I hadn't felt so hurt in quite some time, in all honesty. To be honest, I may as well have been a dead man walking with how low I was, and I needed a solution. Not the usual kind though that everyone suggests, for example, antidepressants or some form of advertised serotonin. Though, I had considered once being on the antidepressants, just to see if it would cooperate with a mind of mine. I say mind of mine like I am outside of the box or a fucking psycho, but let me explain a piece of my mind for you. On and off I think that vaginas look fucking disgusting, and were disgusting. But I am not saying that in a way of that I am a homosexual or would want a cock in my mouth. I don't think I am wrong in thinking what I think about a girl's cunt, considering quite a few people would more than likely agree with me. Besides, it is an on and off thought, so it's not that bad. It's probably the girls fault though. Their vagina, their fault.
But like I had said, I was depressed and sad. Winter had come around, which I call the great depression. Something about it just bums me the fuck out. I say that, when really I hate each season there is. I haven't been diagnosed with depression, but I just think of it as you don't need to be shot by a gun to know that it hurts. Apart from when you see those annoying little bastards who fake having it for attention or to make them seem edgy, which I know goes around a lot too. If I was diagnosed and they said I had it, there wouldn't be this absolute shock horror behind it. There was a period of time where I would wake up and force myself to cry, so that my eyes weren't dry when I set out for the day. With that being said though, I don't think that was me being depressed. Looking back at the visual of it, it's really quite inventive.
But with this winter season around, and this grand element of my sadness dawning on me annually, I somehow forgot it was going to come. Why didn't I see it coming? We all know April for example is coming every month, unless you're terminal. But this was the strikingness of winter as it all came out of thin air. And of course, a suicide attempt happened. I'll spare you most of the details, so you don't have to fucking wince over the page. Paracetamol overdose, I was in hospital from around 6am to 12am, then was discharged. A doctor at the hospital told me before I left that I shouldn't really drink, due to my liver. I ended up drinking a can of corona the next day. He even said that if I had gotten to the hospital a couple of hours later than I did, I would have probably died or something. There's even videos of me a few days or so before everything happened of me drunk in my bedroom, looking like a complete twat in the process.
See? Not so bad of me to spare you all the in-between details.
I couldn't help but pity myself. Perhaps turning to drinking could have helped, because then if I became an off the rails kind of drunk and something happened to me through alcoholism, people would have to feel bad for me because of it. But again, the things that were preventing me were these sobering up processes, and I guess work at times. Of course I had showed up to my job, hungover and everything. My manager had even spoke to me on a shift once and told me to not go out so much, and summarised that I was a pisshead. I couldn't tell whether to receive it as an insult or a compliment. Maybe she meant it as a neutral statement, but I took it as the former. I wasn't going to let work stand in the way of a drink and loving myself for the brief time that I was drunk. Being sober though, everything was hitting me more. Just how depressed I was, just how sad I was. Maybe I had contemplated suicide again, or just the concept of it at least. Part of me considered mentioning to the next girl I was with about how I had attempted and ended up in hospital, just to gauge how sorry she felt for me. I didn't even know if I felt sorry for myself months after, all I know is I did at the time. When it happened, I was expecting floods of messages asking about it and everything. Not for pleasure and validation, but more so the curiosity of it. But I doubt that suicide was going to creep on me that often, the paranoia of it sneaking up was another thing. But, I just kept doubting myself that it would surface again. A therapist would tell me to see friends more often, exercise and eat healthy. Which would be a waste of a session, and I've already said my thoughts on people who go to therapy.
