I don't even really know how to begin writing this, and I apologize in advance if this is all over the place, I haven't really been coherent mentally for a while.
I am depressed, this is the short story, the easy one. The one that makes people look at me with mingled pity and disgust. I have wanted to kill myself for the better part of five years, and the only reason I haven't is my little brother. I think about it every day, and I can't seem to stop myself. Even on my best days, I have intrusive thoughts. How easy it would be to jump out in front of that car speeding down my street, or to swerve into oncoming traffic. How simple it would be to ask to borrow my stepdad's gun and take it out into a field in rural America where I live. Maybe I could swallow enough pills to make it not matter anymore.
If it weren't for my brother, I would be dead already, or hospitalized for trying. He is autistic - Kanner's syndrome, and it's believed that I have asperger's syndrome, though my mother feared to get me formally diagnosed because of how the stigma might affect my everyday life. I regret that almost more than anything. When I was 16 (I'm 25 now) I signed documentation with my mom to take over custody of my brother in the event that she can no longer take care of him. Without me, he has no one.
Every day is a struggle just to live. I can't make myself get out of bed until one or two in the afternoon some days, though there are others that I wake up as early as six or seven in the morning, typically at a large loss of sleep. I have a job, that I barely work at (I'm a bartender/bouncer and get two-three shifts a week) because I'm not a "friend" of the manager. That sounds really defeatist, probably, but I have watched him hire new employees and give them double or triple the amount of shifts I get in a week, even when I've expressly asked for more. I currently am barely making enough money between my paychecks and my tips to cover my bills. Sort of.
I am buried in debt, and it only seems to be climbing. Between multiple failed attempts at school (I really want to go back, but I'm not sure I can anymore...) a car I defaulted on, credit cards in my name that weren't ever paid, and old medical bills, I'm somewhere between $20,000 and $25,000 in debt. I see around $22,773 on my credit report, but I don't know if there's more out there or not. I don't know how I'm ever going to pay this, when I can't even afford to put enough money aside right now to afford a $1,500 bankruptcy to get my credit back to a starting position (despite the bankruptcy black mark.)
I have tried finding another job, and it seems like I get blown off a lot, even when I check back with the companies regularly. I held a job from January of this year until March, and left to pursue other job opportunities after they failed to pay me on time twice and I dealt with a significant amount of harassment that I never documented. Since that time, I've applied to multiple jobs (both jobs I would enjoy and ones I wouldn't like so much) and have had a few interviews, but I can't seem to get beyond that. I've held my current job for going on two years now, and I have decent past experience, including four-plus years of retail management.
I have a wonderful girlfriend, who I love very much, but she is going through a very similar experience right now (minus the debt and desire to kill herself daily) and I haven't even revealed the extent of my own issues with her, because I am afraid that if I did, she would be more upset than now, when I don't. The few times I have tried to talk about these things with her, she tears up immediately and starts to cry. I don't know how to handle that.
Some of my issue stems from a lack of confidence, and a fear of failure, at everything. I am very passionate about writing, and have written a novel and a children's book, and about fifty handwritten pages of the sequel to that novel, but I haven't ever tried to edit the novel. I sent it off to agencies when I wrote it (at 16) and got a great response, but after some further research on the company, I believe they were a scam. I gave up. I've also given up on my children's book, though it would be significantly easier (in my mind) to edit and pursue... But I can't handle rejection anymore.
My entire life I've been rejected. I'm a tall, lanky nerd with red hair and freckles, pasty skin and while I'm not overweight, I'm also not very athletic (despite my thin frame). I would consider myself "skinny-fat," and since I was in middle school, I've been told I'm not good enough. I guess really, it started earlier than that, with family, and I will get into that, but my self-confidence issues started in school, I think.
I was bullied my entire elementary career, even stalked home and regularly beaten up by a group of kids who would wait for me on the way. In middle school, we moved (shortly after 9/11) and I got to try my hand at an entirely new school. Unfortunately, due to being placed in the 'gifted' program at a K-12 school of about 200 kids meant I was excluded even more. I wasn't smart enough to just deal with that as a kid, and started to skip going to the program, which gave me more issues later on when applying to colleges. Girls I tried to be friendly with spurned me regularly then, lied ot my face about having other relationships, or laughed openly at me and passed around the class (with me sitting right there) that I had tried to ask them out, or to dance, etc... I was a laughingstock, and that didn't stop in high school. I continued throughout high school with the same peers (I graduated in a class of 16) and I had one friend that lived in the same town. Everyone else was beyond my reach, I guess.
Another quick out-of-left-field note is that when I was younger, after everything to do with my father, I did undergo psychological counseling for some time. At that time, it was determined that I was psychologically at risk, but due to my refusal to really talk to my counsellors at the time, there was not any treatment. To this day, I remain horribly afraid of talking to counsellors. I don't know what they're going to do, or say, and it's really difficult for me to talk about my problems with people I know and love, let alone people I've never met. This is... different somehow. I'm sorry.
Being out of school hasn't been much different, in this regard. Despite some successes, my love life has been a complete failure. As I said earlier, I love my current girlfriend, but we got together about a year after I broke up with my fiancée when I walked in to catch her cheating on me. That deserves a story in and of itself, I suppose. We were on-again, off-again for about four years, and throughout most of it we were pretty happy. Her family hated me, and I guess my family wasn't her biggest fan, but my family was supportive. Her mother threatened to kill me a few times, mostly jokingly, but in that, 'I'm only sort of joking,' way that some families have, I guess. When I lost my management job in 2012 (I think?) I moved to St. Louis to live with a friend of mine from childhood, and I thought things were going to be figured out. I couldn't find a job anywhere, and lived on his couch for a while. Eventually, I found a job as a gym assistant manager, which required long hours and lying to customers (which lead to me quitting.) During that time I was lonely, the girl, we'll call her E, had moved from where we did live in Kansas, to Columbia, MO for college, about an hour or two from STL. We started messaging one another again, and eventually started visiting each other. That lead to a renewal of our relationship, and in May of the next year (2013) I moved back to Kansas with her. Late that month, I proposed to her and she said yes. Very happy. I gave her a ring that belonged to my grandmother, and I thought this was going to solve everything. That was when everything went sour. She stopped responding to me as much as she once did, and some days didn't talk to me at all. When I tried to explain that I was frustrated and hurt by her refusal to talk to me, she blew me off. Said I was acting like a 'little bitch,' and ignored me. We lived about an hour away from one another, and I saw her more when we were two hours away than I did at this point. She wouldn't ever visit me, despite that she (and her family) had money and she could stay at my house, while the reverse was not true. I was only allowed to be at her home for a couple of hours at most, because of her mother's opinion of me. Eventually, in June, I decided I would surprise her with a visit, and hopefully change things for the better. So I bought some pretty flowers I knew she liked, and drove up. I was always told to just come in the back instead of knocking, and so that's what I did. It was kind of weird, everything was quiet except for a rhythmic bass-y sound, so I thought this was an excellent opportunity to freak her out and surprise her, especially since her mom was gone. When I got into her bedroom, I couldn't have been more surprised. I don't think I ever expected to think of her fucking someone else, let alone see it in person. I didn't freak out then, or even get angry. I felt kind of numb, blindsided. Like I was in shock. I asked E for the rings I had given her back (the engagement ring, and my dead grandfather's ring that I let her wear on a necklace) as well as any of my other belongings that remained. She was crying, and the guy left, but I couldn't take her back. I wanted to, but I also knew that it wasn't... right. I felt like a prisoner, in a way. I don't really know what else to say about this, just thinking about it is hard, even though I've moved on and things are changed.
I said this was going to be all over the place, and I guess I had better stick to my word. I mentioned earlier that my family was probably a big part of my depression, and I still think that. My mother suffers from clinical depression (and I do as well, I suppose. I saw a doctor for this, and was started on antidepressants. They made me feel extremely sick, constantly forcing me to yawn and every time I yawned I got VERY sick to my stomach. Like the flip your stomach does at the top of a roller coaster, but worse. I was yawning every twenty seconds or so.) and we fought significantly in my teenage years, but a lot of this goes back further than that. I don't remember very much of my childhood, save that it was bad. I have these vague, recollective memories that seem more like sordid dreams with foggy undertones than anything concrete... but it's all I have. My father wasn't around very much, and I guess that wasn't a bad thing, though as an adult now I wish I had someone to teach me all the things about being a... man, I guess. I say it wasn't a bad thing because from what I've been told of his past before I was born, the vague things I remember, and the things I have been told/read in the police reports, it would've been a lot worse if he was around. I guess this next bit is about my father.
I'm sorry if some of my memories from this time don't make sense. I think I've blocked a lot of it out, and it's hard to think about. Hard to put a timeline to events, or know what really happened. Some of the things I 'remember,' I've brought up to my mom, and she's confirmed/denied it. I'll stick to the things I remember and the things I know. When my mom was pregnant with me (I was the first of two children) my father was in the US Army, and at some point during that pregnancy (I imagine halfway through?) he threw her out of a moving military jeep, hours from town, and told her to "sort your shit out," before driving off. He was dishonorably discharged for a number of things, including psychotic tendencies. I don't know much about him from that time, but that story in and of itself sticks out to me. He wound up driving trucks, after that, leaving for weeks at a time to live on the road and (theoretically) make money for us to live on. I worshipped this man as a child. I wore cowboy boots without spurs that I would walk around making the noise of spurs to, because my father wore spurs. I had a perpetual red Kool-Aid moustache, because my father had one. As cars and trucks pulled into the lot of the housing we lived at (my mom was a property manager of the complex) I would run to the windows yelling for 'Daddy!' But it wasn't ever him. We had nothing when I was young. My mother and I lived off of a diet of ketchup and bread for a long time, because the money that he made was spent on expensive dinners on the road, and probably a woman or two. When I was around five or six, I recall numerous fights between my father and my mother, ranging from minor arguments to full-on beatings. At around age seven, I watched my dad hold my mom dad while his father raped her. He tried to commit suicide one night while we were all home, cutting his right wrist open with a butcher's knife. When the police arrived, he tried to have my mom arrested, telling them that she did it (which they believed, at first, because how could a supposedly right-handed man cut his own right wrist?) The problem being that he was left-handed. He left dents in our walls, in our refrigerator, when he got too pissed off to hit mom. I remember sitting on the couch, laying my head in his mother's (my grandmother's) lap and looking down the hallway as they stormed down it, yelling, knocking pictures off the wall. The last thing I saw that night before the door closed was my father punching my mom in the face. He touched me, more than once, but the time I remember the most we were in the housing complex, up in his 'office,' where he had his own bed (I guess now that seems to make a lot more sense than it did then). We were going to take a nap, but he kept playing with my penis, just kind of rubbing it and stroking it, and pulling my hand to his own. I didn't really know what was going on, but it wasn't the first time I'd been touched inappropriately by someone from my family, and it wouldn't be the last. I only have one truly happy memory of my father, and that was when he took me on a road trip with him, one year, while he was driving up to ... South Dakota? maybe? It was the very first time I stayed up all night, and I was so proud of myself. I got to see the sunrise over the open road, and we played games the whole way. It was... memorable. Warm. I wish everything could've been that way. He was an angry man, always ready to fight. There was more than one time that visitations were cut short because he had gotten into an altercation. I recall a fourth of July when he picked a fistfight with four different men, and actually fought two of them. When I was 11 or 12, he and mom were divorced for a few years. They'd both moved on, gotten different partners. My little brother is four years younger than I, so he was 7 or 8, and we were forced to visit him. My mom, despite everything this man had done to her, really wanted us to have our father in our lives, and did everything to make that happen, including waiving some $20,000 in backed up child support he hadn't paid. This visitation was awful. He had been arguing with the kids of his new wife all day, Jason and Sarah. They were... 19 and 16, I think, respectively, and I remember about an hour after I'd asked him if I could watch "Beavis & Butthead," and being told no, hearing screams. Sarah ran up to me, from outside, and asked me if I could help her with something. My step-siblings were 'cool,' so I didn't mind helping her. She wanted me to unscrew the shaft, for lack of a better word, of a push-broom for her. So I did it, real quick to prove how good I could be, and she thanked me before running outside with it. When I looked outside, my father was advancing on Jason with a metal pole, and he was yelling that he was going to kill him. Sarah ran out to defend her brother, and the next thing I remember was running away. I was scared. What if I just helped them kill my dad? They packed the two stepsiblings in a car, once the fight was over, and drove them five or six miles away and just... dropped them off in the country. No shoes, no additional clothing, nothing. I remember his new wife screaming at him about my brother and I. She was screaming to "get those fucking kids out of here, and I don't want to see them again!" ...My father drove us to a gas station nearby, and called my mom to come get us before driving off. We had to wait there for three hours.
I didn't see him again for five years. There are some things that happened at this time that I will get into in a little bit, but I want to finish the story of my father first. When I was 16, I had been left in the home over the weekened on my own. This was huge, and I was the big man of the house. I actually, and this is kind of embarrassing, but my mother had made me two cheesecakes for watching the house while they went to Missouri (some six or seven hours away.) I remember getting one out, very excited, on the first day of being left alone and as soon as I pulled it out of the fridge, I DROPPED it. Heh, I started bawling and called my mom. I was so upset. I'm sure she found it really funny. But the weird thing is... as I said earlier, both my mom and dad had moved on, and my new stepfather, well, he was close, despite things that I'll get into soon. He was the only real masculine figure in our lives, and we called him dad. Our real dad hadn't been around for five years. Not even a phone call, there was no reason for us to consider anyone but this man our father. Well, they left Friday night, and on Saturday afternoon, I woke up after a long night gaming. I was kind of in a fog, but when I went out to the front porch, there was a package from UPS (I was expecting to get this for my mom) but the weird thing was the note that was left on top of the package. It said something like (and I'm paraphrasing here), "Stopped by to see you, but it didn't seem like anyone was home. Call me when you get this. -Dad." with no phone number. The thing is, I thought it was from my stepdad, so I ignored it. Why would he have left a note for me to call him? It must have been old and I just missed it before. Not a big deal. I couldn't have been more wrong. I went about my Saturday with no problems, and was expecting my family back on Sunday. About an hour or two before they were supposed to get back, the phone rang, and when I picked it up... it was him. My real dad. Well, my biological one, anyway. It was so shocking, to hear his voice on the phone. I didn't know what to do... but some part of me missed him. I hate myself for that. I talked to him for two hours, and was still on the phone with him when my mom got back. He wanted another opportunity to be in our lives, and wanted to know if it would be OK for him to drive his big rig out to our house again. I was confused about that, what did he mean again? He told me that 1. it was him who left the note. 2. while he was at the house that day he apparently wandered around, peeking into windows and things, and 3. since he couldn't get 'hold of me then, he went into town and asked people on the streets about me, and 4. eventually went into another nearby town where my grandmother on my mom's side lives and asked for our phone number, which she gave him. I am a forgiving person. Maybe too forgiving, and after talking it over with my mom, I decided to let him come visit, so I could hear him out. I don't remember a whole lot about the visit that he made, except for a few things. One thing I remember very well was the reason he returned. He told me he came back to be a part of our lives because we were getting close to eighteen, and he was afraid that if we were still resentful of him, we would hunt him down when we turned eighteen and 'beat his ass.' The other thing I distinctly remember were the rules we set up, for how this rebuild of our relationship was going to go. As I said, he did nothing but drive big rig. He lived out of his semi, and had nothing else going on, so it was determined that every Wednesday night, around 9pm, he would call and talk to us. At first, this was wonderful, if a little bland. It's not like we had a whole hell of a lot to talk about, and I did still harbour quite a bit of resentment, but I wanted him in our lives, so when he called, he would tell me what was going on with his route, and I would just sort of stammer "yep, yeah" before answering whatever questions he had about my life, school, etc. I didn't do much, outside of sticking to the basement playing games and avoiding everyone in school because, let's face it, who wants to be laughed at all the time? so my own side of the conversation can't have been very... entertaining. I do remember asking him every time if he wanted to talk to my little brother, and he always said no. (When my brother was diagnosed as autistic and borderline mentally-retarded, our father refused to believe it. He told my mom in no uncertain terms, on the steps of the courthouse, that NO son of his was retarded, and he would rather die than have a retarded son.) But eventually, the man stopped being so reliable. It srated being every other Wednesday, or every third. Once a month. Once every couple months. In December, he called me and our call got cut off because he went through a mountain pass or something. He called me back, and without even saying hi, the first thing he said was, "Do you have a problem with me?" I was sitting upstairs with the phone, in my mom and stepdad's office, where they sat at their computers. And I told him that yes, yes I did. For the next forty-five minutes or so I unloaded all my rage, fear, and frustration with him. Some sixteen years' worth of anger poured out of me, while my parents stared at me in shock and disbelief. This man, who claimed to love me, asked how I could possibly have feared him as a child, and if I did, why I never showed it. I had to tell him that I used to shit myself intentionally in school, so that my mom would come pick me up and I wouldn't have to be picked up by him after school, among other things. When I was done, I asked him if he wanted to talk to my brother, and then I went into my brother's room and asked him if he ever wanted to talk to our dad again. When my brother said no, I told our father, "You didn't follow through on our agreement." He tried to say it was because of our line being busy with the internet, but we had DSL at the time, and the phone line was ALWAYS open at the time he was supposed to call. I told him I was done with him, and I never wanted to see or hear from him again, and neither did my brother. When I graduated high school, he sent me a card with $5, congratulating me on my 'achievement,' and started sending me messages on facebook to get in contact with me. I'll include some of them here, without names. "I guess congratulations are in order to you for graduating Hgh School. It would have been nice to get an invitation and a thank you card. I wish you well in all you do son and have done what I thought was best for all of us, even if you don't agree. I have always and willcontinue to love you and your brother. Drop me a line anytime you want, I am here for you as much as you will let me." I replied and said, "Don't contact me again. Ever." Two years later, he replied with this, "Just to let you know, I wish you success in every aspect of your life. I will always love you, son, as you are my son. Life sends us down many paths and we make choices, some harder than others and sometimes we make less smart ones. Unfortunately we have to live with our choice andhopefully learn from it and move forward. I would like to know that you are ok and to tell you that you are important." I talked to my mom about this, because he started adding friends of mine on facebook to try and see my life from friends, and friends of friends, and then responded with this, "I have asked you time and time again to stay out of my life. I GAVE you your second chance, S. You ruined it. For yourself. If you continue to harass me (including seeking out my friends and adding them to Facebook so that you can view my information) I will pursue legal action. This is ridiculous. I want nothing to do with you. You're a shitty person. You fucked up your life, and now you're trying to fuck up mine, and frankly, I'd rather forget you existed. Good-bye." I haven't heard from him since then. I don't know if I can write anymore about him right now, or if there's anymore to write. I'm still angry every day about him, and I mostly try not to think about him.
Earlier, I said there were some things around when I was 11 that I would get back to, but before I do, there are some things from earlier. My father's mom touched me frequently when I was around her. She was an older woman (maybe in her sixties? does anyone have a good grasp on grandparents' ages when they're that young?) and would always ask my little brother and I to help her bathe, which involved stripping down and getting into the bathtub with her, where we would be forced to scrub her body with a loofah. Everywhere, including her breasts, between her legs, and her butt. The only reason this sticks out to me so prominently is that I recall speaking with someone (while my mom and biological father were present) who may have been some kind of investigator. They asked me to show them on a doll where I'd been touched, or where she'd asked us to touch her. I don't know if anything came of it, except that we were no longer allowed to go and visit her whatsoever. Thankfully. I was not so lucky in other areas. From the time I was ...I don't know, seven? until around the time I was eleven, any time I was left alone with my cousin (a few years older than I was, also molested by my father) she would take liberties with me. One time she had me feel her up through the butt-flap (kind of funny, I guess, in hindsight, while being horribly despicable) of her pajamas while our parents were in the other room playing some kind of game. Other times she would blackmail me, for lack of a better word, promising to let me watch my favourite TV shows or movies if I would touch her, or kiss her. The most memorable, for me, was one day she turned the channel to Batman Returns (Michael Keaton) and wanted to play Catwoman/Batman, which basically meant recreating the scene where Michelle Pfeiffer makes out with Batman. Her mom walked in on that... and nothing happened. But even that is fuzzier than what happened with my step-dad.
I don't know if my mother just had trouble picking men, or if problem-people were drawn to her, but I loved my stepdad. I guess some part of me still does, which some people can't really believe. I don't know why I love him, but like I said earlier, he was the de facto 'man of the house' while I was growing up. When I was in fifth grade, after suffering through a year of school-phobia, where I started inventing illnesses to avoid getting my ass beat on the walk hom, I was informed that in fifth grade, I would be home schooled. I was excited, when we laid out the plans it was the best possible schooling situation imaginable. I got to pick a 'course' of study every week and we would focus on that (while still doing the regular things like math, english, etc...) but we got off for all the big holidays, as well as when schools around us were out, and on mom's vacation days. Every afternoon we went to a local hotel pool and swam for 'recess' and I got to learn about all the cool stuff I wanted. Space, dinosaurs, you name it! This was awesome, as I said, and I had a real thirst for knowledge then. Things kind of... changed, one day, though. My brother was outside, playing, because it was a gorgeous day, and our step-dad told me to come back to his office. He wanted to show me something. This was the first time, of many, that he would photograph me nude. Except it wasn't really photographs, because what he would do is set up his scanner on the floor, and have me press my body parts against it. There were other times he had a camera involved, though. It wasn't against the grain for him to just take pictures of us throughout the household, doing random things. It was kind of nice to have so many memories on film. He told me that anything I was uncomfortable with I didn't have to do, and there were a few times I did this. One such time he wanted me, without pants, to sit on his lap, without pants, and we would do a kind of "before-and-after" shot. He settled for having our penises almost touching, facing one another. It almost sounds light-hearted, writing about it now, but it was much more sinister than that. He told me that if I didn't do it, or if I tried to make a big deal out of it, that he would just go and get my disabled brother, and HE wouldn't even know the difference, so I had better just deal with it. I'm shaking right now just thinking about it, because he was right. My brother couldn't process that. He would've been happy our stepdad was showing him attention, was being his friend, instead of hollering at him. I had a problem with the truth, at this time (probably acting out because of my father?) and my stepdad told me that, besides, even if I did go to my mom, who was she more likely to believe? Her lying, untrustworthy son or her husband? I didn't know what to do, and I don't know how many afternoons were spent with him taking pictures and/or scans of my body in various positions. I kept this to myself until just a few years ago, when I finally told my mom. The thing is, I don't hate him. I feel like everything is just scarred over, and I still visit my stepdad. I still tell him I love him. I still appreciate him as a person, but I feel like that's one hundred percent wrong.
I feel like I'm just rambling, but I've been floating as an adult. I got a DUI shortly after I was 21, because I'm an idiot, and will never make that mistake again. But it doesn't matter, because I'm fucked. I tried to join the military recently, thinking that maybe the idea of a steady paycheck, combined with excellent benefits and the opportunity to learn a trade would turn things around for me, mentally, but I'm not even fit for that, because I haven't been able to pay on any of my debts. They told me that until they're taken care of, I can't. I'm not even sure I'd be allowed to join anyway, due to a shoulder that's giving out on me more and more every day (I suffer some kind of extreme pain in my left shoulder, which is heavily exacerbated by sleeping on my left side, which seems to just happen naturally as I sleep.) and my severe depression. I assume they don't give weapons out to people who think about killing themselves daily.
I don't know how many more points I can make in this, and there are a lot more. I wish this was more organized, that I could put everything together like a puzzle, but it's just... not there.
I have a hard time in public. I have to work myself up to leave my house, because if I don't I wind up having panic/anxiety attacks. At work, whether I'm bouncing or bartending, I'm freaking out constantly. I'm almost always sweating profusely, and there is... SO MUCH going on. I guess most people kind of drown out excess noise like groups of people talking, or maybe they hear it as a low thrum of general conversation... but I hear almost everything. I can pick out distinct conversations and even distinct voices. The problem is that there are SO MANY of them that it becomes a cacophony of horror. I can't focus on myself, or my own thoughts, when everyone else is talking, and none of them are even talking to me. I have to constantly know what the plans are for each day, so I can prepare myself for those things to happen, and when they change unexpectedly, I sometimes can't do much more than hide myself under a blanket in my room and try not to cry. Sometimes the littlest things make me cry, now, and I don't know how to stop it. The idea of my mom dying, even though that's forty-some years away. Or the thought of my brother never having a real girlfriend. The thought that I want to die every day is maddening to me, and even that makes me cry. The idea of everyone's sadness when/if I was gone. It seems like more makes me cry than the opposite, now. I feel trapped.
I can't leave this world, I can't kill myself, because there will be no one to take care of my brother. I have nothing, I'm going nowhere. I don't think I can get past this, and it gets worse every day. I hate going to sleep, because I'm afraid of having to face tomorrow, and I hate waking up because I can't stand the thought of facing today. I'm constantly angry and sad and frustrated and suicidal, and I simultaneously want everything to end and to actually start all the time. I can't keep my thoughts focused, even when I'm trying to just talk to someone, and the only people I feel like I can even talk to about ANY of this are my girlfriend and my mom. I have two or three friends who have been my friends for years (two have been friends since childhood, and one since high school) but... that's it. I don't hang out with people. I feel like everyone at my work excludes me (they will often go out together, or drink with one another, poker nights, etc. but I've never gotten an invite, and as I said before, my manager usually gives more shifts to his friends than people who have been there longer.) My money situation is growing rapidly worse as my depression declines, and I'm afraid of ending up homeless. I know my mom wouldn't let that happen to me, but I don't know that I would let her help me. I don't deserve it. I know that I need the help, though, and I desperately want the help to get myself out of the financial mess that I've gotten myself in, to find a way to learn a trade and find a job that I can enjoy, that makes enough money for me to live on, and doesn't make me hate every second of my waking life.
I have trouble sleeping because all I can think about when I lie down at night is everything that has happened to me, and what I might have done differently to escape these situations. I can't stop myself from thinking about it, and all of the thoughts are tinged with colours of self-doubt, worthlessness, and an overwhelming urge to end my life because how can I be worth anything to someone else if I can't even find my own self-worth? I don't know what to do anymore.
I feel like I'm drowning, and I can't get my head above water.
Please help me.
Submitted June 18, 2015 at 01:33PM by 1depressedthrowaway1 http://ift.tt/1TwuqFZ offmychest
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