Loopy, Lonely and Lost

Posts Tagged ‘suicidal thoughts

At this point, anything I say just seems like repetition. I’ve been here before. It gets so that I can’t believe I’ve ever not been here.

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Like a punch in the gut.

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Posted on: May 9, 2012

I’m not really sure where ‘I’m not suicidal’ came from yesterday.

I’m feeling pretty horrific. Anxiety levels through the roof. I can’t remember ever feeling this bad, although I suppose I must have done.

I just want to run away or jump off a bridge or stab myself.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make this go away. I feel so tightly wound, like a coiled spring, I can’t sleep, I can’t even think properly, all there is in my head is graphic images of ways of hurting myself, ways of dying, the only thing I can think of to stop this.

There’s a part of me, a tiny little part, that thinks I have some sort of future. There’s a person inside of me that believes I can stay alive, not just on a short-term, make-it-to-next-week basis, but for decades, for an entire natural life.

That person, she makes plans. She wants to find a house, get a mortgage, live alone. She wants to push on and succeed at work, do some volunteering, join a gym. She wants to create a little haven of calm, a home in which she’s not always watching the door, waiting for someone to barge in. She wants to learn to cook properly and paint some walls and organise her life. She wants something to organise, expenses to budget for, a diary to arrange and a life to keep in order. She dreams, vaguely, of writing something. Not for publication (even the dreamer in me is slightly realistic), but just an exercise in creativity, something to uncover her childhood enthusiasms which have been buried for so long.

But a dream is all it is. I fantasise about being a functioning adult human the way a child fantasises about being a film star or an astronaut or a Barbie doll. Having an actual life is about as realistic an aim for me as growing an extra arm. Read the rest of this entry »

I’m not really thinking about suicide. That’s too active. Mostly I am trying not to think about it. But suicidal thoughts are leaping, fully-formed, into my head.

Trying to cross a road becomes step out, now, in front of that lorry. Visiting a shop becomes how many types of alcohol and over-the-counter medications will they let me buy? Cutting a sandwich, slit your wrists with the bread knife. Crossing a bridge, jump off it. 

I can’t stop it. Everywhere I look, there is a way to die. I’m not even miserable, not really. Not desperately unhappy. Just a little subdued. I just can’t stop thinking about dying, no matter how much I try to distract myself.

My phone rings.

I look at the caller ID. It’s someone I know from work. A friend. We sit together all the time, she tells me about her life and I make her laugh. She’s someone I’m usually comfortable around. We’ve been on nights out together, I’ve even stayed at her house. She’s someone I like spending time with.

I don’t pick up. I watch the phone ring, ring, ring, until it stops.

I don’t wait long enough to see if she’s left a message. I switch off the phone.

Now that  it’s off, I can already feel creeping anxiety about switching it on. It’ll be hours, maybe days before I can face it.

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One minute, I was standing in the bathroom, looking myself straight in the eye in the mirror. Face it, I told myself, in crystal clear silence, you’re never going to kill yourself. Stop pretending you’re going to somehow develop the guts to do it, and find a way to live.

The next minute, I was sitting in my room in darkness, crying and Googling suicide methods.

Every time I try to close a door on it, it barges through as strong as it’s ever been.

I can’t help but feel that my birthday would be the day to do it. It means people only have to pretend to give a fuck once a year, doesn’t it? And it has the handy advantage of being less than three weeks away. (Incidentally, less than three weeks to go and no-one in my family’s mentioned it. I don’t usually do much for my birthday – just a couple of cards, a cake, maybe a cd or dvd – but no-one’s said a word and I think they, like me, just don’t want to admit I’m getting older. The longer I live, the more of a disappointment I am.)

It’s better to die, as soon as possible, than to keep dragging this out. The awful reality is that if I don’t take matters into my hands, I might live for decades after now. I might only be a third, or a quarter of the way through my life. And that time I might have too left, it’s too short to put right the mistakes I’ve made, and too long to live with so much shame and fear.

I need to get real. Stop living in some fantasy world in my head where I am someone else or there’s a time machine I can use to go back, back, back, right to the beginning of my life, and choose to do everything differently or maybe to just not be born.

I’ve backed myself into a corner. I’ve told myself, live like this or don’t live, and I’ve fucking tried, but how long can I carry on like this?

I can’t do it. I can’t make myself feel better so the only thing to do is find a way to make myself stop feeling anything.

Everybody has their moment of great opportunity in ife. If you happen to miss the one you care about, then everything else in life becomes eerily easy.

– Mostly Harmless, Douglas Adams.


This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

All children laugh when grown-ups say “these are the best times of your life”. Nobody wants to believe that that’s it – that predictable routine, acne and over-seriousness are the notable traits of the period of your life you’ll long for one day.

But the truth is that all the good things in my life happened before my eighteenth birthday. Read the rest of this entry »

The room is full of them.

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Posted on: May 14, 2011


My name is Laura. I was once told that I have cyclothymia. This blog is mostly where I write about living as a person with extremes and instability of mood, and the history of a life that led to the development of those symptoms.

I complain a lot, I'm very repetitive, unreliable, and I tend to contradict myself.

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