THE BLOG
01/09/2015 12:08 pm ET Updated Mar 11, 2015

Nincompoop

Bloom Productions via Getty Images

How do you, in a world where there are kids who don't have potable water or any nutrient-providing food, type out on a computer, phone or tablet the ways you want to cease being and then submit via the Internet this same writing? Yet this where I find myself over and over again. I don't know why I find this so much more therapeutic than going to an actual shrink. Other than knowing myself well enough to know even if I found myself lying on a psychologist's (or psychiatrist's) couch I wouldn't actually talk about the really-reallys. I would tiptoe around whatever the real issues are. I would avoid eye contact. I would rattle off some issue that is an issue, but isn't the Issue.

Seeing a shrink requires an extra dose of trust. A dose of trust I have with precious few friends let alone a complete stranger.

So here I am blathering on to the few friends I do have that level of trust with (very rarely in person, almost always via some form of messaging) and feeling like the most melodramatic nincompoop on the planet. The rational part of my mind says that it's good that I'm talking about it (whatever the "it" is) at all. But as those of you who suffer any form of mental or emotional sickness know, there's nothing about said sickness that's rational.

I can sit here and say, "Jessica/Ashley/Steven/Jon I love you. Do not hesitate to call me or text me or find me if you find yourself needing to." I can say that every day. Sometimes I do say that. Sometimes I do say that every day. But the minute the same concern is turned to me I clam up. I hate it. I'm embarrassed by it. I appreciate it. I appreciate the spirit in which said concern is offered up. Because I'm rational, I know why that concern is offered up. But I hate that it is.

I don't know how to get around feeling like a ninny when I start spiraling. I don't know how to stop feeling like a ninny when I'm actually talking to someone about what I'm actually feeling. I know I need to. I know I have friends who have already lost too many to mental health issues. I know I have friends with mental health issues who have lost too many to mental health issues. As I've stated before, this is why my empathy continues to keep me here, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to not be here. Particularly when I'm spiraling out of control.

I hate my Sisyphus impressions. I know meds can and will help. I am on a med currently. The thought of where I'd be not on a med is almost as terrifying as where I am currently. I still have more than a few occasions and days when I know -- and think about -- how I can stop the feelings permanently. A large part of me wishes I didn't feel this, but I have yet to not feel this.

Until that magical moment when I don't feel this, I'm going to get through each day one by one. I shall text one or more of my confidants saying, "Hey I didn't cut myself or allow myself to fall down the concrete stairs." They'll celebrate that fact and the minute I hit send on that text I'll feel like a complete ninny. Yet a grateful ninny, because I have friends I can send that message to.