Hope Contagium

A therapy journal of self-obsession, depression and meaning.

Tag: suicide

Mornings

Morning come and the dawn shines on a stronger you. I still feel like blowing my brains out. But, but, I won’t do it. Partly because I don’t have a gun.

Hide From the World

It was good to sleep. The anxiety is gone for now, but the depression is here. Though I do feel anxiety every time I think about going back to work. It feels unbearable that life is so difficult for me… And others who are troubled, of course. I know I’m not the only one to feel this way. I still think about suicide often. And sometimes I just wish I could be hospitalized again. Lately more than usual. I would be looked after and I could hide from the world. I wouldn’t have to lead a life. I know there are happy moments but I hate those as well. Because I know I’ll be depressed again; and even though I enjoy them while they are there, I despise them in times like these. I hate myself for being happy. For letting myself feel joy. Every bad thing that happens I hate myself for. So much self-hatred. Even now I know this is a message to nobody; there is no receiver at the other end. So my words will echo empty and I’ll keep counting down the minutes of my loneliness.

Virginia Woolf’s Depression

If left to herself, she would have eaten nothing at all and would have gradually starved to death. It was extraordinarily difficult ever to get her to eat enough to keep her strong and well. Pervading her insanity generally there was always a sense of some guilt, the origin and exact nature of which I could never discover; but it was attached in some peculiar way particularly to food and eating. In the early acute, suicidal stage of the depression, she would sit for hours overwhelmed with hopeless melancholia, silent, making no response to anything said to her. When the time for a meal came, she would pay no attention whatsoever to the plate of food put before her. I could usually induce her to eat a certain amount, but it was a terrible process. Every meal took an hour or two; I had to sit by her side, put a spoon or fork in her hand, and every now and again ask her very quietly to eat and at the same time touch her arm or hand. Every five minutes or so she might automatically eat a spoonful.

 – A description of Virginia Woolf’s depression, from Leonard Woolf’s diary (Virginia Woolf: 1882-1941)
With gratitude to The Noonday Demon by Andrew Solomon

Conversing With Reality

Life seems so empty and bad. I can always point out something negative. If I ended my life today what would people think? I wish I had the guts to kill myself, but even in that area I am weak. Will my past ever feel good to me? Will my present? Forever I long for strong love and acceptance. I want a love that tells me I don’t need anything else in my life. But all my thoughts are fantasy; unreal goals just building up the misery. Once I could find comfort in my imagination, it was filled with hope. Now I’m simply growing older so I’ve lost that ability.
The ugly reality is staring at my face, laughing, crying, and shouting at the same time. It hates me and I hate it. Reality makes me crumble and hide…
When will this uncomprehending, meaningless, pondering imbalance in my brain end? There’s no escape! Eternal anxiety with no trigger. Mood-swings that change in a minute. Confused, angry, tearful, cuddly, thankful, blah, blah, blah! Thinking about it is wearing me out. I just want to find peace with myself and be normal. If I can’t be normal let me be great! Let all this nuisance lead to a bigger picture.
But let’s ask reality: Do I have greatness in me? Or am I just trying to convince myself of a destiny? Reality just smiles patronizingly at me without ever saying a word. I feel its pity.

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