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Hi fellow depressed people, Long story short, I am at the last chance saloon w.r.t. treatments. I've tried them all, every single one has failed, and one remains - VNS. Statistically, VNS will fail and the problem I will face is that there are so many things I want to do in order to bow out as I see fit, and yet I'm so depressed, there's no way I can do them - the irony etc. etc. Logistical tasks, organizational tasks, organizing my finances, making sure I say goodbye to everyone I want to - these are all things I cannot do alone, I'm just so depressed. Hence, can anyone think of something like Task Rabbit for suicidal people (tee hee)? What do you think a ... rabbiter (?) (the task-doer person) would do if you asked them to help you out with your final wishes and tasks and so on? I've no idea if it's even legal in the US! I can't ask family because they'd commit me, and my therapist has said several times that she'd be obligated to do the same if I asked for assistance etc. Hence 🤔 Any thoughts anyone? Any ideas, suggestions? 🙏🏻

I want to say in advance that this could be a bit triggery I've always been a little curious with my SI(I wont go into detail) but today all of a sudden I had a bit of misguided brain wave; What if I break some of my bones!? I have become totally fixated on the idea, cutting just isnt enough anymore.I think that breaking a bone (or four) would be such a release for me. Breaking a part of me physically when I feel so broken on the inside. Does anyone else actually fantasise about or activley break any bones?

So Ive really been feeling bad so i tell my therapist like 4 or 5 times Im feeling suicidal, the last time I ask if "I appeared too happy because I do tend to put on a happy face, even when depressed", she says that don't really happen then she says "Well I've been told I can recognize someone suicidal very well". I thought on the way home, dont really happen oh yeah like Robin Williams. Anyway, as she is only 29, I wondered and remembered everytime I bring up Bipolar, Depression, PTSD, Halucinations and voices and especially self-harm she changes subject. And later that night I cut. Now I am wondering although she is a clinical social worker, is she really qualified for mental illnesses beyond basic couseling or not confident in those areas. For the most part I do really like her but, hey, as you can see below I got quite a mess of mental problems, I do need someone competent in those areas.

25 years of doctors tests to figure out why I'm in constant pain, and the results always say I'm totally fine. Everything's in my head. Maybe they'll have an easier time finding what's wrong if I take the contents of my head and paint the wall with them. Disclaimer: I don't own a gun, nor do any of my friends. Clearly, this dream of mine cannot become a reality. I have metric tons of suffocating rage in my body and I can't even do anything with it. I've been binge eating for 3 days and deserve to die. I don't know why I"m posting this. I'll probably delete it. I don't even know why I'm here; I'm clearly beyond help. Nothing has changed in 8 years. I'm still incapable of paying attention to anything for longer than 5 minutes, wholly incapable of focusing on anything that's not interesting to me, incapable of functioning like all the other humans I'm in competition with. I'm a fucking loser by birth. The devil lives in me and I don't even believe in Christianity. All I want to do is clone myself and make the clone take a baseball bat to my head. Everyone wins. I'm dead, and everyone who has concern for me can keep living in their tiny deluded bubble where it appears I'm still alive. I've been in therapy since 2007. Every avenue I try to explore that the therapist agrees would be a good idea is subsequently shoved under the rug. Nobody gives a fuck. Nobody follows through. Nobody gives a fuck about helping me. They just collect their checks and a headful of terrible stories relayed by their whining patients like me. Every drug I try turns me into a fucking lunatic. I have ONE antidepressant left that I can take and it doesn't work all that great, obviously. I've taken 3x the dose and been equally miserable. I'm supposed to be working right now. I'm a thief too. My greatest regret is that they resuscitated me immediately after I was born dead. I was fucking born dead. I AM SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

I'm here again because I am free for the umpteenth time from captivity in a psych ward. And my mind won't stop going. Sure, the wizard doctor switched around my meds a bit, but nothing more or less than what I had previously been on. I was saddened that my psychiatrist, who works in the hospital, chose not to attend to me even though I was screaming at everyone who would listen that he was the only one I could talk to and the only one who could save me. The main precipitating factor of my spiral was my relapse on alcohol and subsequent overdose on a bottle of tylenol, bottle of lithium, and bottle of Wellbutrin. I had been off many of my meds for about a month, as well. One intubation, being restrained by security guards in the ICU, and multiple shots of Haldol later, and I was bouncing back and forth between two delusional realities of which both were complete nightmares. I understood, finally, why my friend who had schizophrenia shot himself. I was trapped in a hallucination that only vaguely resembled reality but mostly I knew the only way to make the nightmare of hallucinations stop was for that final release of death. Anyway, I'm getting into heavy morbidity and should probably start trying to make a point. I've never experienced delirium and hallucinations like this before. To the point where I had to be physically restrained because I knew receiving a shot would throw me into that alternate reality which was terrifying. To the point where I was intubated because I was aspirating on my vomit. The point where I didn't know what was real and what wasn't real, such as when I vomited on the hospital floor and "saw" pieces of plastic come out of the vomit and was convinced the doctors had implanted these plastic devices inside of me. Or how I knew that I had swallowed a razor blade, that I had murdered someone, that I was being tortured and being played mind games with.... And now I have to keep trying, once again, to live. Normally, functionally, with the expectation that I should be strong enough to overcome my mental illness (they say bipolar disorder). And I keep wondering, why? what is the meaning of life? why am I afflicted with these confusions that wreak havoc on my perception of reality? As well as I believe I may be doing, I admit I periodically stop taking my medications because I despise the side effects and even more so despise the idea that I may actually need them. I admit that I medicate with alcohol sometimes.... and I spiral and do self destructive things. I'm a cutter - usually without getting stitches, however, the most stitches I've had in one sitting for self-harm was 38. I've had bulimia for the past six years. I seek acceptance through sex because it's how I grew up learning how to be loved and validated, erstwhile hating it regardless. The positives: I have a job where I help others, I'm in school with a major geared towards serving my community and individuals, and my family is giving me a home to live in while I go through a divorce (with an abusive individual). In a way I'm using this post as a soap box, which perhaps it's better served as one of those journal entries that I need to acquaint myself with. That established, I'd like to turn this post towards those who have experienced psychosis/living within unreality, hospitalization, and the aftermath of acclimating to "normality". 1. What were the precipitating factors? 2. What happened that put you in the hospital (who/where/how/when, etc) 3. What was your hospital experience like? 4. What were your hallucinations/delusions/other psychiatric symptoms? 5. How did you get out of the hospital? 6. What are obstacles you've encountered acclimating to life on the outside? 7. Learning experiences from the whole ordeal? I haven't given up yet, however I've confused, afraid, directionless, needy, and desperate. Also hopeful, despite it all.

Okay, trigger warning, and also I'm sorry, but this has been on my mind lately and it's kind of clawing its way out. The thought- I wish my rape had hurt more. I froze up, and also had taken one of my night meds (seroquel) before, so I didn't fight back in any meaningful way. As a consequence there wasn't much physical damage. I also kind of checked out during, so any sensations were dulled and distant. There was pain and small cuts in the morning, but I barely felt them at the time. That's part of what made it feel so unreal. So I wish I had been more -there-, so it would feel real. Is that weird? Has anybody else felt this?

Hey, I've been trying to recover from anorexia for several years now post hospitalisation and day-centre treatment. In the past few months I was discharged from the eating disorder OP service so I don't have any specialist help for the first time in 7 years. I currently have EDNOS/anorexia binge-purge, and am at a supposedly healthy weight but I struggle massively with accepting this as being good, the drive in my head is still strongly anorexic. My mum (who I live with) is unhealthily overweight/obese, and is on weightwatchers (again) - but she's being really obvious about it, all the "logging" exercise and foods, points etc., yet criticising my supposedly obsessive food diaries....and she's started to comment on my eating (proportions of food groups, healthier alternatives). I feel trapped as in the past she has had to sacrifice her own health in order not to trigger me...but now I'm all seemingly better, eating much more flexibly I guess it seems that I'm fine with it. We've had conversations where she has said that it is partly my responsibility that she is unhealthy and is as much physical danger as I am (at the opposite end of the scale when I was at my worst)...so I feel I have to do everything to support her this time round otherwise it would be my fault if she died. So I've helped her join my gym, I congratulate her when she doesn't eat something unhealthy or she goes to a class or eats a healthy meal... When inside it's just making the one voice that is actually inside my head (I have a couple outside of my head - but that's a whole other story!) say that I'm not even doing weightwatchers properly, something I should be good at (given I had severe anorexia for 4 years). Ultimately...I just feel that now I look "healthy" (to me, FAT) and behave more normally around food/don't make all the comments that I'm thinking, there's this expectation from everyone that things are okay and they can say anything. It just encourages my secretive purging which is bad at the moment; and also my guilt for eating in front of people (something I've got better at). Sorry for the essay...I just hate that if I look healthy on the outside it doesn't seem to matter how I feel on the inside. NB. I find it very hard to not fake liveliness and positivity, so it's rare that I'll act how I feel...the voices I experience do not accept showing weakness. Does anyone else have experience of this? How is it best to cope with it? I can't say "can you stop weightwatchers" because I've done that in the past and her ill health has become my fault. L