For over half of my life I’ve been depressed, not just the cause kind of depression that so many people suffer, I’m not that lucky. I have had this deep rooted, dark miasma of a mental illness since I was fifteen years old. The first time I told my mom I was depressed, she said that everyone went through times in their life when they were sad. When I told her I wanted to kill myself, she told me “You know we don’t believe in that.” I was a lost, alone and depressed teenager with nothing but the hope of something better to hold on to. Well, something better has never come.
I hate the “It Gets Better” project for one simple fact, it doesn’t always get better. There is no fairytale happy ending, and the celebrities that parade their “getting better” about does nothing but give false hope. It builds up people like me only to let us down, and not gently.
The last time I checked, 47% of all transgender people end their own lives, and 80% of us contemplate suicide. I’m one of the 80% and was nearly one of the 47%. I can’t count the times that I have almost been just another statistic on a page for people to cry foul about but do nothing for.
I struggle to get out of bed, I make myself get up and move around because I don’t want my children to know how bad off I am. I have surrounded myself with rabbits so I can force myself to do something productive. These tiny creatures depend on me to survive, they trust and love me. At least that’s the lie that I tell myself. If I was gone, they wouldn’t care. Someone else would feed them and care for them.
I’m always trying to find ways to make everyone around me smile, because I don’t want anyone to feel like I do. I don’t want anyone else to feel this sadness…honestly sadness doesn’t begin to cover it, but I can’t put these feelings to paper with any degree of accuracy. Lost, hopelessness, desolation, empty, no one word or even a page of words could properly label depression.
I’m so bad off that I actually went to the doctor today to ask for help. I ended up crying in the examination room not once, but twice. Once when I found out that despite eating less than I have been I’ve managed to gain another twenty pounds. The second time was when the doctor wanted to shove me off on someone else. She didn’t listen to anything that I said, but was real quick to say that I needed to see the counselor who would then refer me to a psychiatrist. If I was really lucky, I’d be able to get some help in three months.
I told her, “this is why people kill themselves. Because they come in to a doctor’s office needed help, and what do they get? A three month wait.”
The excuse I got was that Arkansas was way below the national average when it came to mental health.
My wife finally talked her into giving me something for depression. I think she realizes that I’m actually suicidal, but I refuse to tell that to any doctor. It’ll just be an excuse for them to lock me up away from the only support that I have. It’ll be their justification to throw me in a hospital where idiots will misgender me, abuse my patient rights and really push me to suicide. I’m a lot more creative than people think.
The first time I was put in a mental hospital I found more than thirty ways that I could kill myself before the first twenty-four hours was over. They really do make it too easy.
So now I’m thrust into the breast of Chaos, what little order and hope for stability in my life has washed away with the drowning waves of this mental illness that no one wants to talk about. It just makes me different, not evil.
I don’t know how much longer I can even hold on. I’ve been going at this alone for over seventeen years and I’m getting tired. I just want to find stability, somewhere I belong…something that everyone deserves.