Maybe I Shouldn't Say This. . .

But the posts that I think maybe I shouldn't post seem to be the ones that I get the most comments from. Sometimes, when getting ready to hit that publish button, I wonder if maybe I should not publish what I've written. But then I do it anyway, because I think that there may be others who can/will relate and maybe they will feel better knowing someone else is in the same ship o' fools (I have a place in the cargo hold on that ship). So here goes.

Why is the thought of suicide an almost constant companion for me? Now, before you all start calling the loony catcher and trying to get me EPC'ed, let me say RIGHT NOW that I have no intentions of acting on these feelings. Mainly because of my family. I don't want to hurt them, or leave that legacy to my nieces and nephews, but mostly because my little sister says she will put my dogs down and have me embalmed and sealed up air tight so my body will be around for decades. YUCK! I don't want my dogs put down because of my stupidity, but more than that, I do not want to be embalmed. The very thought of it makes my flesh crawl and my stomach sick. I want to be cremated. It seems natural and embalming seems the opposite of all things natural and pleasant. That is just me, and I respect every one's right to do as they please with their earthly remains. Being an earthly remain, I want to go back to the earth immediately. Not in four score and 7 years from now, not in a fortnight, not in half a fortnight. NOW! I don't think my carcass needs to be kept around and I know she would do it too. That keeps me far far away from any possible life ending things. I hope we are all clear on that. I don't want a bunch of touchy feely comments because they don't change how I feel about myself, even though they are sweet and give me warm fuzzies. Moving on.

Maybe it is this whole recent court thing. I got my "Unfavorable" decision already, no surprise there. Judge Moldy Twat decided that I could wait tables or go back to working as a sales rep in a department store. She pooh poohed my claims of pain because they are subjective and what do I know about my pain? Not a thing compared to her Most Honorable Rotten Crotch. So the process of appeals starts again. She did do me a favor by not dragging her saggy arse about getting her decision back to me, which probably strained her main butt plugged anus vein doing so, but I have to try and look on the bright side. The very thought of waiting 50 bajillion years for all the appeals to get moving makes me very tired and depressed. I'm going to file for SSI but I'm feeling so down about the whole thing that I would rather grab my little sister's 22 gauge and climb to the top of the court house, set my sights on a dried up old crotch yodeler and do it all for those of us who are taking it up the wazoo thanks to the SSA. My ex has a friend who's dad was dying of cancer and applied for SSDI to help out. When he got turned down, he went to the SSA and told them that he couldn't even wipe his own ass -- he was in a wheelchair -- let alone do the job they had come up with. He died 3 years after he initially applied and never got disability. Things like that fill me with so much hate and anger that it fires me up to beat the SSA and reminds me exactly why I won't bow out of this life and let them win.

I know my thoughts of suicide stem from my hideous depression, which is under control per Judge Old Moldy Crotch. I think my biggest mistake is not telling my shrinks, neurologist, neighborhood beggar, that I feel this way so much of the time. I hate admitting that sometimes I get so tired of having MS, that I would rather not have any life at all. I accept that I have MS. I cannot accept the limitations it imposes on me. I hate not having a say over my body. I hate being the way I am. My dragging leg, this damn fatigue that strictly limits my activities, the stupid hug that takes my breath away when it drags that hot knife down my body. The whole MS experience gets so old that I just want to be done with it some days. Other days, I have the strength to say, "F*ck it." In fact, most days I do have that strength, but I still have that nagging voice that is ready to pipe up at the first sign of weakness and tell me that I'm just a drain on my family and society, and maybe it is time to raise the white flag. As a sign of not having any intentions of doing anything to harm myself, I even keep razor blades in the house (they are great for scraping off hard water build up). I'm not going to cower in fear of what I may do and have nothing sharp in the house. I'm going to have the courage to realize that we all have options and I am opting to not act on any negative feelings I may have. I'm also opting to remember that my family would rather help me out and have me be here than save those few dollars and not have me here.

This is an ugly subject, but everyone has suicidal thoughts from time to time. Whether they are just a fleeting thought, or something that hangs out for awhile, they do surface. I don't like feeling this way. My family knows that I'm down, so I'm not allowed to be alone. I accept that I've made some bad decisions in the past and lost their trust, so I submit meekly to being babysat. If it keeps my dogs alive and me from being embalmed, it is worth it.