its-rantsandbants-blog

[its-rantsandbants-blog]

I always forget that I nearly died. How did that happen? It feels so far away. But so close at the same time. I barely remember it, but I can tell you in detail what happened. It’s a mild trauma, and I’m still getting over it. Nearly three years now. Damn. I wanted to die, and even if in the end I overdosed on half as much because I decided not to take the last, I still took the first pack. I haven’t watched the video. I don’t know if it’s too sad or I don’t have the attention span to focus for forty minutes, probably a bit of both, who has the time to watch their video suicide note? 

On second thoughts, I did just watch a bit of it. It was weird. I’m emotional, but not as emotional as I feel I should be. I’m upset, but more reflective. She looks and seems to speak like a completely different person, but I wonder how someone who sees me everyday would compare? I cannot compare, because I can only see of my self the limited and edited views that my ears and eyes provide. How much have i changed? 

I was so smiley and happy, even in that moment in time, that’s me, that’s obviously the essence of me because that is what stayed even in my darkest times.

I am kind, I am bubbly, I am giving in my energy. I am beautiful. I am and I was all those things. I find them so hard to say, but seeing myself objectively like that in my darkest days strips me down and leaves me with nothing bu the truth. My self love, self acceptance, and self content journey has led me here, through all of this. I truly think that I have to accept this as part of me to be my whole self, my true self. this will never go away. It’s me, it’s something I did, something I felt, and something I suffered through, and have suffered through since. Life is strange. It’s beautiful, and strange. I’m a truly different and beautiful human being. I’m not like many people. I’ve never been on the receiving end of my friendliness. Never. I had no idea how it makes people feel, but if they feel the same way that I do, then what an honor to simply bask in the light that pours out of my soul. It’s gorgeous. It’s captivating. Usually at this point I would quickly backtrack and say simply assuming people feel like this, it might just be me, but no. I think I have to accept that this is what some people see. Because they’ve told me so. Step back Alyssa, and see who you are. The big picture. Not the glimpses of yourself that you choose to see, or that you choose to show to the world. The. Whole. You. And appreciate it with your whole damn soul because this is you. This is you, at your core, your outside, you, the whole package. It’s wonderful, and crazy, and strange, and goddamn captivating. Appreciate it. Appreciate you. 

This big ol weird brain has still got some shit to work out, but turning it inwards on itself will surely do some good, and if not that then something.

Love you. 

[its-rantsandbants-blog]

Cutting doesn’t make your depression any more valid.

A suicide attempt doesn’t make your depression any more valid.

You are not less worthy of care just because someone has had 10 more suicide attempts than you.

You are not unworthy of care because you have no suicide attempts nor physical scars from your depression. You are not any less worthy of care because your depression is shallower and less frequent than someone else you have seen.

I didn’t feel like my depression was valid of treatment and attention until my suicide attempt. The anxiety made me worry of burdening others, while the depression told me I was not worthy. The anxiety whispers in your ear that you’re making a fuss over nothing, while the depression tells you life is not better than this; you’re imagining an ideal which does not exist. You shouldn’t chase that ideal because this is life. Get over it.

My depression was no more or less valid of treatment and attention on the day I first sat staring numbly at nothing, wondering if this was the best it could get. When I told myself I was fine because there were no tears. No, I didn’t cry myself to sleep. Depression didn’t cause the tears. It caused numbness. I felt nothing, no joy, no sadness, just emptiness. I was most myself when I was crying, or shouting, or laughing. Because at least I had emotion.

When I tried to kill myself, I didn’t cry. I walked calmly to the kitchen to get the pills that I ‘no longer needed’, because I still smiled, I was pretty fine most of the time, and because they didn’t make me feel better; they weren’t enough to lift me into the happiness I dismissed as a long-forgotten childhood myth. I got those, some Panadol, because my research had shown that fluoxetine and Panadol was a deadly combination, refilled my drink bottle, because you can’t swallow that many pills without water, and returned to my room. With the door shut and a tv show playing I calmly swallowed pill after fluoxetine pill.

I only stopped when the taste became incredibly unpleasant, and I thought I’d take a break before the Panadol. Or maybe, I’d sit here for a while and see if the fluoxetine did anything on its own. Maybe that was enough to kill me? I’ve always hated swallowing pills, after all. I sat there for a solid forty minutes watching my tv show until I began to feel scared. I hate pain.

At first I’d thought that death by overdose would be the least painful. I imagined drifting peacefully into a sleep, feeling myself dying and then being free. I imagined no pain, no fear, none of the realistic consequences. I had an ideal, and I stuck to it. I avoided jumping in front of a car because I didn’t want the driver to be scarred for life, plus I didn’t know if I could will myself to do it. It’s not that I didn’t want to. I did. But I can barely walk on a wire two metres off the ground when I have something to hold onto and a full harness. I just can’t force myself to do the big scary stuff. I was scared of the pain. I avoided jumping from somewhere high for the same reason. Stabbing myself is too unrealistic, it’d be terribly painful and messy. You can’t get a hold of guns in Australia. Anything else was either too elaborate or inconvenient. And so, I stuck with my ideal of floating peacefully and painlessly into death.

I was wrong. The reality kicked in after those forty minutes. So I went out to see my dad in the kitchen. I can’t quite use any other word than hysteria to explain why I had a half smile on my face as I came out. Dad later told me he thought I was going to tell him a joke. I didn’t find it funny, not in the least, and by this point I was quite scared of the consequences I’d so carelessly overlooked; organs slowly and painfully shutting down, watching the fear in my parents faces as I slid through this while there was nothing they could do to save me, or perhaps even lying unknown on my bedroom floor, while my family were oblivious. So, I turned around, so dad wouldn’t see my smirk and get the wrong idea, after throwing the empty packet of pills on the bench. He took a second to get it.

“Did you take these?”

A nod.

“All of these?”

Another nod.

He was all business after that. Good in a crisis is my dad. He took me straight out to the car, not saying a word to the other three members in my family who were in the house, because he knew that two minutes could be the difference between life or death for me.

One of my most solid memories from that night is making eye contact with my mother as we went out the door. Our eyes et, and I gave a tremulous smile. I expected her to see. I didn’t think she could miss the despair and the fear and the anguish in my eyes, and I wanted to comfort her. But pain is not so easily seen. Eyes are not windows to the soul, and if they are, then in this case my eyes so gradually turned dark and despairing that all my mother saw was the eyes of her daughter; normal.

I planned it for a week. I was going to do it as soon as possible, but I wanted to play with the band on ANZAC Day at the Evandale service, like we always did. I wanted to play the flute and feel the companionship of music for the last time. And so I did. I then begged off helping pack up and demanded my family take me home before they returned to the band rooms to return the gear. I claimed a headache. And so they did. I was alone in the house, and in the time it took them to help pack up, I made a note. A note in the form of a forty-minute video, which I have kept to this day. In it I said goodbye to friends, family, teachers, the world. I explained how important everyone was to me, and that I’d miss them. I can’t recall all the details, because I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch it since. Then I went to the cupboard and got the pills, because I knew they were still in there, and if anyone saw me get them there would be questions, and they would stop me. I didn’t want them to stop me.

  Not once did I even truly consider the hurt it would cause. Strangely enough, I was surprised when my parents told me my brothers were incredibly worried about their dying sister in the hospital. I was surprised at how upset my best friend was and continues to be over that day. I was surprised when my dad told me his calm façade that night was hiding some of the most intense emotions he has ever felt in his life.

I didn’t, until now, truly think about the impact.

It’s strange to think of how it could have been versus how it is. If I had died, everyone would have known. The shock and the devastation would have ripples throughout my friends, family, teachers, acquaintances, affecting them all in some small of large way. My grandparents would have been told. My teachers. My classmates. My little cousins.

That thought was the one that broke my heart. My primary school cousins being told that their happy, lovable lyssa was dead. I wonder whether my aunt and uncle would have explained how, and why. I wonder if they would have told them that Alyssa was just ill, and there was nothing they could do. I wonder if they would wait until their 18th birthday, when the emotionally turbulent days of high school had passed and they were no longer worried of my suicide influencing them into depressive thoughts or behaviours, or of even making an example of me. I wonder whether they would tell them straight away, of them not understanding, of them being angry and confused and not truly processing it until years and years after.

I wonder what my grandparents would have thought. I wonder how my nan would cope after already losing her husband. I wondered how my grandma and grandpa would cope, after having known me since the day I was born and seeing how happy I appeared to be all those years. I thought about how my death could affect my friends for the rest of the lives. I imagined the guilt, the shame, and grief, and ultimately the truth that I was not alive. At 16, I had deemed life so unworthy of living that I chose to leave it, and them behind.

I thought about the people I wouldn’t have met and the experiences I wouldn’t have had if I’d succeeded. I imagines tubes and monitors hooked up to me that night with my parents sobbing over me.

I wondered if my parents would call my brothers in. My friends. If they knew I was going to die, who would they tell? Who would they bring to share my final moments, if anyone, and who would they tell after it had happened.

I wondered if they would avoid calling people to tell them the news. I wondered if at school people would simply note my absence and not know why until a month later. I wondered if they might never know. If my parents might keep it a private matter, and tell the school I’d dropped out, that we’d moved away. I thought about how hard it would be for them to face the undeniable truth that their little girl had killed herself, and to then have to hold themselves together for their other two children, for their immediate family, for their extended family, for their friends to grieve when they told them the news. I wondered how they would have coped. I wonder how the world would have coped.

Most of all I think about all I would have missed out on should I have not been so lucky as to survive. I would not have known true happiness, as I know it now, with all of its ups and downs. I would not have truly experienced LIFE, experienced love, of people, of school, of music. I wouldn’t have discovered the passion and euphoria of sex. I wouldn’t have known the pain of tendinitis, or carpal tunnel, or shin splints, or the heartbreak of various guys whole stole my heart and decided it wasn’t for them. I wouldn’t have been able to sit here, more than two full years later, and watch a documentary about a girl who killed herself and been so terrified and moved by emotion that that was almost me, and so unbelievably glad that I am alive.

[its-rantsandbants-blog]

Sex. What is it about sex? New bras. They make me feel fucking great. Sexy as fuck. 

And why is it that I can’t ever seduce anyone? I need them to seduce me. I can feel sexy, but I need them to show me they think I’m sexy. By myself, I’m hot as fuck. But I need them to need me. I don’t have the confidence. Why don’t I have the confidence?

Sex though. It’s great. You’re loved, but fucked, it’s passionate, and delicate, but you’re just there for the sex. You feel loved, and I need to be loved, but it’s not love in the loving sense, it’s love in the fucking sense. I think sometimes they get scared because I’m passionate but I can cut it off in a heartbeat. If I’m a bit cut it’s just that I’ll have to find someone to fuck.

And eventually I still want someone to love me in both senses, but until I find that person I’m happy to just fuck. And no, I don’t want it to turn into anything else, don’t worry. I just want to feel loved for a few moments in the week. Just fuck me, and I’ll fuck off when we’re done. But f I want a cuddle, or a chat, don’t worry. Human contact, that’s what I need. 

[its-rantsandbants-blog]

You know what I hate? People who bail on you. People who muck you around constantly and get your hopes up and then fuck you over. Like dude, get your shit together. You either want to see me or you don’t. you either like me or you don.t if you agree to something then see it through because unless you have a damn good excuse then you can fuck right off, because sure as hell I’m not going to waste my time on you again. Get your shit together. for fucks sake. Don’t agree to something if you know it’s likely you won’t go through. Don’t make solid plans then always bail on them. 

[its-rantsandbants-blog]

Bipolar

It’s so damn frustrating. Not just getting through it, but the process of diagnosing and treating, finding the right combination of drugs and therapy. Like lamotrigine makes me sleepy and nauseous and I just want to eat chocolate biscuits but I just brushed my teeth and I know I shouldn’t just binge on sugar and try and forget everything. It’s easy to distract yourself but the nights are the worst, I hate them, and I just want hugs but there’s no one I want them from really, and disney helps but it doesn’t fix it and I still need to get through every day. My candles are pretty and my mind is racing but I can feel myself falling into the depression, its like I’m depressed and hypomanic at the same time and I don’t even know if I have bipolar or ADHD and I just want to know so I can fix it already, five years of attempting to find out what’s wrong with me and find a fix for it. And my damn carpal tunnel is making it hurt to type so how am I supposed to vent and I can’t even play flute for any length of time, and gym helps too in the moment but now I’m just sad and want sugar and hugs.  I’m so happy nos of the time and have constant smiles and hope, but it still gets hard. I just have to hang out for when it gets better. 

#bipolardisorder #bipolar2

[its-rantsandbants-blog]

Rants before bants, oops, but I need to vent. I hate when my defective body prevents me from doing the things I love. I want to be great, to work hard for the things I want and to excel. I want, when I actually have the motivation to work hard, for my body to support me. Instead, I run, and my legs splint. I play, and my hands weaken, swell, and damage. I write, and the same thing happens. I read, and I can’t even hold up the damn book. I spend the day at a friends, I holiday away, and my gut pulls me back into pain and frustration and refusing to go anywhere for an extended period of time because I’m embarrassed that my body has once again failed me, and unfortunately the consequences are only limited to me if I’m on my own. I try and pursue education, but my back complains when I sit, when I study, and my either ADHD or Bipolar brain decides that concentration and memory are not for me. I hate it. I’m so sick of it. I’m sick, in mind and body, and that’s damaging my soul. I try so hard to fix it, but no matter how many doctors appointments or specialists or medications or different treatments I always just seem to end up right back where I begin. How am I supposed to find out what I want to do with my life if everything I try is too much a strain on my health? Dreams of being a musician are out the window, academia is put on hold, a physical job is out of the question because I just couldn’t physically take the strain. I’m so sick of feeling sick every day. And not to be pessimistic, but nobody seems to understand. Nobody has that deep understanding of what I’m going through, and telling me to be positive isn’t going to do the trick with advice, because I can try to be positive all I want but the thing is I have to still get through being sick every day. I’m positive, I have hope that one day it will be fixed, but for now it hurts and I’m sad. 

#unknownillnesses #itsucks

[its-rantsandbants-blog]

This has saved my life! I’ve been trying to read material about how to handle ADHD but I can’t focus for that long and this has just made it so bright and interesting and there’s something new for my brain, and if I get sick of the colours I can change it and then it’s all new again!

do you have trouble reading big paragraphs or anything longer than a sentence?

then i introduce to you, Beeline Reader!

Beeline is a chrome extension (also available on mobile) that changes the colour of each line or sentence. It’s actually really effective:

you can also change theme & use custom colours!

although please notice you get a free trial and then on the normal version, you get to use it 5 times a day. but it’s rlly good all in all, so like, pls consider it!

if you know a non-freemium version then add it below if you’d like