Sunny weekend at the start of a Capetonian spring. The weather is fantastic.
...I am sitting in my underwear in front of the computer. I don't remember why I took my clothes off. I think I was getting ready to shower and forgot to leave my seat.
I fit through the window in my balcony. This is fucking ridiculous. I am half-naked in my apartment half-listening to Anthony and the Johnsons, half on my way to the shower, and all I can think about is how it would feel to fall out the third story of this apartment complex. It would probably hurt. Or halfway down with air friction in my ears I'll regret what I did when it's too late.
Almost on my fourth week of bupropion. Before I took it I laughed off the black box warning about suicide risk as inherent to the study group. If you're depressed enough to take antidepressants, it makes sense that you'd consider suicide more than your average Jane.
I am not laughing anymore. This shit feels BAD. I don't know if it's the drug removing some emotional mechanism that damps my suicidal thoughts, or if by some action is inducing the suicidal thoughts, but either way, the change is real, and it's getting more and more difficult to restrain myself.
Suicide isn't something I would plan out. If I have enough rationality left to plan a suicide, I have enough rationality left to dwell on the reasons I shouldn't go through with it. It would almost certainly be a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. It's laughable, walking home at night and staring into tens of headlights, into truck carriages, and thinking about momentum. Then the cars go past me and I flinch. Playing chicken with the traffic. It's laughable.
I wonder if one day I'll read back on this stuff and be ashamed of what I wrote. I appreciate the optimism that comes with the assumption that I'll live that far into the future. But yeah, probably. I know I'm ashamed of all of this now, about how meta and cynical and rueful I am. I don't know how anyone could form any sort of lasting bond with someone who has no drive to live. Those who do do it out of the hope that things will change one day. I'm not sure about this myself.
The fuck kind of life am I living? I feel like some comatose guy on life-support. I'd love to get closer to people but I'm so fucking scared I'll hurt them so much by virtue of being like this, and they'll lose hope and move on. I don't blame them, but it's painful nonetheless.
I wish I were normal and happy and productive or I wish I were dead. Not like this. Living like this is like being in limbo. I hope the drug works properly soon. I've been getting some pretty shitty side-effects, so hopefully that means that I am a typical case and the situation will improve in a week or so.
If I say that I hate my life and why, there's always the question of "why don't you do something about it?". I am. I spend every waking moment trying to change what I hate about my life. I try to go home less. I try to eat right. I distract myself. I take vitamins. I try to see people more often. I try to study harder through the fog. I go to therapy. I am taking antidepressants. I walk everywhere. I have limits, though. I think I feel hopeless because I am trying everything I can think of, and I still feel like this. I hate this. I have no fucking idea if this is a losing battle or my perception is just clouded at the moment, even though everyone tells me it is the latter.
I wish I could give my assets away to people who'd appreciate them and just fucking disappear. The things that I have to live for, like my skill with language, problem solving, making people laugh, dressing up, sharp pitch sensitivity, ability to fake confidence and a body in reasonably good condition, it's all wasted on me. It's sad to think that people wish they had some of the things I have, who would use it to its full potential in life, while I squander it all fantasising about death.
Please drug, work. Work like you mean it. For fuck's sake, work.