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Attempting to Live for Them

"I'm not crazy. My reality is just different than yours."

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Mental Health

Schizoaffective Disorder

Unrealized. 


He doesn’t get how much I need someone to talk to. He won’t listen to my issues. He thinks I’m “just fine;” that I don’t need any help. I’m a wreck. And not having an outlet makes me feel worse. He spews nothing but hatred most of the time, and it fuels whatever rage is built in THEIR minds. I don’t like it.

He doesn’t realize that as he slept, I stood over him with a knife because they told me to, and the noise was to great to stop myself. He doesn’t understand that when I’m driving, I hope a bigger vehicle barrels into the driver’s side and kills me instantly. I have flashbacks to the recent accident and wish I had died right then and there. I’m afraid to be in vehicles because of that accident; I see it all of the time. I see other cars getting into accidents. I see things that aren’t there like tiny people doing things they shouldn’t, blood dripping from surfaces. I hear so many things. Just noise or voices, malevolent and benign. Most days I don’t want to deal with the kids or him or myself. I don’t shower on my days off because of those times. I don’t want to deal with people in the least because it gives me pains in my chest and my head. I want to die most days. He wants to get a gun, but he doesn’t know the reason I don’t want a gun in the house is because I’m guaranteed to take it and go off somewhere to take my own life with it.

These are the issues I run away from. These are just some of the things he doesn’t want to know about. These are some of the things that make me such a broken person. Sigh.

Something.

I never thought I’d be where I am today. Broken, alone in a marriage I never wanted, a mom [which I wouldn’t change], a broken mind, and feeling more like a failure than ever before. How did I fall this far off track from the goals I set for myself?

Growing up, I wanted to finish college; be a surgeon; become a part of doctors without borders; travel the world as a writer/artist in my free time; live in Japan for a while. But, alas, I am stuck in the state I’ve been in my whole life, with half a college education (that I certainly can’t afford to finish), and a job I love but isn’t my dream. I once had high hopes for myself, but now I struggle just to stay alive day-to-day.

My husband doesn’t understand what I go through day in and day out. He doesn’t feel the pain, nor does he hear the horrid noise and torture that has plagued me for years. I doubt he’s ever been ambitious, and he lives blissfully unaware of how miserable I really am within the confines of my own home, if I can even call it that anymore.

I dream of one day, at least, being able to havING enough energy and drive to do the things I once loved. I want that be able to read a book cover to cover again, rather than read some and let the rest sit for months because I can’t focus on it. I want inspiration to draw and be without worry that someone will ruin it. I want to be able to enjoy being outside and maybe going on a hike or a run again (once I get into shape). These are the things I lost within myself.

I’m merely a shell of who I used to be with echoes of anger and depression, psychotic and morbid thoughts. What kind of monster have I become?

Troubling.

I’ve tried to close the book of my life plenty of times, in my past. Sadly, I’m a failure at that, too, which most people wouldn’t see as a bad thing. They would say things like, “God doesn’t think it’s your time to go,” or “The universe is trying to tell you something.” All words that are appreciated but (unknowing to them) fall on deaf ears.

I’ve only swallowed pills. So many pills. So many pills that I think that’s why most of my medications at a “normal dose” for the average don’t work for me until it’s borderline extreme. It’s frustrating actually. I want things to work so badly, but it takes so much tweaking and wasting (for me) a lot of money and time that I don’t have. I’d rather be put on a high dose and weaned off than a low dose and slowly notched up.

The accident I was in recently, I should’ve died. I wish I would’ve died. THEY tell me continuously that I should’ve died. If you look at the pictures, in a normal car, I would not be here, and if I was, I would definitely be useless and a financial drain. That’s how bad it was. That’s how bad it could have been for me.

I think about death and dying a lot, and not because I want to. It’s because I have to…because I am forced to. I have accepted it. Though I do have an affinity for torture and gore, which is convenient and quiets my mind for a short period of time, but only, a short time.

I only wanted to kill myself because everyone was happy about my paine, though they didn’t realize they were. all of their oblivious joy was killing me from the inside out, and I wanted no part of it anymore. I wanted zero part of what was going to happen in the near future. And in the beginning, my thoughts on this were my own. The voices were mere new whispers that I couldn’t decipher, so I ignored them entirely, chalking it up to static in the air. Stupid me.

Now, killing myself is their spoken word, not my thought. I think about it, but it’s a fleeting thought after something incredibly bad has happened. Why does this happen?

Purge.

It’s very loud in my head.

  • You’re horrible. There’s nothing left for you. Those things you’re seeing…you should’ve died in that crash. *static*
  • He was only abusive because you deserved it. That’s why we miss him. That’s why he’s with her because she’s so much better than you. You could never amount to her.
  • *screams*
  • *maniacal laughter*
  • We miss him. Why did he have to die? He made us feel like maybe there was something. We weren’t special, but we weren’t nothing. *sobs*
  • JUST DIE! (repetitively)
  • You’re a worthless piece of shit.
  • Can we call you a failure of a mother at this point? There are no worse words in this useless mind. We only have what you feed us.
  • *wails*
  • *mindles babbling*
  • You belong in an asylum. The quacks can’t help you. We’re just thoughts, remember? The meds don’t get rid of us…just make us…*not understandable*
  • *distant stomping*
  • *screams*

This is a glimpse of what’s in my head right now. Fighting to write back as myself. It’s hard to a witch back and forth. it happens in my journal. Once it switches over I close my book because it wouldn’t end. I don’t know what to do. I am financially unable to get help. I’m just stuck.

Taboo.

Being a mom is hard. Being a mom with a mental illness is definitely hard. 

Some struggle between, though they don’t act upon (even though there are some moms that do, but they are completely broken from their reality), killing their children or killing themselves…on any given day. Struggling with whether they should stay in bed locked in their room or actually save face and try to “deal” with what is in front of us. Trying to strive for perfection in front of the world, while only appearing broken to yourself (and maybe those that are the closest to you).

We hope for a day of relief, but for most, it will never come. We can’t discuss our “broken-ness” to anyone that will judge us harshly. We turn to medications that turn us into potential zombies (or recreational drugs for the truly brazen). We got to therapies that maybe work or not (depending) in hopes to have some kind of understanding. And then there are those that find comfort in the arms of another (which I am completely guilty of) just to have a closeness and get them out of their minds and situations for just that fleeting moment.

Do you hide in a secluded spot in the house to cry so they don’t see how mentally broken (or however Mommy deals with her mental issues) you are? Do you stare at them as they live blissfully unaware of what is really happening? Do you watch everything crumble around you (i.e. housework not getting done, arguing with your spouse continuously over trivial things, etc.)? Do they question why you look sad sometimes or why you do certain things that seem “off”?

The thought of sharing how you really think about motherhood seems so wrong to others because it’s supposed to be “perfect and joyful.” For most it is a choice, and it is this “perfect” experience that will go down in their history books as amazing. But as soon as you say something, as I have said here, you are shamed. Well, guess what?! I’ve said it. I have schizoaffective disorder; I am a mom; and motherhood is the most difficult thing in the world for me!!!

I hate motherhood, but I love my children. I wouldn’t give them up, harm them, or trade them for the world; but I can honestly say that I never asked for this life because I knew I wasn’t mentally capable of handling any of what it had to offer. But it was thrust upon me me, and I took on the role without hesitation. They make my voices unbelievably unbearable and unnatural. They make my depression plummet. They stress me out to the maximum. They are my world though.

All moms are amazing for what they go through or don’t go through. Whether their children are angels or tiny heathens. No matter what you are going through as a mom, you are supported (at least by this [also] troubled mama)! You are not wrong in your thoughts, but if you are thinking about harming yourself or [most definitely] your children, I implore you, PLEASE! talk to someone immediately.

[There are a lot of thoughts missing from this post, but I will make a later post. Thank you for reading. ♡]

Simple.

Some part of me feels like I’m just looking in at my own life. I am stuck with the voices in my head. Much worse than depression and anger and belittling comments. It’s all too much most days. I more or less just try not to lash out or yell because of everything in my head. As people speak, the voices tell me to do things or talk over them like a talkative child would or want me to say things that I would never say to someone else out loud.

How have I dealt with this for so many years? How have I not gone insane? Harmed myself or someone else? How have I been able to appear sane all of these years?

No one close to me needs to know, so I don’t really have anyone to discuss this with. My husband thinks that I am blowing things out of proportion and that I’ll be fine. My mom worries. Yes, I go to the doctor, and they are quite helpful; but they aren’t qualified to help me out mentally and figure out how to cope better because I’m slowly crumbling. It’s getting much worse as I progress.

I try talking it out in short in various ways, but that is only a small glimpse of what I go through. I mean, as I’m typing this, I have to constantly delete sentences or words because I, myself, have not typed them. Sigh.

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