I wrote a journal entry a few days ago that's hard to share, but is so relevant to my truth as a person who is chronically ill, I feel I have to. I'm having regular bouts of depression at the end of my periods again, and this last one was brief, less than a day, but intense.
Today, I'm considering suicide.
It's not the first time, and won't be the last. Because I'm not going to act on it. Not today. But I'm considering it.
I'm desperately lonely. I'm in pain all the time. I'm depressed and anxious, bored and frustrated. I miss having relationships, friends. I'm tired of this limiting, tortured life. I'm tired of wishing and wanting and hoping and dreaming, just to continue waking up to a nightmare.
I have this huge extended family, and I never hear from any of them. Their lives are going on as if I was never even there, and it's devastating every time I go on facebook. I used to have a crowd of friends, but they've all but disappeared too. I don't think anyone would miss me if I did kill myself, because no one seems to miss me now.
The uncertainty of tomorrow is no longer interesting to me because there is no uncertainty. I'll wake up, be in pain, will struggle, try and fail, and that's it. That's how it's been for the past 8 years. I don't want this life.
I wish so much that I had someone to reach out to. I wish so much I had someone to hug me and tell me it'll be ok.
But I don't.
This is what it's like being chronically ill. I've become invisible.
Since regaining my balance, I've taken steps to remedy some of the problems I mention. I've made a point of contacting friends I trust and I'm putting myself out there to make new ones online. I've asked for help getting mental health care and in seeing a naturopath, because I'm certain this problem is mostly hormonal and western medicine has failed me and my brutal periods completely.
So, I'm ok now. But I wasn't then, and in another month I won't be again, so I've got to get ahold of it before it gets ahold of me.