Stephen Pimley | Daily Life,Illness,Thoughts | Thursday, June 12th, 2014

It is too easy to ignore and distract myself from the scope of my mental illness until a change in my environment lets all those realizations rush in through the spillway. Feeling like I do now, it is so clear why I had to go all those years using to just get through the night without putting my scars on my arm or worse. It’s not so much “highs and lows” as constantly hanging on a precipice with suicide below and the rare social contact I have as tiny and ever-crumbling rocks jutting out of the side. I might get a toehold and something to hang onto temporarily, but nothing is ever solid and I often fall asleep with hands bleeding from a stone designed to fit every palm but my own. Support groups are no help. They don’t know me and I haven’t the time or the ego left to sacrifice making that happen. This looming void also makes my OCD more pronounced because one of the only ways I can avoid self-destructive measures is to engage in prolonged reality avoidance trips with music and closed eyes, video games, or locking myself in the guest bedroom with a good book. That doesn’t sound too bad does it? Well yeah, when you consider that no progress is made in any of the remaining hours of the day and a person with no job or education can not simply self-care leisure themselves 24/7 through life on someone else’s dime. I think a lot about how much better off my family would be financially without me around. I make plans to save them a large wad of cash to pay for my funeral. I get sadder knowing they wouldn’t even have the knowledge or energy to sell my CDs and computer parts for top dollar to help dig themselves out of the debt I have contributed so much to.

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