Annoying Mosquito

Sometimes, I just don’t want to be here anymore.

I’ve fought hard and continue to try to banish this unwelcome emotion and for periods of time, I’ve even succeeded. I’ve gotten too cocky about it a few times, thinking that I’ve finally accomplished what seems like the impossible.

But what’s really near impossible is being able to just talk about it with someone without scaring them so badly that they either:

A. Avoid me like the plague, which happens 89% of the time

B. Try to lock me up in the psych ward

It seems to me that suicide is becoming more of an epidemic because people just don’t want to get involved.

I would go back to weave some nice baskets if I honestly thought that I’d follow through with a plan to end this thing called life once and for all. I really would, even though the accommodations and quality of care were less than desirable.

They stopped my pain medications, gave me insulin when I didn’t need it, upped a med that was making matters worse and their idea of a mattress absolutely destroyed any chance that I’d be able to sleep, heal, rest and not wake up in severe pain every morning.

They also served me decaf coffee.

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Yet as much as I fear having to go back inside, in order to save my life, I guess that I fucking would.

It helps me when I can talk about what I am experiencing openly without being afraid of the assumption that I’m holding a steak knife across my throat.¬†

I really just want somebody to listen to me and that was what my mom did, bless her beautiful soul.

Here’s the craziest thing…I can go a few weeks without the thought even crossing my mind. Actually, the idea of it absolutely appalls me to my very core and I’ll wave my hand at it like it’s an annoying mosquito (that I know deep down will be back eventually to suck at my blood.)


Since my mom died almost three months ago, the notion to bring on my own demise has come back around hot and fresh, just like my morning cup of caffeinated coffee.

I’m also astonished how my grief is being handled by the few friends that I claim to have.

They mostly avoid me like the plague.

It’s blaringly obvious (more than before) that I don’t have many people who consistently check up on my mental state.

Even then, what is there to really say?

It’s really hard for me to make friends and it’s always been that way. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a introverted empath or if it’s because I’m just a weirdo with a mood disorder.

Hell, it’s probably both.

Back in the old days when I still was able to work for a living, I socialized with my coworkers. Those relationships fizzled out once I went on disability, which my mom had told me meant that they really weren’t my friends anyway.

She always had a knack for explaining the world to me, especially when it came to relationships.

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I’m starting to think that I’m just destined to be on again/off again suicidal. When I look forward at the big picture, it’s the one thing that loves to land on me, trying to suck me dry.

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To My Ex-Husband

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To my ex-husband,

All I ever wanted was for you to love me until I was me again.

And I didn’t think that this was too much to ask.

I should have took more notice of the way you’d complain about wanting the old me back.

Where did she go? And I didn’t have an answer, because my mental illnesses took over and kept me their prisoner.

Do you realize just how paralyzing that was? I struggled so hard to be that old version of myself again, but it was a long battle, not to mention an impossible one.

I am mostly me again, but I’m certainly not the same old Merry that I was back in 2011.

Because I’m a stronger, updated version of myself now, partly because of the hell you put me through.

I read and hear from many sources that I need to forgive you, but that’s something that I’ll never be able to do. I will never wish you well, nor will I pray that someday you’ll see the light. That’ll never happen because you’ll never admit that you did anything wrong.

Your evil superpower is an ego the size of your ass.

You’ve caused me far too much damage for forgiveness to ever take place.

Because of your early subtle and then later insidious abuse, I have a persistent voice in my head that tells me that I’m not worthy of love.

That I’m not worthy of empathy and human kindness. That being mentally ill is something to be ashamed of, ostracized and mocked for.

I have a deep river of anger and hostility towards you. I wasted 15 fucking years of my life, the entirety of my 30’s, with a cold, heartless, lying, cheating son of a bitch. Those are years that I’ll never get back.

They are now all lost to the hands of time. All I have to show for those precious years is a greater understanding of how to detect an abusive person and then steer clear of them.

And I will not allow myself to be treated like human garbage ever again. I deserve so much more than what you were ever capable of giving.

What do I wish for you?

I wish that someday, when you become sick yourself and you’re scared shitless, that you end up alone in an ER somewhere, desperately hoping for some reassurance from your beloved that you’re not a miserable burden, better dead than alive.

Do you remember that day? That awful day when I tried to kill myself, but you couldn’t be bothered to follow the ambulance to the hospital to comfort me?

I still cannot wrap my head around it. What sort of human can do that to someone that they claim to love?

I suppose someone like you, because that’s exactly what you did. Such cruelty is absolutely disgusting and everyone that knows would agree with me.

My mother despised you, by the way. Your heart hurt when you learned that she passed away, eh?

Save the bullshit for someone who might believe you.

I hope that someday I run across your mind and you experience even the slightest twinge of regret. And if that day ever comes, I hope that you can feel my hatred for you over the miles that gloriously separates us.

I pray that your new soon-to-be wife wakes up one day to discover that you’re also cheating on her, because like you told me in a sad attempt to rationalize your deplorable actions, you have a sickness that makes you want to fuck as many women as you can.

Because of course, you’re the victim.

I really hope that she has the nerve and determination to kick you out of her home, just like I did.

Because of you, I have many years worth of therapy ahead of me. And I hope that each session, when I speak your name in an effort to finally redeem and recollect my sense of self worth, it burns your soul.

Whatever is left of it.

Your ex wife,

Merry

Fibromyalgia & Suicide

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Add 10% higher risk of suicide.


I read a post on The Mighty¬†yesterday that really disturbed me. The topic was about how fibromyalgia and mental illness coincide, which I’ve already been aware of due to my own personal experiences.

But the part of the article that bothered me the most was the statement that “Fibro sufferers commit suicide at a rate of 10 times that of the general population, according to a report in Psychology Today.”

Just fucking wonderful.

It upset me so much, I got the shivers after I read it and then shared the link on Facebook, which only a handful of people reacted to, since it’s a taboo topic that is mostly avoided.

I told my boyfriend (he’s fully aware of my mental health history) and I asked him to read the post himself. As usual, the scary “S” word makes people uncomfortable. It happens every single time.

Even my beautiful mother, who always fought for and fully supported me while she was still alive, hated to say the word itself.

It’s not a pleasant topic, is it? No, it most certainty is not. Yet every 40 seconds, someone on this planet decides to end their pain and leave this brutal, yet wonderful world behind. It’s the truth and it’s happening. There’s an excellent chance that each one of us will be touched by it in one way or another.

Steven hadn’t really said much after he read it, so on the way to our Thursday evening couples bowling league, I asked him what his thoughts were.

“I don’t really know what to say,” he replied quietly.

Ah yes, ding ding.

“Yeah well, most people don’t,” I said knowingly, with a twist of snark in my comeback martini, on the defense.

Then I sighed, feeling quite defeated.

“It scares the fucking shit out of me,” I revealed, trying to honestly explain my feelings further. “It’s scary. Actually, it’s fucking terrifying. And I’m so afraid that it’ll happen again. I’ll live with that fear for the rest of my life.”

I noticed him squeezing the steering wheel a bit more tightly than normal.

“I might not understand it, but I’ll never run away with my tale between my legs.”

I made the noise I make when someone mentions asshat, a sort of disgusted snort.

“It didn’t help that you had someone constantly putting you down and abusing you, treating you like a worthless cripple and saying that maybe you should’ve just done it, after all! The fucking dirt bag.”

Another snort from me.

“I won’t let anything like that happen to you, not on my watch. I’ll do everything in my power, honey.”

I smiled and patted his leg, then left it there. He took his hand and started stroking my hair. We didn’t talk for a few minutes. I just closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation of his strong fingers comforting me and listened to the windshield wipers whisking away the chilly rain.

“I want you to be able to talk to me about it, to tell me when you start feeling like that,” he said. “That way, we can get you some help.”

I nodded and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for rubbing my head, that felt nice.”

“Anytime, my love.”


As most of you already know, my soon to be ex-husband (hooray!) decided to stick his dick in the mashed potatoes instead of coming to the ER to be with me on that shitty July day in 2015 when I tried to overdose on my pain pills.

My mother was the only one there and she was already beginning to show symptoms of her “mystery” illness. Now we know what it was that took her from us, an extremely rare medical condition. (A little too late, but that’s for another post.)

My boyfriend hates to discuss asshat and I don’t blame him, but I felt from the beginning that he needed to know my prior background in order to help him understand me better. We’ve been together for over a year now and the last thing I want is for him to someday exclaim “I didn’t sign up for this bullshit!”

And now that my precious mother has passed on, I hope that if I ever lose my battle with my suicidal thoughts again, I’ll have Steven to love and support me.

If I really have a 10% higher risk of suicide because I have fibromyalgia, then I better start praying hard and hope that I have a few compassionate people in my life, beginning with the man who plays with my hair.