Recently caught myself in the act of garroting myself.

Not literally, obviously. That’s just the only image I could think of that came even close to matching the violence of the act.

It was my usual self-torture where I take my frustrations out on myself in a form of internalized abuse. It’s a fundamental building block of my depression and as that, I am quite familiar with it.

But it’s one thing to know it’s happening and quite another to catch yourself in the act. I now have a clear memory of that moment and it is pretty bracing stuff.

The sheer viciousness and malice I felt at the time is frightening. And on such a coldblooded, primitive level too.

It’s not an act of rage. Or frustration. Nothing as wholesome as that.

It’s an act of pure uncut hate. Loathing in its most concentrated form.

And I had never witnessed those emotions in myself before. I knew I hated myself sometimes but not like that.

I suppose I just saw my self-loathing as being the result of frustrations with my life and a general low self esteems ganging up on me but this is something far deeper and much worse than mere lack of self-approval.

It shows that my inward directed rage is vast and powerful and that’s a disturbing thing to see in oneself.

I feel like I just peeked over the rim of a vast dark ocean of inky black voidstuff. Stuff so cold that you would die in an instant if you feel in.

Stuff that hates all that lives.

And I know this is my hate. I can’t pretend it come from somewhere else.

I am not THAT kind of crazy.

I know that it’s the product of all my unexpressed anger and frustration and ambition and desire and pretty much every other hot and vital emotion that might suggest for even a moment that I am truly alive.

I’m a zombie by choice. Kind of.

But not really.

I know now that all my vital emotions have been bottled up for so long that they turned into something twisted and dark and incredibly toxic.

I suppose that’s not exactly a surprise, though. The surprise was seeing how much of it was directed at myself. I had no idea I hated myself that much.

Clearly, this is something I need to work on. Pronto. Luckily, I know where to start :

I know I don’t deserve it. Any of it.

I mean, I’m not perfect, but I don’t deserve anywhere near that level of hate. I’m actually a pretty sweet guy who has a lot to contribute to society via his talents and who has been treated badly by life on many levels and who therefore deserves to be treated really well, not subjected to further torment.

But all that anger has to go somewhere, and the only way to stop it from being directed inward is to direct it outward, and that’s what always stops me.

Because I really don’t want to spew rage into the world. I have such a buildup of undischarged emotion that it’s hard to imagine it coming out in anything but a sanity shattering nuclear explosion if I open the floodgates.

That’s probably bullshit though. More lies told by my depression to preserve its existence. There has to be ways to harness all that raw power and use it to improve my life and the lives of others.

Every bomb is a rocket, after all.

It’s just a matter of finding the right nozzle for the job.

More after the break.

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I don’t trust me

And now, because I am apparently all about the sunshine today, let’s talk about what it is like to be suicidal.

(Felicity, you have my permission to skip this part entirely. )

First, a very necessary prefacing statement : I AM NOT CURRENTLY SUICIDAL. This is all about the past. I am in no danger from myself.

I have a healthy fear of death now. I don’t wanna go. So don’t worry.

That said, I have been there and I know what it is like.

I know what it’s like to be afraid of what you will do to yourself. To not want to be anywhere where all it would take is a few moments where the bad impulses tke control for you to kill yourself.

Like walking down the sidewalk next to dense city traffic. One little jump and splut.

Or on the edge of a steep drop, on a building or a cliff. Again. Jump. Splut.

These are the thinks you have to think about when you have the urge to kill yourself lurking in the shadows of your mind.

Even worse are the suicidal fantasies. The ones where that most evil of voices starts talking to you about how nice it would be if it was all over. How then we’d be free, and no longer trapped in this stupid body in this stupid life. Wouldn’t it be nice to finally escape this wretched existence?

This voice believes in really emphasizing the key concepts.

Of course, that’s not true. It won’t be a liberating relief because you won’t be around to feel any of that.

In fact, one might say the biggest problem with suicide is that you won’t be around to enjoy its benefits.

Well, that and the whole being dead thing. I guess.

I’m glad I am not suicidal any longer. Even when my depression is at its worst. I just want to cry, not die.

And when the occasional self-destructive impulse makes it through my defenses. I don’t panic and I don’t give it any oxygen.

I just watch it wither and die, like I know it will. It is an impulse, nothing more, and impulses rarely live long when it’s clear they won’t be acted on.

Take it from someone who lets almost all of them die.

But that’s a problem for another day.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.