*Content Note*
This piece contains honest reflections on severe depression, executive dysfunction, suicidal thoughts (without intent), addiction, grief, and mental health struggles.
I am safe, and I do not want to die. I share these thoughts because I believe there is a difference between wanting your life to end and desperately wanting your suffering to end. This essay explores that difference.
If you’re in a tender place today, please read with care. If any part of this feels familiar, I hope it reminds you that you’re not the only one carrying thoughts that are difficult to say out loud—and that you deserve support long before you reach a breaking point.
If you’re currently in crisis or worried you may act on thoughts of harming yourself, please pause here and reach out to someone you trust or contact your local crisis resources. You don’t have to carry this alone.
I haven’t had my Adderall in weeks, and today is the first time I’ve taken my 40 milligrams.
I’m sitting here scrolling through Threads, and I just read an article someone wrote on Medium about ASD in the Black community—more specifically, getting diagnosed as an adult. I learned that many adults self-identify first and that many healthcare professionals will work with them from there.
It immediately made me think about the conversations I’ve had with my therapist and psychiatrist. I’ve made it very clear that I’ve always suspected I might be autistic. I don’t feel like that possibility was ever taken seriously enough, and somewhere along the way I started wondering if I simply wasn’t communicating my symptoms well enough.
I’ve been shutting down this past year.
I don’t feel like I’m getting the support I need. I don’t even know where to start anymore because I just… can’t.
I can observe my behaviors. I know when it’s happening. I can literally talk myself through it in my head, but my body isn’t in alignment. Unless my therapist is going to come to my house and help me meditate, ground myself, and physically get moving, I don’t know how I’m supposed to break out of this.
My job paid for me to attend a week-long training this week. It’s Tuesday, and I’m sitting on my couch.
I can’t clean my house.
I can’t clean my body.
I’ve been on my period since Sunday morning, and I still haven’t taken a shower.
Bill collectors are threatening to shut things off, report accounts, and send notices, and I can’t even bring myself to open an email—let alone walk to my mailbox.
My son has been home, and I haven’t really spent time with him.
I know I’m doing the best I can.
I know I need to give myself grace.
But what happens when I can’t dig myself out of this?
What happens if I lose my job?
I’m applying for disability retirement, and I can’t even get my psychiatrist to complete the paperwork I sent over a week ago.
I want to check myself into a program so badly because I need more help. Everywhere I turn, I seem to make too much money to qualify for assistance. I have too good of a job. I own my home. I own my car. From the outside, I should be able to do all of these things.
But I can’t.
I’m not saying any of this because I want pity.
I’m saying it because I need help.
I told my sister last month that it’s becoming harder and harder to see a feasible outcome by staying alive. She called me selfish because everyone has problems and everyone is pulling themselves up by their bootstraps.
The one person who never made me feel selfish—who always listened, gave advice, found resources, and loved me through everything—is my mom.
Now she needs me.
And I can’t show up for her.
She’s in a nursing home, and all I have to do is be there.
I can’t even get myself out of the house.
I went out with my homegirl on Saturday, and I blacked out. I haven’t been blackout drunk in a very long time. I want to feel ashamed about that relapse, but I don’t even have the emotional capacity to process it.
My son still hasn’t been enrolled in school.
I don’t know how to go to his principal and say, “How do I keep him here when I can’t afford tuition?”
Everything is changing.
I get on Threads.
I get on my podcast.
I get on Substack.
I get on Instagram.
And I tell the world that I’m drowning.
My soul is drowning in this human experience.
The old version of me doesn’t fit anymore.
The new version of me is struggling to exist.
I don’t even know how to stay present anymore.
When I say I can’t do these things, I don’t mean I’m lazy.
I don’t mean I don’t know what to do.
I know exactly what needs to be done.
I didn’t make it this far in life by not knowing what to do.
But these behaviors aren’t normal.
Not going to work isn’t normal.
Knowing you’re not getting paid and still being unable to get out of bed to go to work—that isn’t normal.
Finding yourself trying to rationalize suicide because it feels like the more doable solution—that isn’t normal either.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t want to hurt myself.
I am safe.
But I truly and honestly cannot keep living this way.
I need myself.
And right now, I’m unable to access her.
