Between self-harm and recent feelings, I might’ve gone “insane.” But that’s taught me some about motives and the peril of not understanding.

The Tipping Point

Getting right to the point — I think I’ve lost it again. The accumulated angst and pressure got the best of me, leading to me doing some “insane” stuff. None of which was particularly conducive to living a healthy life.

My doctor’s suspicion of chronic stress made me conscious of what affected me. And consciousness begets more consciousness. I couldn’t stop fixating on the elevated heart rate, chest tightness, and overall feelings that had settled into the background over these years.

They were front and center now.

Then add onto that some other negative thoughts and influences. And the cherry on top, I was again hearing the same words that had plunged me into a state of wanting to bludgeon myself out of existence countless times before.

And that was the tipping point.

As I was walking out of the bathroom, I happened to run across a very nice-looking door. Made out of wood, very sturdy. And perfect for smashing one’s head into to inflict pain on oneself.

And so in my fit of agonizing frustration, I did that. A quick acceleration of my cranium right into that door as I exited. It made a loud, satisfying sound that perfectly conveyed how I was feeling.

I’ve done this a few times before. It didn’t hurt much then, and it didn’t this time either. So I kept the combo up, and entering my room, I did a literal headbang into that door too.

Finally, I was seated in my chair. Time passed with me stuck ruminating about everything. Eventually, I made another decision, and slammed my temple not once, not twice, but three times into my chair’s armrest in quick succession.

While there was some very minimal padding, the armrest was more solid and immobile than a swinging door. And so this time, an unpleasant pain developed in that area shortly afterward.

I thought I had done it this time.

Perhaps I’d finally done some real damage to my brain. I questioned whether I’d wake up at all the next day. But I’d already made the decision to do what I did.

Seeing as I’m here writing this now, nothing happened. The headache went away. I can’t say if it was a bad injury or not, but this was the first time I’ve genuinely wondered if I’d see tomorrow.

Unfortunately, my reaction to the stressors didn’t quite end there. And this is where things get stereotypical in a bad way. I searched for images of self-harm to see “how bad” it was.

Basically, I was trying to acclimate myself to the idea of cutting myself. So that maybe I’d finally follow through with the thoughts that had plagued me.

There were some pretty gross images, to no surprise. Ultimately, I did not end up doing anything to myself with sharp, pointy objects. But I guess it’s concerning that I might be one step closer to fulfilling that vision.

So with my account of that mess, I wouldn’t be shocked if I’ve earned the label of “insane.” Bonkers. Lost the plot. Not normal at all, and completely irrational. As if to be an exotic creature. And one to be pitied for that matter.

Do I feel that way though? Well, like many other topics I’ve reflected on, the answer to that is this.

I do. And I don’t.

The True Account

These moments are usually visualized as a point where one snaps, but I don’t feel that’s entirely accurate. My decisions were not spurred by a sudden, uncontrollable burst of emotions in which I lost control over my actions.

In fact, the feelings were the exact opposite.

I was in excruciating mental agony. I still am, as I write this paragraph, but that’s beside the point. When the last words pushed me “over the edge, ” I did not feel an onslaught for long.

The agony actually became muted. And I stopped feeling anything, for the most part.

I presume this is the definition of apathy.

Strangely enough, apathy is when I feel best during times like this. All those worries snap away in an instant. It’s not that I don’t feel like utter hell, but it’s more of a background process along with all other feelings.

There’s nothing to focus on. Because I can’t fixate on anything. Nothing makes me feel good, but neither does anything make me feel bad. At least not beyond the baseline level of hollow emptiness.

Of course, this meant that all my reservations disappeared as well. And that included my hesitation to bash my skull into hard objects. Or my reluctance to consider inflicting wounds on oneself.

I suppose that’s the dangerous part of losing those feelings.

The fact that those actions harmed me didn’t matter. All the thinking I did only reaffirmed that I wanted to go through with inflicting a head injury on myself. And I somewhat understand the mental process behind it.

A lot of my pressures could be alleviated if I were to garner understanding and show how serious I felt this was.

But because all avenues have failed to achieve that, this is what my mind’s resorted to.

The first option was to address the source. But even whilst doing what I could, there were factors out of my control. They were issues that I’d hit a rock wall in progressing with.

So the second option was to appeal to the sources that I could. And of course, hurting myself would surely highlight the seriousness of what I was feeling. It wasn’t something I could brush off as if it were a scratch.

But that failed to resolve anything because the effects were hidden away. So the only other choice was to eliminate the perception of that pressure to stop the pain.

Unfortunately, the one who does the perceiving is me. And so hurting myself was (and still is) my mind’s best solution to traverse many potential avenues at once.

Harming oneself is viewed as irrational. But when put like this, it seems like my mind’s found solid reasoning to do it.

Perhaps it’d be better if I *was* irrational.

Danger Within Comfort

This is where I digress into the concept of the “comfort zone.” Particularly, in regards to typical terms of progression — where one needs to “get out of their comfort zone” to move forward.

Comfort — a term associated with positive feelings but stagnation.
And discomfort — associated with growth, but also risk and worry.

Therefore, one would assume that danger comes from the risk-taking aspect of activities that cause discomfort. On the contrary, comfort should feel good because of the lack of danger and risk.

However, I’d argue that the most egregious danger comes from what I willingly do. After all, these are influences that I’ve become acclimated with to the point where thinking is no longer a necessity.

This comfort breeds attachment and perhaps even dependency on those ideas. Even if they ultimately do me harm, they have already permeated my defenses and breached my safe haven.

And so those ideas can reside for ages unchecked. As rogue agents which wreak havoc from within.

Yet they still garner relief like an emotional Stockholm syndrome.

I had become acclimated to feeling this way. The loss of my senses and feelings was normal. And the stress and agony had established a new baseline for what comfort was.

That is, anything that wasn’t death itself.
Maybe not even that.

Perhaps chronic stress was the culprit. The loss of feeling got significant around 2016–17. I thought I’d made a huge recovery this year. But when it was suggested I might have it, I became conscious of how bad things might truly be.

As aforementioned, I’ve reached a very low point now. Yet a couple of weeks ago, I felt on top of the world. My comfort zone had gradually shifted to accommodate the pain over the years.

It had intruded upon that space and made me feel normal in its presence. I was now comfortable with fatigue and dehydration. Feeling so weak and queasy over minor mental triggers. With that constant heart constriction.

And being unable to focus, or feel I was living in reality.

Yet another idea has penetrated my comfort zone. And it’s been the most dangerous of all. The idea of self-destruction has made its home too close to my mental abode.

It’s convinced me that I’m now comfortable with doing potential concussive harm to myself. And as demonstrated by the search for gruesome imagery, it’s pushing me to go even further.

Slowly inching deeper into the recesses of my mind.

I want to doubt that I’d ever do something like that. Maybe all the visions I’ve had are just that — visions. But I’ve never been so unsure of my capabilities as I’ve been now.

My feelings have been so arbitrary. Even in the past few months, the standards for what I’m comfortable with have changed so many times. For instance, I used to analyze every one of my words for fear of judgment or sounding weird.

I think it’s in part because I’ve gotten better at writing true to myself. But I don’t overthink my words as much anymore. I’ve become more assertive. I use stronger terms that I felt uneasy using before. And there are some topics I don’t have qualms talking about anymore.

A reflection revolving around self-harm isn’t something I would’ve written before. After all, I’d just sound crazy. What normal person thinks of doing such a thing? Surely, I should be locked up for even thinking it.

Maybe it’s the apathy, but I hardly feel that hesitance anymore.

I don’t know if that’s good though. Maybe my writing’s become completely unhinged as a result. Assuming I haven’t always sounded “crazy.” But I suppose that’s the risk I took by doing anything with my limited perspective — because it’s all I have.

Regardless, it’s this rapid sequence of changes that’s made me think about how meaningless everything I’ve perceived is. It’s given me an understanding of previously unfathomable ideas. The things I once considered “insane.”

Or rather, I’ve gained insight into the concept of my “understanding” itself.

Disturbances And Perception

I’m also not afraid of writing about this anymore — complaints. Maybe it’s because it’s kinda important for the overall narrative, but that’s another thing I’m okay with now.

So I’ll proceed to complain.

It was a Wednesday night in July 2023 when I went to sleep. I was attempting to get some good rest after failing countless times prior. But some folks wouldn’t have that.

At some point, I heard the all-too-familiar sound of a car’s engine and thumping 808s. Someone was pulling up in the shared driveway. So maybe they got back late. Not a huge deal.

Someone got out and slammed the door, creating a little pressure wave that I felt in my stomach. It was slightly annoying, but again, nothing I’d fuss about.

But then they started talking. Quite loudly.

They were goofing off outside. I was feeling the negative energy slowly rise within me with every burst of laughter and “bro” uttered. I had no idea what time it was — it definitely wasn’t even close to morning.

But I also considered that since I’ve been a depressed loner since leaving middle school, I could have a warped idea of fun. I never went to a party or hung out with anyone. Hell, I rarely interacted with anyone at all. So I thought…

It’s just tonight. Whatever. They’ll go inside in a minute or two and it’ll be quiet again.

However, one of them started bouncing a ball against the pavement, sending mini-pressure waves through me once more. At this point, I was beginning to think — “Seriously?”

The sound disturbances only got more ludicrous. Because for some godforsaken reason, they decided to hop into their vehicle, start it up again, shut it off after going apparently nowhere, and slam the door shut again.

And their engine sounded like a jet turbine with how much air it took in.

I was losing all hope of getting any sleep at this point. I got up and checked my Pokemon Sleep session. Maybe I’d just have to get up a few hours earlier today...

It was 4 in the freakin’ morning.

And they repeated starting up this car and slamming the doors not once, not twice, not three times nor four times, but five freakin’ times over the next hour.

It was actually more than that, but that’s what I can remember for certain. But even undercounting, it was enough to where I was struggling to manage the inner rage I’ve developed over the past decade.

They finally went indoors an hour later. My sleep was unsalvagable, as the sun would rise in an hour. It would be another one of those nights where I’m so tired it hurts — yet I still can’t sleep at all.

But at least I would be able to try.

Not.

For one last hurrah, one of them comes out and starts talking on their cell phone.

At full freakin’ speaking volume.

Noise ordinance my rear end.

It goes without saying that plenty of thoughts flew through my mind. You know, calming zen thoughts like…

“What the living —- are they doing?”
“Are you — -ing serious right now?”
“I don’t freakin’ understand how these guys can do this —- at 4 AM”

This led to me purchasing a set of earplugs to muffle out noise — should it happen again. And I got a sleep mask while I was at it. There’s still the occasional ball bouncing and talking. Though thankfully, it’s only been before midnight.

Here’s another anecdote of me internally losing it over perceived ridiculousness. It was the end of August 2023 when I was in the cinema for the first time in many years.

Since it was National Cinema Day, you could get a seat in a fancy theater for $4 a pop. And so my family were going to watch a shark movie which was released earlier in the month — Meg 2.

This was mere days after I’d reached my limit and self-inflicted blunt trauma to my head, so I wasn’t very into the experience. It took everything I had not to break down in the lobby while waiting.

I failed for a few seconds, but it stopped just as quick as it started.

There was a long wait after entering the theater. But eventually, screening time arrived and the movie started. I had trouble focusing because I was dead inside, but I managed.

However, it was about a third of the way through the movie when shenanigans started to occur again. There were teenagers seated in the frontmost row. And they’d been on their phones the entire time.

It seemed bizarre to go to a theater and not watch the movie, but it didn’t affect me.

But what happened next certainly did.

For a few minutes, they were audibly engaging in tomfoolery with each other. At least until one amongst them curtly said— “Bruh, shut the hell up.”

Again, not a big deal. The speakers were loud enough to mask most of their talking. Keyword though — most.

However, the next disturbance drove me up the wall.

As aforementioned, most of them were on their phones the entire time. But one, in particular, decided to do something that flashed a big white rectangle on their screen — at full freakin’ brightness.

They kept flashing that rectangle every couple of seconds. I don’t know what the hell the light was for. Other than inducing a seizure or severely annoying the people behind them.

And well, it worked like a charm for one of the two.

For those fifteen or so minutes, I simply couldn’t focus on what was happening in the movie. Because this guy was apparently sending a beacon signal to the alien overlords, and right in the middle of the film nonetheless.

I suppose that’s what happens with $4 tickets.

Once again, those thoughts were circulating within me. Thoughts like — “Why the living hell would someone do this? I don’t understand the thought process of going to a movie theater to do this.”

The rest of the movie went uninterrupted. But with what happened combined with the apathy I was in — I was so done with this planet at the time.

Rhetoricals

Those two accounts might appear to be a massive digression. But there was a moral in them. Quite simply, what I perceived as unruly behavior was well within the comfort zones of those who engaged in it.

I’d assume that to be willing to do something, one isn’t particularly bothered by the act of doing so. Or at the very least, one has their justifications for risking the discomfort.

And so what I was being driven up the wall by,
was likely of little concern at all to another.

That’s something I couldn’t fathom in the past. I didn’t get the motives behind actions I viewed as “bad” other than to “be bad.” Nor did I understand inclinations or preferences that vastly differed from my own ideals.

The phrase is also something I’ve heard countless times — both from within me and from external sources. Why would you do this? Why would you think that? I don’t get it. That is crazy. I don’t understand.

However, I now realize there’s an accompanying question that comes with that utterance.

Did I want to understand?

And the answer in most cases is probably… no. These questions were hardly, if ever asked, out of a genuine curiosity. In fact, I’d say nine times out of ten, there was zero motive to gain insight with those words.

In all fairness, there were things that I couldn’t understand before. But with the truly “insane” experiences I’ve had in these past few years, that’s become untrue for many ideas.

I can understand a lot now. That’s something I can’t deny.

There are many scenarios where I’ve now been on both sides of the coin. I’ve been terrified of passing people on the street. Now, I’m so desensitized that I hardly even register I’m outside and in the vicinity of other people.

That’s not to say I don’t feel that anxiety anymore. But to think that as I pass someone without a thought, they could be having that same internal strife I’ve had many times.

“Don’t make eye contact — they’ll think you’re weird, don’t breathe too loudly — you’ll sound like you have a problem, oh god — they think I’m a lunatic heading toward them— am I walking too fast? *heart rate and chest tightness skyrockets* AHHHHHH”

My presence could drive someone else insane, and I’d never know a thing. Because what I’m doing in my current mindset is just walking to my destination. I hardly remember not feeling that anymore.

I can also understand what’s made me feel discomfort. I’ve been in the vicinity of things in public that made me question — why am I able to hear this in the first place?

But I’ve experienced being engrossed in my own world and forgetting about my surroundings. And when my words might’ve uncomfortably reached unintended audiences — to my embarrassment in hindsight.

To me, I felt normal at the time. But it turns out, I was handling my business in an uncharacteristically loud manner fueled by emotional angst.

It wasn’t the intent, but it was the result.
And the result is what’s conveyed to interpret.

I can even understand what I consider egregious or malicious— to an extent. I’ve just documented my own self-harm. That’s something most would consider crazy. And therefore, me by extension.

But once again, I must reiterate how normal this act felt. Or rather, the lack of resistant feelings. Hell, I think I’ve conveyed my words in a pretty un-crazy manner so far. I haven’t rambled about hallucinations of aliens. Yet.

Whenever I hear stories of someone doing something I deem “crazy,” I believe I can understand somewhat. But in the past, I either couldn’t or refused to. Now, I presume I’d just have to envision the lack of hesitance I felt when hurting myself — and replace the self-harm with whatever they did.

Of course, there’s no way to know exactly what someone else’s thought process is. But I believe this projected normalcy gives me a solid idea. I don’t think there’s “irrational” things in one’s own eyes.

And even if there is, it’s likely for “rational” reasons.

I’ve come to realize that these words — rational, irrational, sane, insane — they’re all in the eyes of the beholder. They derive their meaning from the source of projection. Hiding the underlying beliefs beneath the rhetorical questions posed as genuine inquiry.

They serve not to gain understanding, but to separate oneself from the subject.

After all, understanding is often synonymous with empathy. But to empathize is made to mean to associate. To associate is made to mean to sympathize.

And to sympathize with those deemed insane leaves one vulnerable to being outcasted along with them. Or worse yet, to see a reflection of one’s own worst fears staring back.

Yet through this refusal to understand, that fear cultivates regardless. The unknown is one of the scariest concepts I’ve encountered because it leaves me to fill in the gaps.

And more often than not, the gap is filled with a nightmare scenario.

The uncertainty leaves me directionless. It’s fostered distrust, judgment, and alienation within me. And it conjures imagery of dangerous volatility. One that’s always the worst imaginable.

So I end up living in fear anyway.

But it works with other thoughts too. Projecting this normalcy I’ve felt has helped to bridge the chasms that have been ingrained in me. To do away with the binary ideas of good versus bad. Weird versus normal. Rational and irrational. And the subconscious act of othering.

It’s brought me a bit closer to humanity.

Now, there’s obviously a limit to this. I still find some things abhorrent or bizarre to even fathom. But for many concepts I once found egregious, I’ve come to understand how subjective the lines can get.

Especially when I’ve experienced much for myself, the feeling of normalcy is far from a foreign concept to understand.

Strangely, this has brought some comfort within. It has allowed me to better control my fixations. I’ve tried to stop forcing this lack of understanding I’d learned to project— this faux state of shock.

Perhaps I once lacked that insight. But that’s not the case anymore.

There’s very little I “can’t believe” anymore. I find I respond to what used to shock me with a simple — “Yeah. That’s happened. That’s a thing.” There’s no point in questioning it if I never sought an answer. At least, not one that I didn’t already want to believe.

Realizing this subjectivity has also lessened my vulnerabilities to the sway of external influences. Or rather, increased my resilience against what I perceived as such.

What I was past praised for are now mistakes I view with great disdain. And many thoughts I’d become ashamed of turned out to have a valid basis. I’ve done a complete 180 on these.

Yet back then, I’d internalized everything I heard.

Again, maybe this is because of apathy. Or it’s a natural part of growing up. But I feel like the crippling fears of judgment are loosening their grip on me. Not anywhere close to breaking free, but just ever so slightly weakening. In part, because there’s less outbound judgment as well.

I’ve learned how meaningless this “objectivity” has become. The goalposts and frames of reference shift so often — and for seemingly indeterminable reasons. It happens multiple times a day for me.

The once sane becomes insane, and vice versa, then back again. Being rational can feel abhorrent, and being irrational can create a state of zen. I don’t know what anything means anymore.

I don’t know if I’m rational— if I’m reasonable or unreasonable. I don’t know if it’s common to go through what I have, or if I’ve completely lost the plot. I don’t even know if it matters.

But I’ve become comfortable with this new normal. And that’s something I understand — and should be wary of.

Not from outside, but from what cultivates within.

And so this begs yet another question.

Do I need to understand?

Given how little I understand even myself, one questions whether there’s even any merit in understanding. To me, the term itself can sound like a conceited, gracious bestowal. As if a privilege to have one’s complex experiences all “figured out” by another.

I can project my sense of normalcy all I want, but it’s just my assumption in the end. It’s been saturated with my own limited perspective. In the same vein, I don’t think my experiences can be completely understood either, regardless of the detail and justification I describe them with.

Some insights will only remain with me. Others will forever be out of my grasp. And perhaps that’s fine.

Maybe understanding is not as important as imagined— both to humbly receive and so graciously bestow. Ultimately, my problems and the key to them have always lied within my own, ever-volatile perception.

And that’s been the neverending question to answer — determining which each is.

Emerging Ideas

There’s a hopeful side to this story. While insidious thoughts have breached my comfort zone, long-rejected notions are entering as well. This idea, in particular, could serve as a critical lifeline for me.

I’m referring to the idea of getting help.
And if it isn’t obvious by now, I haven’t done that yet.

The main reason is nerves. I’ve been averse to social interaction for fear of embarrassment. And so the idea of talking with a stranger over the phone hasn’t exactly been appealing.

I’ve perceived suggestions for getting help as superficial at best— even if they were meant in good faith. It sounded like a push for a magic bullet. Call this mystical number and all my problems will be solved. Or even something akin to — “Why don’t you go there instead? You know, *away*.”

There are also associations I’ve developed seeing how the phrase has been constantly used on — you guessed it. Social media.

“You’re insane. Get help.”“I think you need to see a doctor.”

Getting help had become synonymous with proclaiming to the world that I was a lunatic. That was something I didn’t want to do. So with all things considered — there was no motive to seek “help.”

That perception doesn’t matter as much anymore, since I’ve now pondered it outright. Plus, there’s new information that’s been slowly acclimating me to the idea.

I received a comment in a previous write-up (my thanks to them) recommending a book titled The Body Keeps The Score. Luckily, I had an Audible trial left, so I was able to procure an audiobook version for free.

I am a total cheapskate.

In all honesty, I started the audiobook late in the night. I was partway through Chapter 1 before I gave in to my fatigue. And because I can hardly be bothered to do anything nowadays, I haven’t resumed listening since.

However, even in those 15 minutes, I’ve gained some important insights.

For instance, the term “trauma” was something I felt I had to earn. But of course, none of my experiences were worthy of that loaded term as a descriptor.

I hadn’t had an axe murderer mutilate my family. Nor have I endured a plane falling out of the sky. The term was reserved for real traumatic experiences — not anything that I just “felt awful” about.

But after attempts to self-validate through Google, I came across the concept of micro-trauma. The little things in life that aren’t meant to be enjoyed. Emotional injury that builds up until it culminates in something much worse.

Like bashing my skull. And having genuine considerations to lacerate myself.

I never considered this subjective interpretation of trauma. A focus on personal effects instead of objective categorizations. I’ve been told I sounded traumatized, but I didn’t believe so back then. Because nothing I had experienced was worthy of that.

Though like I said, finding the categorization isn’t the ultimate solution for me. Whether it’s called trauma, depression, or late-stage osteoporosis, I know something’s wrong.

No association with a term will change what and how I need to fix this. Regardless of what words I use, I need to identify exactly what the problems are.

The audiobook moved to discuss the brain’s response to trauma. And I had another major insight from this part. Essentially, the brain has excessive reactions to certain stimuli.

It’s that response that causes issues, but it can be controlled with medication or therapy.

This isn’t new knowledge to me. I grasped that reminders of certain events made my brain go haywire. But I assumed it was a “me” problem. Medication and therapy seemed not only expensive but also risky. And as aforementioned, mental treatment services sounded like hocus pocus anyway.

I suppose the idea clicked when hearing it read aloud. But I now consider the possibility that regardless of the effort given to change my mindset— I still might not ever solve my problems if it only takes a quick release of cortisol to undo everything by the brain.

With all the talk about discipline and mindset I read. How it’s all in my head — it’s all about perspective. I’ve endlessly tried to quell my sensitivity. And to an extent, my experiences have lessened the impact. Or for the umpteenth time, maybe it’s apathy again.

But the effects still often become unmanagable. Maybe it’s a fool’s errand.

The little things break through despite the reframing and rewiring. I fixate on the vivid recollections ranging from my embarrassment to hurt and wrongdoing.

Years have passed since some of those. A simple sentence in passing by a stranger. A mistake I made or an accident. After all that time, they still throw me into fits of internal misery, shame, and/or rage. Literally crushing my heart and inducing all sorts of physical effects.

Maybe I still haven’t worked these out. But it’s also possible there’s no light at the end of the tunnel. At least, not with the current trajectory I’ve been taking.

I’m still not quite convinced. But just as harmful ideas had gradually integrated into my comfort zone — perhaps this idea will too. One day, I might just get up and make that call.

But I’ll have to see for now.

Expelled

It’s been many days since I began this reflection as an outlet. A couple of weeks, actually. That’s how long it takes to finish these writings. I haven’t hit my head again. Nor has the idea of cutting progressed further than trying (and failing) to scratch my arm with a key. As the demo to the main experience, I guess.

I didn’t try very hard though.
Because I still had hesitance. And perhaps I always did.

I’m sure the gruesome visions won’t disappear completely. But I probably don’t need to question whether I’m seriously considering the option anymore. I believe I haven’t, and still do not.

Let’s just say, I’ve now read what happens if an artery is severed. It’s not pretty. Though it’s maybe concerning it’s the mess that’s put me off more than the “I will literally cease to exist” part. Regardless, I think the imagery it conjures has been enough to scare me off of the idea.

Whether I was ever serious in the first place… I’ll never know for sure. I’d guess no, but then again, that’s likely what many believed themselves. But as I’ve said though, I somewhat understand my thought process — and my desire for understanding which drives these insidious thoughts.

If my analysis of that is correct, I don’t think I truly planned on it. And it shouldn’t be a threat any longer.

My mind’s determined that’s far worse than what I’m dealing with now.

I suppose it goes to show how dangerously spontaneous these thoughts are — even if they took years to form. I’m aware of the accounts detailing how most survivors regret the drastic act they took.

Again, in hindsight, I believe my goal was not to cease existing— it was understanding. But I’d never been more unsure of that than I had at that time.

And even if ending myself wasn’t my goal, that wouldn’t leave this off the table — what if I’d actually lacerated my arm in the pursuit of understanding?

I would’ve committed to the act.

I would’ve gone in without knowledge of what happens when arteries are severed. I would’ve done it unaware that cutting is typically done with razor blades. Not kitchen knives that can glide through flesh with hardly any resistance.

My intentions to survive wouldn’t have mattered.
If the worst-case scenario happened, I never would’ve foreseen it.

And in the few seconds I’d have before losing consciousness forever, I probably would’ve been terrified, completely caught off guard by what had happened. I would’ve regretted it when it was too late.

This is honestly the most insane, uncomfortable piece I’ve ever written. Considering even the possibility of how perilous this could’ve been — not to mention the graphic imagery my mind’s been conjuring.

I can’t even bring myself to add a lightly humorous quip and make these words more palatable. I am genuinely sick thinking about this. My chest feels tight as hell — in addition to the already existing constriction. I’m rather dizzy as well.

And that’s probably the best development of this story.
I’m glad I’m having vertigo right now.

In nearly a decade of these self-destructive thoughts, never have I had to fear for my life actually ending. But finally, this idea has invoked a level of discomfort that has surpassed the apathy. It’s hit a nerve, and created a notion so terrifying as to override it.

That idea’s been frantically expelled from my comfort zone. And good freakin’ riddance.

Ending It All

There’s more evidence indicating my desire to keep living. So this isn’t me ignoring the significant danger of these thoughts. Like I said, I’m feeling the fear — trust me.

But there are details that add proof to my claims. The fact that I’ve even written this, for instance. There’d be no point in reflecting, documenting, and releasing emotions for a future I didn’t believe in.

I still carry my camera pouch outdoors. In the days following my “breaking point,” I left with only a phone in my pocket. But I started to wear my usual hat and bring my bag too after more time.

My mental and physical states were still absolutely horrible — still is now.
But there’s that to consider.

Again, I’d like to think I wouldn’t bother with the idea of recording videos for a future I had no intention of seeing.

I’ve bought some stuff to improve my quality of life. The most recent is a cervical memory foam pillow. It’s obvious where I’m going with this, but yeah. Wouldn’t have bought that if I never planned on waking up again.

I want it all to end.

But I think I want to be alive when it does.

That’s not a “sunshine and rainbows from here” moment though. My next birthday is less than 5 weeks away. And the ones following will likely come faster than I expect. My early 20s will come to a miserable end — then the mids and the lates.

I still fear being stuck behind in this limbo then.

The way forward is still obscured. One has to question if it exists at all. I know bad times don’t last forever — the good times certainly don’t. But I find myself questioning if it’s worth the excruciating wait. How much longer is there to go?

It’s not like I have a choice though. As revealed through writing this, I fear the alternative more. So while frankly, everything sucks, this is the lesser of two sucky options.

So back to work, I guess.

With the self-destructive urges dormant once more, it’s back to more articles, more website development, and more game dev. At least until they inevitably surge up again. As has been par for the course.

I continue at the snail’s pace I’ve been at, with no end destination in sight. All I can do is see what the next stop is — and hope it doesn’t beget more misery. Hopefully, that stop gives me a higher note to write on.

Though I’m sure this one’s set the bar real low. Isn’t that crazy.