I was even feeling so good I thought I would stick my head back on Facebook to see what my teammates were doing- today kind of marks the beginning of the tri/bike race season back home.
But you're here. again. Aren't you sick of me yet? I certainly am sick of you. I'm sick of my eye twitching, I'm sick of being exhausted. I'm sick of nightmares. I'm sick of not being hopeful. Why won't you leave me alone? Yet, here you are, with me again, staring at Monday morning and taunting me with the hell of it all.
Part of my brain is saying, we'll get up in the morning, go hit the water, get a good swim and a run in and enjoy the last of the three day weekend. Part of me is obsessing with getting over to where I know there's a rope of a decent size and the appropriate knot to use to make this all stop.
My therapist said that I didn't have to tell him when I was actually suicidal because he'd learned to read some of my comments the right way. If I said, it had been a really bad day, he knew what it meant. When I turned to him and said I was flat out suicidal. He got really worried. We've talked about the hospital: land of last resort.
What do I do tomorrow? Ignore it? Tell him all is right with the world. Try to tough it out? Am I THAT f*cked up?
Why does this have to be so f*cking hard? Why can't I just tuck my life back in that little box and continue like I was. I felt like a normal human being yesterday and most of today. I've been able to push things down, push them aside, keep the lid on.
I made "progress" last week. I don't feel like progress was made. I feel like I was where I was back in December: somewhere between letting go and holding on to that cliff face for dear life. I woke up with that gnawing grinding at me and I pushed through to go to an event, get my car from the transport company. But now I want to quit.
I've even taken the risk of telling my son who's still at home that I'm in therapy. He didn't pry. Accepted my basic explanation of PTSD and let it go.
I've fought off my terror of seeing where S called me and have managed to hold together quite nicely given that I recently stirred up old memories of something that I don't want to remember. I was even feeling so good I thought I would stick my head back on Facebook to see what my teammates were doing- today kind of marks the beginning of the tri/bike race season back home.
But you're here. again. Aren't you sick of me yet? I certainly am sick of you. I'm sick of my eye twitching, I'm sick of being exhausted. I'm sick of nightmares. I'm sick of not being hopeful. Why won't you leave me alone? Yet, here you are, with me again, staring at Monday morning and taunting me with the hell of it all.
Part of my brain is saying, we'll get up in the morning, go hit the water, get a good swim and a run in and enjoy the last of the three day weekend. Part of me is obsessing with getting over to where I know there's a rope of a decent size and the appropriate knot to use to make this all stop.
My therapist said that I didn't have to tell him when I was actually suicidal because he'd learned to read some of my comments the right way. If I said, it had been a really bad day, he knew what it meant. When I turned to him and said I was flat out suicidal. He got really worried. We've talked about the hospital: land of last resort.
What do I do tomorrow? Ignore it? Tell him all is right with the world. Try to tough it out? Am I THAT f*cked up?
Why does this have to be so f*cking hard? Why can't I just tuck my life back in that little box and continue like I was. I felt like a normal human being yesterday and most of today. I've been able to push things down, push them aside, keep the lid on.
I made "progress" last week. I don't feel like progress was made. I feel like I was where I was back in December: somewhere between letting go and holding on to that cliff face for dear life. I woke up with that gnawing grinding at me and I pushed through to go to an event, get my car from the transport company. But now I want to quit.