YOU ARE NOT ALONE - A companion online community discussion board for The Mental Illness Happy Hour podcast with Paul Gilmartin

I went through my folders today and read through the notes I used to write for myself. Most are from 2012 or 2013 but there's one from this past May so I read that one first. It almost shocks me to see how ferociously hateful I was towards myself and how much I embraced killing myself. It's hard to read those words and not be depressed; it's some seriously heavy shit. Less than a week ago, I was very suicidal (I'm fine now) and even though I'm better, the feelings don't go away entirely and reading through these hate-filled notes just makes me question things again. Living with depression and some other mental illnesses is something I would never wish upon someone else because it's same of the worst pain a human can experience. I tell myself I don't know why I keep these notes but I know damn well why I keep them. I keep them in case I become seriously suicidal and I need some justification for my actions. They're for that final emergency when I need a push that brings me further to, if not over, the cliff of death. I can't bring myself to delete them because they're extremely personal and they can serve another purpose besides pushing me towards death. They tell me how I was feeling at the time when I wrote one. Some are very close together and some are months apart but they remind me of how troubled I was at the time and in a way, that can comfort me because I know I'm feeling a bit better. My life isn't easy and at times, my life is completely worthless, but I try to move forward and maybe, just maybe, I'll live to see 25, or 21 for that matter.

Please take care, Joekababazae. Sending you Internet {{{hugs}}}. Please keep writing, it will get better.

I had a similar experience with this. Not just old poetry which, meh. Kinda predictable. I was going through old scrap books of schoolwork and miscellaneous things I did as a kid (my mom hoarded too much but this was one thing I find kind of sweet that she did and really beneficial to understanding who I am and was). In the book my mom had apparently found and saved a suicide note I'd written when I was 12. It wasn't a note saying "I am going to kill myself, peace out" but more like "what's the point? My sister can have my makeup. Please give my money to a poor kid" sort of speculative thing. I vaguely remembered writing it and really, really wanting to die but not sure of how. Guess my mom found it and thought, what a memory to treasure.

I felt really... Well embarrassed isn't quite right. Mortified. This is my life's legacy. If I had killed myself at 12 the world would only have my horrible poetry to remember me by. I was ugly. I didn't want to die ugly. Because that really matters. But it did make me think about some of the reasons why I felt mortified. Because I got better at writing. Because I outgrew my awkward looks (just not my awkward persinality). I overcame many of the issues that plagued me then and they matter so little now that I barely recall them.

Try to find the good in the fact that this stuff is PAST tense. Sure, the feelings may stir up again but probably over something new and exciting! And that means progress.

If it brings up those old feelings again, take a step back. Maybe you don't need that constant reminder of some perceived fault of yours. Maybe you need to really address the issue at hand. It is interesting to have a glimpse of yourself from long ago though. Really confirming.