Normality and reality.

I don't think there is a normality. It differs with culture, time, people. And culture is more tradition than anything else. We've always done it like this. Which brings me to the point where I don't want to be part of that normality. Since basically it sux donkeyballs.
Because everyone is saying it, doesn't make it right (by Avil M. Beckford apparently). Which can be applied to doing, thinking, whatever.
Am I wrong for not really wanting to belong to mankind. Is it a symptom. It is connected with the always present feeling of not fitting in. I am human, therefor I'm part of mankind. But I don't feel very human when I see how other people act, react, think. Mostly I just watch and feel a slight ting of amazement. Or I get angry. There's no logic in them. No long-term view on anything besides getting a raise each year or a promotion in four, a big holiday when the kids finally left the house. No eye for any details. Or even the most basic thing: Action = reaction.
I try to do things the way I think they should be done. But it's mostly not the way the majority seems to do them. So why shrink thinks it's saddening that I don't want to be part of that. I think I'm old enough by now to be able to see where avoiding certain social life will lead me to. To more of how I've lead my life for a long time now. I am not lonely in the sense that I miss any of the contacts lots other people have. I feel alone but I don't see it as the outcome of staying inside most the time. Since I can go out and socialize, I just don't want to. Loneliness is a state of mind and comes from the feeling of not fitting in anywhere. If I would go socialize the way people seem to do I just end up feeling more lonely, since I don't fit in.
And I don't see how that can be fixed, besides brain surgery (which still is an option *hides*). I don't feel I fit in because I don't fit in. I don't think there's more to it really. The problem with that mostly lies in the fact that I'm human and humans are sheep. We thrive in flocks. Being part of the herd. I so wish sometimes to just be part of the herd. To stop thinking and be like everyone else. Yet, I cannot be. Since I think. I can pretend. Once in a while. But it's not real. I don't have much illusions about myself. I won't change the course of any events. Nor do I have that ambition really. The sun will still set when I die, the earth will still keep rotating. The only difference I made to this world really is having offspring, which might breed on more and might raise more people into how I think things should go. I can't even say if that would be good for mankind even.
I am made by my past. If my mother had made different choices in how to react to me I might have become a different person. But that's only whatif and doesn't change anything. I am sorta happy with what I've become. I think. Since I think in most ways I'm still realistic or logical or both. I know some things won't change. It would be great if some of the things are less tiring to do and we still have hopes that those are part of this depressionthing so they can be fixed. I'm not too sure though. Change is mostly painful and tiring, but we can also hope that is a symptom.

Answers lead to more questions. Always.

I need to distill symptoms from a normality.
I do go places and people. I just don't want to be around most people for more than a few hours. Something inside me goes scream that I've had enough. That I don't want to keep up holding the social facade anymore. That I want to tell people what I really think about them. That I don't care their kids can play the piano better than Mozart or that it was fun watching the toddler playing with the neighbor's dog. I don't care what a friend or foe has said or done to them. Most of the times. I don't want to tell people the petty little lies everybody exchanges each time they meet while we all pretend the world is a happy place. The world is not a happy place. It's chaotic, wild, beautiful, stunning and mostly better seen on discoverychannel, but it's not happy. Man eats animal, animal eats man and we all eat the silly plants who can't run away.
I don't care really how people do, I can listen to it if it can tell me who they are, what their drive is, how they see the world. I need people to react to what I say, answering questions from their point of view, raise new questions for me.
Most people just don't think. They don't know themselves. They only know and act according to the social guidelines of this culture. How can I ever handle a relationship with them beyond the chitchat. Or rather how can they handle me when the relation evolves which automatically turns me into this blunt object that tells them where I think they went wrong. I mostly think I shouldn't do that to people. But not telling people how I think about things means I can't have any relation beside the chitchat. And since I'm not really interested in that, what good would it be to have those. I don't think that will change. I've lost a lot of people over the years. All of those either didn't like the way I was blunt (or honest) or I couldn't handle talking to them anymore. Since I had the feeling I would only alienate them if I did. I can't see where that is a symptom.
I have to accept the fact that maybe I am wrong there. Maybe chitchat is actually the glue that holds any reallife relation intact. Something that is not needed in netrelations. Or less needed. I don't know yet. Yes, I'm very bad in keeping relations intact that need a daily or weekly chain of reactions and are not online in any form. But since I believe friends don't need that, they can go on at the point where they last met/saw/talked I don't see how that is a problem.

Side pondering

Now what is disturbing me so much about this whole diagnosis. Why do I keep weighing all options. Why in fact do I even have to be so sure whether or not it is true. I'm letting myself get distracted by getting mad at every incompetent one before that never got to this point, never was able to diagnose a depression or never was good enough to actually make me consider it.
Since I'm considering it for real and I'm not liking it. Did I know and just never wanted to do anything with it.
Since I ruled out a personality disorder there's only two (ya well three) options left. I'm depressed, most likely most of my life. I'm just realistic with some cynical points, but otherwise as normal as I can be. There is something else (ya this was the third one!), totally unknown yet.
If I'm normal am I just trying to avoid needing ambitions, taking up (more) responsibility, trying to have an excuse to not be social when I don't feel like it (which is most the times) and how normal would that actually be. So maybe I have to rule that out too.
Leaves depression and the big unknown. What would be the benefits of being depressed and not accepting it. Treatment will not work if I don't accept, since most likely I just hog up more meds for whenever the feeling arises it should end now, nor would I take any psychotherapy serious enough to do something with it. See points for being normal.
If I accept a depression, I have to fix it. But it scares me. It would mean going back to getting a job, which is about the one thing I am trying to avoid for a long time now. I can live with how things are now, I think. I can't live with the whole idea of having a job again. Ever. But, should that be considered part of having a depression. Or maybe I am just done with anyone telling me how to spend any part of my day and is this all a game of making sure I never have to get there again. I cannot say that before trying to accept the diagnosis and fixing it. Yes, I don't think I can accept it's not fixable. Since it would mean there's something in me that I can't control.
So that leaves only one conclusion. May the force be with me.

History - Part 7

I think I gave up on my mother when I was thirteen. I stopped trying. I'm not sure if I ever tried for real again.
Just before I was twelve they send me to some therapist person from the RIAGG (which translates into Regional Institution for Ambulant (is that a word even?) Mental Healthcare), I think they changed that name now. I can remember looking at the carpet for the full duration. Not wanting to say anything, not daring. Our family didn't wash our dirty linen in public. I remembered that carpet again when I read one of the short stories of Roald Dahl where someone has to cross the room with a carpet that he imagines isn't a carpet but every color is actually swarming with dangerous animals.
I had one nontalk and never had to go again. I heard that my mother had called the therapist who refused to tell what we had talked about. Yes, I got severely punished for it, because she believed I had told the therapist something. But she made me sit up all night (or it felt like all night at least, it was after midnight before she let me go to bed (which is a looooong time for someone who got send to bed at 7pm every day)) to answer only one question: if I wanted to stay with them. She talked and talked and talked, that I would get send away to some awful place if I didn't want to stay with them. That if I wanted to stay with them I would have to behave well or they wouldn't want me anymore. That if I didn't want to stay I would never see them again. That people were out to take me away and that I had to choose.
For hours she kept on talking while I was trying to avoid making any choice. How can any child answer such a question. How can any parent ask that of a child. I don't know. I didn't know. I didn't know what she wanted from me. My mind kept swirling around the real question: what did she want me to say. And up to this day I haven't figured it out yet. What in the world did she wanted to hear. Yes or no. I can't even imagine ever coming up with the idea of asking my kid that. I can come up with pondering if it would be better for her to not be with me. But it should never be her responsibility. I think up to that point I had just taken my life there for granted. I saw how other children lived (and yes, I automatically assumed they would be beaten up too whenever they were alone), but I never questioned the way things went. It was my life, my home, my family. And all of a sudden there came the thought that it could be different. Like the universe had just doubled in size.
And I think that that decision is about the only one in life I would do different if I had the chance. I didn't dare to pick the unknown. The only decision I regret still. My mother made me write and sign a letter with my decision to stay and behave well (the way she wanted me to). They put it next to the table where we always had breakfast (the playroom it was called). Every wrong from me got me dragged to there where she would point and almost stab the letter to tell me to read out loud what I had written. Oh the first few weeks things went okay-ish (okay-ish was usually what I hoped for most since more I never got), nothing new. But I hoped and tried so hard. It was my first year in high school and homework was hell with my mother. And from okay-ish it went to bad again. Also nothing new. My mother had the memory of an elephant. Every little (and big) thing I had done wrong in an okay-ish period got memorized and at some point it would explode. All the proof how bad I was, how wrong I was, days, times, events. All came out.
And I stopped caring and trying. Everything you say can and will be used against you. I stopped talking to them. They could punish me for whatever they wanted, I just quit with giving her more ammo. They stopped hitting me, since I didn't care anymore. It wouldn't make me talk. I can't remember if I stopped crying too, but I most likely did. I managed to not exist. If they didn't call me for dinner I wouldn't get out of my room. I stopped doing everything I had done in the house. I only went to school, came back and went to my room. For almost a year.
We went back to the RIAGG, the whole family this time. But I didn't talk there either. I couldn't think of anything to say. On my 14th birthday I got nametags to sew into my clothes. Three days after that I got send away to the hospital. Somehow I think that actually was a great present.

History - Part 6

So now I'm at the point where I have to look back and figure out if trying to commit suicide equals being depressed.
Which is hard. I don't know. I've read a lot about depressions, personality disorders and whatsnot in the past few weeks (or rather reread).
Why did I try it. Twice even. I can't even recall when the first time was. I lived at my parents still. It was between my 12th and 14th year, I think. I had a small bottle, a square one, with silver ink. Very toxic it said on the label. So I drank it. Fell asleep and didn't die. Puked and dirtied the bed sheet. Couldn't get the stains out. Ink y'know. I was scared shitless my mother would find out. Can't recall if I felt sick even. I was too worried about having to replace the sheet and getting rid of the stained one. Worried I would actually become sick from it. Being sick was bad. The one time I was sorta flu-ish and had to stay home my mother made me drink a whole pot of camomile tea and was visibly annoyed at me needing attention for being sick. I never went sick again.
Why did I drink the ink. Two things. I think. I thought my mother would be glad if I was gone. Most my life with my parents I really really tried to please my mother. Just once to do something good, to make her happy. But I never could. She never was. The most I got was her not getting angry at what I had done. Which mostly was my main concern after I noticed I wasn't dead and wouldn't die either. 'Please, don't make her know what I did.'
She often said I was a nail on her coffin. I probably was.
The second time I tried was when I was 15 I think, maybe 16. I had stolen and saved up all kinds of medication. I can remember I wanted to wait till I had 100 pills, I probably should have, but we were impatient. Nor did we really know what we did or what we had. And I should have died then. They told me if they would have followed procedures I would have. Instead someone rushed me to the hospital. I woke up for real after a few days. Back in 3-west. The hospital didn't want to keep me, since everyone was scared of me. Apparently I had screamed and yelled at everyone, kept ripping out infuses, throwing tantrums all over. I had yelled at my parents I didn't want to see them.
My mother somehow had wanted to be stopped by police when they were speeding to the hospital after the news of my attempted suicide, so they could have a police escort. I still feel sorta odd about that. 'Everyone should know we're heading to the hospital breaking traffic-laws to show we care a lot!' I don't know.
I can't remember the time in the hospital, apparently I was in a coma for some time. The last I remember after I had taken the pills (which took like ages, since there were so many), was that I was trying to read a book on my bed and then thought if I would climb on the roof they would never get me down in time. Apparently I did that, but I also came down when they told me to for dinner. Where I collapsed before reaching the chair.
The why is easier here, since I remember better. I didn't want to die. I wanted to end the way I was living. And I didn't see any other way.
So was I depressed at those times?

Hum, hum and more hum.

I need to sort this out badly. And it seems I can't discuss it with anyone, since everyone is as clueless as me.
I need to know what the meds do. We've taken them for about three weeks, rather obedient (ya we tested +booze too and wasn't a success) and I felt different. Urges to actually go do things. Not that I had a clue what exactly but just do something. Which is a change. For as long as I can remember I've always done everything that needed to be done and for that reason only. Sometimes not even that, slacking with things I should've done but just didn't since I couldn't make it urgent enough. And now we're off them for about four days and we're back to before these meds.

Do I have to conclude that I have to accept the diagnosis?
Does the effect of the meds prove that I am depressed or would it have same effects no matter what?
Since there is no way to test that we need to either accept or not accept the diagnosis in order to decide whether or not to be treated for it.

Which needs some answers.
Are you depressed when you try to commit suicide? If so, I have been.
Or well maybe that only needs one answer.
If I have been depressed at those times, how likely is it that I have been depressed more? Or how likely is it that it's something chronic?

Memories sweet memories

I'm getting old or slow or both.
We're also high from meds. And I should probably stop with these meds. They're not making me sleep better, which was the reason for taking them. I think.
I'm not sure what part of my brain is affected, or parts, but my short term memory is kinda collapsing as we speak. I get weird moodswings now, even after medeffects are supposed to be gone. It takes an hour before I think the meds are making me feel odd. Not tired (or more tired, since we're usually tired), feels something flu-ish, like my brain is in fog or we're totally in fog.
Also stupid meds reduced being coherent some more.
I start to feel like my own guinea pig now. A bit nauseated. Hard to concentrate on anything. Hard to order any thought.

But! The memories. The therapist that I've had talks with the past two months made me feel so uneasy and frustrated and it took me this time to figure out why. It's not because he's stupid (well, I guess he is too), it's because he reminds me of my mother. Whenever I got into his room I had to start checking the room, for changes, for escaperoutes, for whatever that made me feel uncomfortable. And it didn't make any sense why. Every question made me tense and paranoid, I kept reluctant to answer anything.
It didn't seem to matter what I said, he never seemed to acknowledge it, every new talk I got questions that I had answered before. Then I finally figured it out. Therapist never asked the questions he wanted answered. Instead he asked something sorta related and then tried to get the answer he wanted from that answer. When he asked how kiddo was doing he wasn't really interested in how kiddo was doing, he wanted to know if I was still able to take care of her. Which might be some smart therapist thing, cept I go weird from that stuff. So he got weird from me not answering straight and I kept feeling there was something wrong. Every part of my brain kept screaming the full time of those talks: "What he wants from me! What he wants to know! I don't know! I don't care! Let it stop!"
Somehow that is not very good for a healthy therapist-patient relation.