*Suicide Trigger Warning*

There are so many levels of depression it boggles the mind.

I am feeling “better” but it’s still a struggle. I am at the phase where I can half smile, crack a joke and somewhat follow a conversation with someone without fading away into my own world. The world where I would rather be dead. Where my soul feels like it went to join the circus (to be a scary ass clown) and my personality has been cleared away, replaced by someone I don’t recognize.

Oh, the disturbing thoughts are still there, but they are more distant and hazy.

I am honestly afraid to be too hopeful. The land of medication, although necessary for my survival, is a treacherous one to travel to say the least.

“One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small
And the ones that mother gives you, don’t do anything at all” – Jefferson Airplane

I’ve had so many chemicals inside of me the last few months, wrecking havoc instead of providing me with relief. The Latuda/Viibryd combination made me feel emotionally numb, extremely morbid and suicidal.

The Brintellix gave me so much anxiety that I thought I was going insane and it helped to make me attempt suicide for a second time, with much more deadly intent than the first.

And now I am on Effexor. I haven’t noticed a worsening of symptoms. I’ve come out of my hiding more or less, have the ability to interact with humans, do some writing, read blogs, have more of an appetite and not Google ways to kill myself successfully.

Maybe you have noticed that I haven’t even mentioned fibromyalgia in a long time. This is because depression has trumped it. It’s like when you stub your baby toe, you don’t even notice that you have hemorrhoids for a few minutes. (Thankfully, that is one affliction that I do not suffer from.)

I can handle pain and being tired. If God came to me and asked which disease I wanted him to take away from me, I would say depression/anxiety. Fibromyalgia is a cake walk in comparison. If nothing else these last few months, I have learned this valuable lesson.

What I can’t handle is feeling no joy and contemplating whether I should find a nice tall bridge to jump from.

Which I have, many times my dear friends.

And you know something? I am not ashamed nor embarrassed. I had someone ask me how I can share such personal information for all to read and my reply is that if I can touch just one person with my words, as unpleasant as they are, then maybe I helped someone feel less alone with this monstrous disease. Trust me, most people on Facebook just scroll on by anyways. And I could care less if I make someone uncomfortable.

I tried to kill myself twice. There, I said it. And the world continues to spin.

Mental illness is real. And if we don’t speak out about it, then that is a sadder state of affairs than the diseases themselves, if you ask this depressive.

I take my pills everyday and I pray. And I make jokes about taking a tinkle in a coffee can, as silently as I possibly can.