The first time I tried to kill myself I used a pink Bic razor.  I sliced open my thumbnail in the process of trying to get the actual razor out.  It bled profusely and for awhile that was entertainment enough.

Once I got the razor out, it was so bent and flimsy I wondered how this had become so popular.  I had watched a movie or read a book earlier in the day on the proper way to slice one’s wrists.  I, like most, thought that you could just do it straight across.  Turns out, you should do it vertically.  Slice a straight line down your wrist, from the base of your palm to the cove of your elbow.

I don’t remember how old I was.  I was probably between the ages of 12 and 16.  I wasn’t overly serious about it and barely made a paper cut scratch.  I do still have a miniature scar which I like to look at from time to time.  It’s endearing.

By the way, it is true what they say about suicide being the ultimate act of a true coward.  I couldn’t agree more.  I used to be a coward.

I woke up today feeling slightly refreshed and generally annoyed that I had to go into work on a holiday.  It’s a wonder I’ve stayed at this job, or any job for that matter, for all this time.  I’ve worked at this company doing Customer Service and other things for nearly a year and despite the daily internal battle with myself on whether or not to get out of bed and go to work, I actually enjoy this job.

Tomorrow is Friday which is obviously a good thing as it means I have two whole days off in a row.  I generally spend weekends or days off doing absolutely nothing and calling them “Mental Health Days” as an excuse.  Nobody at work knows anything about my life long battle with depression and anxiety and I often wonder what people think when they catch me quietly sobbing in my cubicle for no good reason.

I’ve been on the newest “cocktail” of drugs now for a couple of months and I do find that they make a world of difference.  I’m on 100mg of Zoloft and 200mg of Seroquel XR.  For those that don’t know, Seroquel XR is an anti-psychotic drug that my doctor swears has been proven to help depression and anxiety.  She kindly told me I’m not actually psychotic, which is good to know.

Frankly, being called psychotic is not far off from how I view myself.  My moods are all over the place, I have panic attacks on a regular basis and I am generally just a miserable person.  I am manipulative to those I love, and to those I hate, and I definitely have the characteristics of someone with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

I don’t touch doorknobs 50 times in a row or clean one spot in my house over and over again but I am a control freak and I do other obsessive things like apply lip gloss at least 100 times a day.  I have mastered the art of opening the jar of lip gloss with one hand, in my pocket, and applying it to my lips without anyone being the wiser.  I have panic attacks when a jar goes missing so I keep dozens of half-empty jars around my house, in my purse, at work and in secret emergency places so that even if I lose my main jar, I have back ups.

Often times when people talk to me or I am just listening to people speaking words (in the subway, in movies, watching television, etc.), I pretend I’m typing the words on a computer.  My fingers fly across mid-air spelling out lyrics from songs or whatever is being said in my direct line of hearing.  If I make a spelling mistake, I hit the back space of nothing and correct it.

Today has turned into a relatively unexciting day, as I still sit here at work.  No major mood swings, no panic attacks and other than a general feeling of nausea, I am just alright. 

Summer is here and that’s a great thing because winter for people with depression can be unbearable.  We already hate ourselves and life in general so to look outside and know that the earth is practically dead kind of puts a damper on your day.  The lack of colour in winter is wretched and I am not exaggerating when I say that during the long winter months, I generally have to physically and mentally force myself not to jump out of a high story building or hang myself from the ceiling fan (turned off of course – no need to have a dead body flying around like that Simpson’s episode where Bart steals Grandpa’s dentures and chomps down on the ceiling fan.  If bodies go stiff after death, then I imagine it could be quite the hazard to anyone who gets close) on a daily basis.

We may want to hurt ourselves, but God forbid I smack someone I love with my dead body spinning from a ceiling fan.  That would be unreasonable.