I’m researching the anti depressant medication my psychiatrist prescribed and ironically, or poetically, it’s very depressing.
I can’t believe I’m categorized in the “Severely Impaired” category. I can’t believe I can’t share this with anyone. I wish I could email it to my school, so that they’d understand why I miss so many classes. I wish I could explain this to the kids at school, why I just can’t make new friends anymore, that even talking to the old ones gets exhausting. I wish I could tell this to my friends, without them either getting too worried or sad for me or some of them making it about themselves with a “so what we all get depressed sometimes.” I wish I could show it to my mom without making her depressed in some way. She has enough problems.
I can’t believe I’m so suicidal.
I need to talk about this with someone. My shrinks are too impersonal, and I see them once a week and now probably once in two weeks. I don’t have a support system. I hate sharing such information with anyone, I don’t want to seem like some fragile weepy person that people need to monitor themselves around.
One of the worst parts of this is something my shrink said in passing. About how I am so affected by my family. She said it in a way that implied that everything I am, is because of them. My anger, sadness, depression, and even personality is basically molded by them. And I hate this. I cannot accept this. I am so much more than their impressions on me. My individuality exists. I have a personality that isn’t coated by their residue. And this isn’t a cry for importance, I’m not going to plead me me me. I swear that I am my own person, and though I may be affected by mankind, like John Donne said, I am not a carving of all the marks my family has left on me.
I’m constructed by a lot more. And this nature v nurture shit isn’t clear cut. You guys can debate. I’m going to be a me without them.
The idealization of suicide needs to stop. The self harm, which I am so disgusted by, needs to stop. I need to stop the self loathing. I need to get out of my brain.
What I do wonder though, is how much of me is me, and how much of me is the disease.
I wish I could talk to someone. Wish I could make someone understand.