Finding an emotional needle in a haystack of self-protection

For a few minutes after having finished watching, I didn’t know what to say. Everyone who knows me how rare that is – everyone who knows me probably never even ever saw me speechless.

Episode 3 of season 4 of Sherlock hit me like nothing I have ever seen in any show, videogame, or movie. Emotionally. I cried. I actually cried. Several tears, not just one. I have never, ever, in my life, actually cried from any kind of art. I choke up very rarely, but I never dropped any tears. Ever.

I very rarely cried even in real life. 5-6 times at most, ever, due to my incredible distance to emotions and unimaginable amounts of emotional self-protection. At the 14th of September 2013 I got thrown out of my first stationary therapy after having been there for 4 weeks due to self-harm in front of half the other patients. I had not a clue it could do any harm to anyone, especially if they see me doing it, or traces of it. Noone caring about me is so deeply wired into my brain, it’s parts of my most basic intuition – and I have very few intuition at all.

When they told me I caused mental breakdowns in half of the patients – about 35 people in total – it broke down on me how stupid that was. They told me they couldn’t keep me. Of course they couldn’t, I was a burden. A pattern that continues throughout my life to this day and shows itself every once in a while, after I spend enough time in a group of people and start to think about my actions just a bit less. I never oppose the decision of throwing me out of any community, not then in stationary, never in any other community I had to leave since then – which was quite a few – and still now I never questioned any of these decisions. I know that if I’m a burden, I have to leave for the sake of the others. I am just important as every single one of those people and if I am a burden to multiple – which is always the case – there’s no other choice but to show me the door.

But I didn’t even think of that possibility back then. So when they confronted me with the harsh reality that I did so incredible harm in such an obvious way to so many people, one new fact burned itself into my brain: I can and do cause harm in others, and there’s no way for me of knowing when it happens.

I can cause great harm in others, I did many times in my life, several of them so heavy I get blocked with no attempt of communication ever again. And I never, ever realise it until it’s too late, the harm is done and I can try to sort things out. Even if I can it never works as, again, the harm is done. Me not having been aware makes the situation worse for them because it means it can very well happen again without me being able to try to „get better“.

The core assumption of noone giving a shit about me is still there. It always was and is until today. If I hear something that suggests otherwise, even if I make observations that rationally don’t allow any other assumption, I still don’t „accept“ it. Either I just ignore that or find some other possibility; often people being very good at lying for any reason that has nothing to do with wanting to show me they care for me.

This new knowledge didn’t oppose that core assumption. It just meant that just because people don’t care doesn’t mean they don’t see or in any other way feel (in a sensory way) what I do and can get hurt by it anyway. A lot. Until then I always assumed that if I do something that physically only effects me, noone else could – and therefore would – get hurt because noone gives a shit about me.

The concept of memory-based triggers and graphic imagery wasn’t intuitive to me because neither existed or did anything to me until then. For graphic imagery, that’s still true. I have never seen or heard anything that shocked me purely for what it was; that might never happen – and I saw and especially heard some very, very cruel shit.

But memory-based triggers do work for me. Maybe even before without me being aware but I am aware since I’m generally aware something’s wrong with me (which was shortly before I got into my first stationary therapy, which was my first therapy overall). It’s still impossible for me to intuitively judge on what I do or say could do to someone, even in (for others, as I get told so often) obvious situations. But I am very able to do it rationally, if I think about it.

In most situations I don’t, because it’s exhausting and takes a bit of time, making me less quick-witted. I lost a lot of friends due to hurting them in a way that was so incredibly obvious once I got told what I did wrong, from them or someone else, or if I thought about it a lot after I saw the damage being done. But I am never aware while it happens.

I even did this to girlfriends, one of them in such an amount that left her scarred until today. She told me she wants nothing more than me dead 1.5 years ago. We had spoken two times since then, one was just two sentences from her as an answer to an e-mail trying to apologize, the other was smalltalk on Facebook. She blocked me later that day without anything I did in that particular situation – the reasons became obvious about half a year later: September 2016, she messaged me out of nowhere. She took back what she said to me the two times we talked before about being over what happened. She said she had lied, for self-protection and because she tried to oppress it. That day she obviously couldn’t and it was so brutal she needed to tell me, 3.5 years later.

That did not make me cry. It impacted me heavily and threw me back a huge amount in trying to get over losing her, and then letting happen what happened. Losing both my job and having had to drop out of university at the same time (university because of the job) didn’t either. And losing the next, other two girlfriends didn’t as well. I had a lot of heavy emotional situations since that 15th September 2013. I had a 6-day-long suicidal phase just in January, after going off my meds. I never cried again – since almost 4 years now.

The last time I cried was when my psychologist in the hospital told me I had to leave. I started to choke up when I called my step-father to pick me up and started crying when I hung up. I know very clearly what I thought back then – of me, and what I am. I don’t know for sure what happened that day (I never know for sure what happens inside of me emotionally), but logically the knowledge I can cause great harm in people without being aware at all changed something. About 5 weeks after realizing something has to be wrong with me I also realize that even if I myself am irrelevant to people, my actions are not.

It’s obvious I took a huge step away from acting on any emotions. I was always logically aware of that after these things happened; I have a good amount of self-reflexion. I explained it several times to some friends and therapists as the reason I’m so emotionally “cold”. As rational as I can act, as few control I have about the emotions I do have – and since they seem to be incredibly dangerous to the people around me I usually withdraw from everyone as soon as I realize I might break down. It works, most of the time, since some time now. The emotions are still there, and the loss of reality that comes with it is as well, but since noone’s there I can hurt the damage I can deal to others is not very big.

Since crying didn’t happen for about 4 years I thought it might never happen again. But this episode of my favourite TV show did it. It fucking did it. I don’t want to spoil anything, but the new character they introduce at the end of S04E02 who is the main character in E03 hit me closer to home than any character ever in any art – movies, shows, and video games. She didn’t get so close to me at first, throughout the episode I got to like her due to what I thought was an interesting concept, but at the very end – the spike in the arc of tension, for those who saw the episode – it hit me.

So. Fucking. Hard.

What she did, said, and showed – so, in terms of art, felt – mirrored so much of what I see myself as and, more importantly, what I fear to be. She showed so much of what I fear I’m capable of, and know what I did already, within the context and measures of my own life and also, of course, with much less actual intellect. But that fucking twist of her deepest mechanics, her motivation, the solution, and the aftermath – I never had anything that hit closer to home than that.

There are so many more things that make it hit so close to home for me that I can’t and won’t talk about as I never talked about them before, and don’t plan on ever doing. That doesn’t belong in this world and in anyone’s ears.

I don’t know what that means for me. I don’t know how long this will follow me, and how much it changed. I never know these things until months or even years pass. But I do know this for sure now: It is physically possible for me to be touched. And it’s humanly possible to imagine something that’s this close to how I feel. That is something I feared was not possible at all, leading me to very abstract explanations that always felt more right emotionally than rationally.

So this is one thing that episode did for sure: It showed me I am human. Somewhere, somehow. The tears where relieving. I wanted to cry for years now, over a hundred times. I have tried to force it, force me to show emotions, which I never do and am almost never able to at all. Here, I didn’t even expect it, also because I knew a few – the biggest – spoilers. This not having been spoiled doesn’t surprise me; I did not talk to anyone who saw it yet, but I suspect that resolution felt incredibly cheesy, dumb, maybe even unbelievable and/or cliché for many. Not for me. I was not prepared for this. And that is so good. This was important.

Showing emotions – willingly or not – never worked. Noone ever notices if I break down and would jump from the next bridge. It happens a lot more than the people around me might think. Don’t blame yourself for it – noone ever notices, so it’s normal; it is not your fault, and there is nothing you can do. As I said above: It is pretty much impossible to make me believe anyone actually cares about me, no matter what you do and no matter how rationally good your arguments are. Without touching me emotionally – and that also very rarely happens; by a human once in my life – it is impossible.

Just because it is physically possible doesn’t mean anyone would have a measurable chance, as what hit me in that episode was the fact that this character pushed the deepest of my buttons without that being the intention and without the writers of the episode knowing them; obviously even without knowing me. I know when people try to comfort me because they think they have to, or even if they want to; it just makes my emotional barriers way more thick and if they do anything I told them could help, it will never work as I know they didn’t do it out of intuition or knowing me well, but out of knowledge. Of course, they wouldn’t try if they didn’t care for me, which is what I know rationally. But as I said above, there’s always a possibility for another motivation as I can’t see into anyone’s head. When it comes down to it, everyone is just very good at lying and acting for all my emotions care.

Over my entire life and especially the last 4 years I had lots of moments I wanted to cry and where it “should” have happened (measured by logic and other people), but my emotional barriers are incredibly strong. It’s self-protection, of course. I hate it with a passion; I don’t want it to be there, but it doesn’t seem to be under my – and especially anyone else’s – control. And I was so far to believe they’re just an impenetrable wall by now. I gave up. So me not being able to hold my self-protection up like I always could in any situation, no matter how severe and bad, proves me wrong. It physically is possible, which is infinitely better than it being 100% impossible. It obviously still stakes a lot and it will probably be many years until it happens again, but now I know there at least are one or two needles in that coal mine full of hay.

And that is so fucking good to know.

Autism & love lecture by Kirsten Lindsmith

I just finished watching this lecture about love and autism, which talks a lot especially about social situations with autists, why they act how they do, and how their brains work in these – especially as opposed to non-autistic brains.

There are so many things in my life I haven’t ever considered an autistic trait, ever. A thing I’ve heard/realized a lot of times especially lately was that me always trying to help – rationally – is very often not appreciated. People complaining often just want to vent and get emotional support – not _actually_ any help solving the problem; often they even know how already. All I do is trying to find solutions, because if I complain I do so because I don’t know what to do and want help – but it looks like that’s rather a common autistic thing to do.

There was so much to take away from this. I might watch more times and go over all of it for a blog recapitulation. Now, I’m physically and emotionally devastated like I haven’t been in a long time. It’s insane. I feel like I did EVERYTHING wrong. EVER. My entire life. 95% of the lecture felt like she was talking biographically about me, 75% of those things I just assumed to be characteristic traits of mine, many of those just due to me being „smart“.

Obviously, she talked as generally as possible. Which subsequently means I’m very, VERY generic, normal and not special in _any_ way at all, as an autist. I know that reading this sounds like I always thought I was a snowflake – it’s the truth. I’ve assumed so many things I shouldn’t have. It even comes down to very specific coping-mechanisms I thought I, being smart, came up with individually, out of the ordinary, even within autists. Well, it turns out that’s all just normal; for autists, anyway.

I feel shattered right now. As if I’m nothing that I thought I was. The amount of projecting I’ve done is INSANE, too. I probably – rationally analyzing, very likely – hurt a lot of people with that, so I’m gonna need to figure out short-term solutions as well for some situations I’m in right now (like my living situation).

I’m gonna try to calm down now, sleep, and have a look at what’s left after that. What I can do about these things, and what I have to do. One thing I can definitely try to apply asap is to ASK wether people want emotional or rational help before „chipping in“. That might be possible. It’s good I saw this shortly before an important appointment with my psychiatrist – being aware of these things will help me a lot mid- and even long-term, especially in therapeutical situations.

Anyway, I’m off for now. Actually might hold back more in the near future, when it comes to discussing/talking. I’ve withdrawn socially almost entirely already; the only thing that was left will follow now as well, but seeing all this, that’s likely for the better, for me, and the people around me. I just have to figure out who I am, and what I want to do.

One thing that’s very important for everyone around me, though: I can NOT mind-read. Everything you don’t tell me EXPLICITLY, I will assume on. If you (don’t?) want me to do something, tell me DIRECTLY. What you think is logical (and that includes EVERY social situation, which includes any interaction with me) is NOT for me! It will take me years to figure this stuff out.

Exploring the family tree

I got a digital ancestry (family tree) from my grandparents for christmas. I actually never really looked into it, but I did now. My grandfather’s brother and his wife put it together.

The earliest ancestor we know of seems to have been born 1685 (!!!). It may be possible there’s one generation between him and the next. He has the family name my mother had when she was born and gave up when marrying my father (shame – his family tree is likely much shorter.
The first ancestor we have accurate, reliable documentation of was born 1774, which is also pretty fucking crazy.

The documentation of all this was only possible due to a heroic clergyman’s wife who saved church documents from the Russians in 1945. They annexed the village, pillaged the church, threw documents out of the window – she sneaked onto the church grounds at night and grabbed as many books as she could.

My granduncle and his wife travelled into the DDR in 1979 and visited a pastor who dug through old church documents and verified as many as he could. They were really elaborate when putting together the family tree, gathered as many authentic documents as possible. They even tried to find out what these people’s occupations were: There are teachers, engineers, linguists, industrials, farmers, and more.

They photographed every document they couldn’t carry home, including pictures of families and people. The resemblance to still living family members is amazing. There are ~30 official documents like birth/death certificates with dates, locations, names, family members etc, even one school document which verifies an ancestor of mine who entered school in 1883 (born 1877) was “sufficient” – so, pretty average.

The original documents are almost impossible to read due to age & style of writing – this must’ve been an insane amount of work to put together.
My granduncle and his wife documented every step of their journey to gather all the documents in a 4-page-diary in 1979, luckily with a typewriter. A good chunk of the documents that helped here seem to have been baptism documents, in private family and church libraries. The whole journey to gather these documents and speak to people took place between the 2nd and 8th of April 1979, they travelled ~1800km (!). Their schedule was full every day, there were some last-minute change of plans (how do you do that without internet or cell phones?!?), arriving five minutes before closing and talking to some very sceptic people – all that in the DDR as BRD citizens, which is not exactly easy & pretty scary as well, because one big fuck-up and you may never get back home.

My grandparents‘ family name has slavic roots and is the result of differences between different language’s characters, including Sorbian. Sorbs lived in a small area on both sides of today’s borders between Germany and Poland; they’re originally west-slavic and lived in the Lusatia area. Coming closer to the 20th century, they spread out more in germany and became a minority in most german areas; the language got used less and less and the nazis prohibited its use entirely (like many other).

The original documents verifying the family tree are stored at my granduncle’s home and to be inherited by whoever carries on the family name (so not me or my brother). I’m quite sad about that now, actually – I think such a long family tree is pretty rare, and my father’s is nowhere near as long or elaborate; it starts at 1878 when Prussia introduced a centralized administration and the research was restricted to official libraries. Still, both of my mother’s siblings kept the family name of my grandparents and their kids have it too, so it won’t die this generation.

Still, I’m glad I have this. It’s on CD now, on my hard drive, on an external one and in a Dropbox, and my brother has a CD as well.

Shoutouts to pastor Stosch from Trebitz, Beeskow who visited my granduncle and his wife out of nowhere in 1978. My granduncle wanted to put together a family tree earlier, but never got a response from the mayor. No idea how the pastor found them, or if he searched for them at all – maybe it was just an incredible coincidence he met them when visiting the BRD after his early retirement. He got permits for my granduncle and his wife to visit the DDR, and pastor Golling did a lot of work until 1981 digging through libraries and transcribed as much as possible. Of course, deciphering all this & putting it all together, including digitally, must’ve been an insane challenge as well.

I’ll care for it.


I watched some (new) feels-focused videos, and now I’m on a heavy feels-trip. Having any emotions at all is so rare for me currently the smallest stuff hits hard. It went downhill right when I got out of stationary therapy june last year, but going off my meds around new year’s eve caused a week-long heavily suicidal phase at the end of january; the longest and worst I ever had. I thought it would never end and I knew I never want to get back there ever again.

I rearranged some priorities, took some new stances on (social) life and consciously AND subconsciously started to conceal myself from ANY potential threat to a flat-line emotional status quo. It kind of worked – my emotional down-phases are rarer now than ever, and not as bad. But you can’t shut off the negative feelings without keeping any positive ones in. I still have down-phases from time to time – no positive ones, outside of very short-term amusement. At all. I haven’t felt happy anymore since 4 months.

How could I? I don’t do anything. Minimizing risks for potential emotional effects, and affects, comes with not participating in social life, work or even going outside more than absolutely necessary. Instead, I stay inside and fight with strangers on the internet over politics mostly of a country I don’t live in. And meanwhile, life outside of me goes on, while I stand completely still.

It’s a shell I’ve built, a thick one, and I’m not letting anyone, or anything, inside. Life taught me that if I try, I will get hurt. And life taught me that if I get hurt, I might get get into that dark space again, with no sign of rescue, especially just by myself. And I’m afraid that if it happens ever again, I won’t let it take the rest of me. This dark… “thing” inside of me is so strong it made me rather be a lonely hermit than actually try having fun.

In above-average good phases, though, I open up just a little, if I’m lonely, at home and the sun is out. Now, for the first time since months, I randomly stumbled across material that touched me just a little. It wouldn’t for most people, especially me a year ago, but a shell this thick makes the skin under it so sensitive it reacts to the slightest touch heavily. It only works with unknown material of course, so the course stopped after watching the two videos on my backlog I was too scared to touch before, and while typing this the feeling is gone again, too. I did feel, though. It is still possible, and I know it can feel good, too.

I just have no idea how to convince myself to allow for more of that, especially given the risk of breaking down again – and the consequences of that. Higher sensitivity for happiness means higher sensitivity for depression, and subsequently suicidility, too. If such small stuff has such an effect on me, and lets me feel this good just for actually feeling something besides emptiness, or depression, what would actually negatively-effecting content do? Just thinking about that is really, really scary.

This is depression. This is NOT just sadness. I am #notjustsad.

Improving lives

One of my favourite people on earth is Thomas „TomSka“ Ridgewell, known for the asdf-movies on his YouTube-Channel, which was my favourite thing as a teenager and is still way high up there today. Since over a year, he releases a weekly ~30-minute-vlog on his second channel. It is full of his personal- and work-life, and shows a lot of how much he struggles with depression, grief, YouTube-fame – but also, that he still enjoys life, his friends, his work and that he’s able to do what I loves most. I watch every single one of these vlogs (and it’s the only vlog of anyone I watch at all), and slowly got to know him a bit better; limited, of course, to a relationship between a celebrity and a fan, and by what he chooses to show in his videos and share on Twitter. I did like him a lot very early on though, and what I got to know only ever reinforced and added to that.

He has severe depression due to many reasons, suffers under it every single day and it effects his life, and that of the people around him, so much that he seems to feel guilty for what he puts people through, and sometimes even tries to push them away, or himself from them, to prevent them from suffering along. I can relate to that a lot, even though our experiences in life and also current situations and circumstances differ heavily.

He just released a 12-page comic on his tumblr. Reading it lead me to first talking about him on Twitter a bit (Click for the first tweet of that thread), and then go onto a generally-speaking tweet-chain about depression and how it seems to make people to try to improve other people’s lives. It got way longer than anticipated, and if I knew I’d be at 30 tweets in the end I would’ve just made it a blog-post either way. I copied the contents, read over it again, tweaked it very slightly since I have no character limit here and will mirror it on my blog now.

There were two initial tweets about people who just get evil when going through shit; I deleted them since that’s neither what I ever really experienced, nor what I want to talk about. (New) first tweet of that thread is here.


In my life, virtual and irl, almost all of the nicest, best people with the highest level of integrity I came across were those who went through hell and back. Many times. It even happens a lot that I see/meet a person and pretty quickly judge on wether I like them or not, without getting to know them personally, but if I eventually do, the pattern shows itself again.

I heard the most fucked up shit from people I initially liked the most, so often. It probably has to do with how they act, talk and look like (it’s all I’m able to perceive after all), but I start to get afraid. If I meet new people and instantly like them a lot I get very sad very quickly because I can almost know for certain they went through a lot of shit. Like, parents killed themselves in front of them kind of shit. Got raped and/or abused many times as a child kind of shit. Being terminally ill kind of shit. Or lost their best friend to cancer kind of shit.

Of course, depression is often there without causes and genetical indicators define how quickly we’re effected by it (and how hard), and you can go through shit without getting severely depressed, but this isn’t about depression – it’s about trying your best to not only improve your life, but that of others too. The people who (seem to, to me) try their hardest to do so are those who had to live through the worst experiences themselves.

Of course, the end result isn’t as definite as in, effective when it comes to how much what people do actually improved the lives of others, and you can try your best to be a good human without having to be depressed – it’s a tendency. My personal experience with it is just incredibly strongly pointing in one direction. Biased, yes, experiences differ for everyone – but it’s why I’m so dead-afraid to maybe someday meet someone who not only I love, but who’d also (be able to) love me, and especially be able to put up with me, and what comes with spending time with and power on me.

I’m very aware I’m incredibly exhausting to be around, not only due to the autism but also due to various character traits and the severe depression. Someone who’d find me interesting enough to try to get to know me, be able to start to love me and _also_ keeps loving me despite everything I am and do – such person shouldn’t exist. According to Newton’s third law, any force generates the exact same amount of opposing force. But this also means that the necessary force to break through these circumstances also require some insane amounts of opposing forces to have happened before.

So if the pattern I observed has any base in reality in any way, the circumstances would require insane amounts of shit to have happened for this to happen. Such a person would have to have lived in hell the longest time of their life. I really do not want that to be true for anyone in the world. So I keep being afraid of meeting someone who is able to break through after all. And would probably cry for weeks if I ever do – for them.

And out of relief.

Being alone is awful. I emotionally hope to find someone to share stuff with some day, but rationally, I don’t want it to even be possible. Which is, interestingly enough, at the same time also my most severe cognitive dissonance. Never did my emotional and rational wishes deviate so much, in no topic.

Still, if this person exists, they do wether I meet and get to know them and their history and state of mind or not. Contrarily, my emotions will get satisfied or not depending on if I meet them. So I can just try to meet people, and look out for them. Me being aware that such a person exists or not doesn’t change reality. It’d just hit me. No choice should rely on trying to prevent me from knowing anything – and no choice I make should, ideally, depend on wether I know something or not. Of course, I can only act according to information I have, but that only means that underinformed choices will not be 100% reality-based, not that choosing this way was wrong. I didn’t know better; all I can do is to inform myself best I can.

Which is what I try to do as much and often as possible, always considering my circumstances.

And why I look up to people who seem to do the same. Always, of course, depending on their experiences and information, just as with my choices. Not being fully informed from the get go is nothing anyone is to be blamed for. Not changing your views and especially actions due to new information, though, is. And acting without informing yourself properly is, too. (And yes, that does include voting, and prejudging people’s actions.)

People who don’t assume stuff without asking or researching, especially if it’d be quick and easy, are so rare that they stick out to me. To close this up, TomSka is one of these few people. Him not being able to see how much that’s worth is so, so sad. I do hope he can, someday. I hope the shit he has to go through declines. I hope his demons and monsters get more easy on him.

On all of you.

And me.


EDIT: Ca. einen Monat nach diesem Beitrag hat der Alkohol aufgehört zu funktionieren, also hab ich aufgehört ihn zu trinken.

Ja, es stimmt. Ich habe angefangen, Alkohol zu trinken. Ich bin noch bei wenig, ein, höchstens zwei Drinks alle 1-2 Tage im Rahmen von 10-20cl höherprozentigem (20-40%), gemischt mit Softdrinks. Ohne es zu mischen kann ich nichts höherprozentiges trinken; da kribbelt mein ganzer Mund so unangenehm dass ich sofort Wasser hinterher kippen muss.
Ich habe noch nichts gefunden das mir gut schmeckt, fast nichts das ich zumindest nicht ekelhaft finde und probiere mich trotzdem durch. Der Grund dafür ist einfach.

Mein Kopf brennt. Wie ein Waldbrand. Überschwemmt mich mit Gedanken und Bildern, in jedem Moment, zu jeder Situation. So viel zu denken ist unfassbar anstrengend und nimmt mir jede Energie, mehr als das Überlebensnotwendigste zu tun wie aufstehen, duschen, hin und wieder an sozialen Events teilnehmen und Termine wahr zu nehmen, ohne welche mir z.B. Geld gestrichen wird. Für mehr ist einfach keine Kraft mehr da – und das impliziert auch Dinge, die zwar „einfach“ sind, aber unangenehm, und deswegen Motivation erfordern. Niemand tut gern Dinge, die er eben nicht mag, und man benötigt dafür Selbstdisziplin. Davon habe ich nur sehr, sehr wenig; und das Wenige, das ich habe, geht restlos fürs Überleben drauf.
Ich verstehe, dass das von außen faul aussieht. Nur Dinge tun die man mag (auch wenn das ja nicht stimmt; ich gehe ja wie jeder sonst auch nicht gerne zu Behörden, z.B.) sieht faul aus, und als hätte man hohe Ansprüche.
Ich habe Ansprüche, ja. Ans Leben. Ich möchte Leben ohne ständig daran zu denken, was passieren würde, wenn ich jetzt das Baby auf die Fahrbahn schubse. Ich will nicht bei jeder einfahrenden S-Bahn den Impuls haben, einen Schritt nach vorne zu machen. Ich will mir nicht ständig vorstellen, wie meine Beerdigung wohl aussehen würde; ob jemand kommen würde, wer kommen würde, wer traurig wäre.
Ich tue natürlich nichts davon. Ich will niemandem Leid zufügen; im Gegenteil. Ich versuche so viel Gutes wie möglich zu erzeugen, wo ich kann. Ich habe nur so wenig Ahnung davon was das was ich tue auslöst, und ich bin selbst so anders in dem was ich mag und gern hab als die meisten Menschen, dass ich andauernd Fehler mache und Leuten vor den Kopf stoße. Es tut mir Leid! Ich will das nicht. Aber es ist das einzige, das mich am Leben hält – der Gedanke, ich könnte andere Leben bereichert haben. Und ich bin mir bewusst, dass mein Tod – oder gar Suizid – einiges an Leid hervorrufen würde. Dafür hab ich genug Geschichten gelesen und Videos gesehen von Menschen, die Freunde oder gar Familie verloren haben, an tödliche Krankheiten, Unfälle oder eben Selbstmord. Eins höre ich immer wieder: Es geht nie ganz weg. Man gewöhnt sich dran – etwas. Man lernt, damit umzugehen – ein wenig. Aber es verschwindet nie ganz. Der Geist des Toten verfolgt einen ewig, wenn man denjenigen gemocht hat.
Und dann ist da wieder dieser Fremdkörper in meinem Gehirn, der mir genau das als erstrebenswerten Zustand darstellt. Als etwas, das ich erreichen wollen sollte. „Die habens nicht anders verdient. Kein Schwein interessiert sich für dich; niemand lässt sich richtig auf dich ein, weil du ihnen zu kaputt bist, weil sie irgendwann die Geduld – oder die Kraft – verlieren. Zeig ihnen, was sie davon haben; zeig ihnen, wie kaputt du wirklich bist.“

Und das ist ein Problem. Was ist nötig, um den Menschen um mir herum zu zeigen, wie schlecht es mir eigentlich mit mir selbst geht?
Alkohol scheint dafür sehr effektiv zu sein.
Zum Ersten Mal in meinem Leben höre ich von verschiedenen Seiten ernsthaft gemeinte – und auch so verständliche – Sorgebekundungen. Man denkt auch außerhalb des konkreten Kontakts mit mir an mich und über mich nach. Teilweise kommt man dann zum Schluss, den Kontakt mit mir einschränken zu müssen, weil es der Person nicht guttut, (viel) Kontakt mit jemand so kaputtem wie mir zu haben.
Kontaktabbruch zum Selbstschutz. Fair enough – nehme ich euch nicht übel. Wirklich nicht!

Aber wieso war das nötig? Wieso musste es so weit kommen, dass ich einen Giftstoff zu mir nehme und dass es mir gefällt und ich nicht sofort auf anraten wieder aufhören möchte, dass die Leute merken, dass sich bei mir Abgründe unfassbaren Ausmaßes befinden?
Ist es tatsächlich deswegen, weil Alkoholismus etwas ist, wo sich die Leute reindenken können? Fast jeder kennt mindestens einen, der regelmäßig zu viel trinkt. Fast jeder kennt die kurzfristigen und langfristigen Wirkungen von Alkoholmissbrauch. Niemand möchte das für jemand anderen. Aber ist das der Grund? Ich weigere mich, das anzunehmen. Denn das würde bedeuten, davon auszugehen, dass die Menschen um mich herum keinen zweiten Gedanken daran verschwenden, sich in das reinzudenken und nachzuvollziehen, was ich sage, wenn ich beschreibe, wie schlimm Depressionen sind. Nicht nur bei mir. Es würde bedeuten, dass die Leute erst anfangen, sich Sorgen zu machen, sobald jemand ein Problem beschreibt, von dem sie wissen, wie schlimm es ist – und der beschreibenden Person schlicht nicht glauben, wenn sie sagt, dass ihr Zustand beschissen ist, oder gar, wie beschissen ihr Zustand ist, einfach weil sie es nicht kennen.
„Jeder hat mal einen schlechten Tag.“ Das ist ein häufig gehörtes Argument. Ja, richtig. Das ist die Wahrheit. Dann müsste es doch aber auch kein Problem sein, sich mal vorzustellen, man hätte diesen schlechten Tag jeden Tag. Und vielleicht sogar noch etwas schlimmer. Das müsste doch wohl möglich sein.
Oder nicht?
Bin ich mit meinem Unverständnis für Leute, die sich in meine Situation nicht reindenken können, so ignorant und egozentrisch wie die Leute, die Unverständnis für meine Situation haben?

Alkohol ist aber nicht nur ein Mittel zum Zweck. Es ist auch eine direkte Hilfe. Es hilft mir, meinen Kopf stummzuschalten. Das ist ein Zustand, den ich seit ich denken kann ersehne, und den mir bisher kein Medikament, in keiner Dosis, schenken konnte. Und ich hab schon einige durch. Außerdem haben Medikamente direkt unangenehme Nebenwirkungen – wie z.B. Müdigkeit, die mich aktionsunfähig macht. Will ich an dem Tag noch irgendwas erledigen, kann ich keine Medikamente nehmen, so einfach ist das. Aber würde ich stattdessen 1 oder 2 Drinks zu mir nehmen hätte ich einen besseren Effekt, und könnte trotzdem weitermachen.
Ich weiß, dass Alkohol auf Dauer schlimmer ist als die meisten Medikamente und wohl jedes der Medis, die ich je genommen habe. Doch da kommt ein anderes Problem zum Vorschein.

Seit vielen Jahren habe ich eine unfassbare Angst vor der Zukunft. Alleine der Gedanke daran, wie jedes Mal wenn ich danach gefragt werde, ruft in mir starke Widerstandsgefühle aus. Ich will einfach nicht darüber nachdenken müssen, was in Zukunft passieren könnte oder wird – also lebe ich seit ca. 7 Jahren einfach mit dem Gedanken, dass ich in ein oder zwei Jahren eh tot sein werde. Wie genau, darüber mache ich mir konsequenterweise keine Gedanken; früher war der Gedanke an Suizid da prominent, in letzter Zeit hat die globale Apocalypse einen hohen Stellenwert eingenommen, aber in den Hintergrund getreten ist ersterer Gedankenzug noch lange nicht.
Die Konsequenz ist einfach: Wenn ich in wenigen Jahren tot bin, wieso sollte ich mir Gedanken machen, was ein Nervengift langfristig in meinem Körper anrichten könnte? Nichtmal muss; viele Menschen trinken jeden Abend ein Bier oder ein Glas Wein! Also tue ich das auch nicht. Jeder Gedanke in die Richtung wäre kontraproduktiv; würde noch mehr Angst in mir auslösen und den Wunsch nach Ruhe vor dem Waldbrand in meinem Kopf noch stärker werden lassen.

Ich will diesen Waldbrand unter Kontrolle kriegen. Ich kann ihn nicht löschen; er ist global, das hab ich längst aufgegeben. Aber ich nehme jede Gelegenheit wahr, die ich kriegen kann, um mir etwas Erleichterung zu verschaffen. Wenn ihr in Brand stehen würdet – im wörtlichen Sinne – würdet ihr in jedes Gewässer springen das in der Nähe ist, selbst wenn ihr wüsstest dass es Krebs hervorruft und ihr dann in ein paar Jahren qualvoll draufgeht.
Nun, ich brenne. Konstant. Und jede Erleichterung dahingehend ist mir willkommen, die mich nicht so abstumpft wie mein letztes Medikament, Kopfschmerzen forciert wie das davor oder sich so falsch anfühlt wie das davor.

Außerdem löst der Gedanke, tatsächlich möglicherweise in ein paar Jahren tot sein zu können – dass das nicht nur ein Wunschtraum sein muss – in mir etwas Frieden aus.
Ja, das ist richtig. Immer wieder, wenn ich beim Arzt bin und auf eine Diagnose warte, z.B. weil ich ein MRT gemacht habe, spielt sich in meinem Kopf tausendmal das Szenario ab, dass der Doktor gleich reinkommt und mir eine terminale Krankheit mitteilt. Das ist die Art von Zeug, die in meinem Kopf vorgeht. Der Wunsch nach Erlösung von alldem hier, von meinem Kopf, von meiner Depression, von meinem versauten Leben, von der Enttäuschung, die ich in den mir nahen Menschen auslöse, wenn ich immer nur von Problemen berichten kann. Am besten auf eine Art und Weise, die in den Menschen um mich herum den wenigstmöglichen Schaden anrichtet – und ein Suizid ist das Gegenteil davon, da ich genau weiß dass sich dann jeder einzelne Vorwürfe bis in alle Ewigkeit machen würde.

Dazu kommt auch noch, dass in der Logik meines Kopfes das Verhältnis aus Leid und Glück, das durch mich erzeugt wird – in anderen, UND in mir, denn man soll eigene Gefühle ja so ernst nehmen und als gleich wichtig bewerten wie die von anderen – nicht stimmt.
Ich weiß, dass ich es selten schaffe, Menschen wirklich groß glücklich zu machen. Die wenigen Male, die ich es schaffe, reichen nicht ganz aus, um den Ärger über Fehler auszubügeln, die ich andauernd begehe – und dann kommt mein eigenes, privates Unglück noch dazu. Das Verhältnis stimmt hinten und vorne nicht. Und da ich ein logischer Mensch bin, der versucht so rational wie möglich zu handeln, stellt sich meinem Kopf ein Entfernen meiner Existenz als bestmöglicher Schritt für alle dar.
Nur ist es eben nicht so einfach. Der Tod, und das Sterben, sind Prozesse, die damit verbunden sind. Das Unglück, das sowohl ein unbeeinflussbarer, wie auch ein eigenmächtiger Tod auslösen würde, wäre größer als vieles – nicht alles – schlechte das ich je getan habe.
Also versuche ich es nicht noch schlimmer zu machen, das Glück, das ich erzeuge zu maximieren und nicht unbewusst zu viel verbranntes Essen zu essen, damit ich nicht auf einmal doch „aus Versehen“ Krebs kriege.
Ich kriegs nicht immer hin. Risikoverhalten ist mir nicht fremd, und mit dem Alkohol angefangen zu haben gehört definitiv zu den drastischsten Dingen, die ich je getan habe. Wie das selbstverletzende Verhalten, das ich auch nicht als Bewältigungsstrategie begonnen habe, zeigte sich auch beim Alkohol leider sehr schnell, dass die ganzen Leute, die es zur Bewältigung von übermächtigen Emotionen nutzen, das aus einem guten Grund tun.
Und plötzlich gehöre ich zu den Leuten, die ich immer mit halber Verachtung und ohne wenig Mitleid angesehen habe, weil ich bis dahin immer die Kraft hatte, dem zu widerstehen.
Nun habe ich diese Kraft nicht mehr. Sie ist so aufgebraucht, dass ich dieser Versuchung nicht mehr widerstehen konnte. Und ich werde immer mehr zu dem, was ich nie werden wollte.
Das ist auch nicht hilfreich für mein Selbstwertgefühl… und das wiederum macht mich wieder schwächer.

Jede einzelne Geschichte, die ich je von Leuten gehört habe, die vergleichbare – oder schwerwiegendere – Probleme hatten wie ich, und aus ihrem Loch wieder rausgekommen sind, beginnt den Teil, der ihren Aufstieg anfängt zu beschreiben, mit „Und dann traf ich…“. Doch so eine Person existiert nicht für jeden Menschen. Sie existiert nicht für mich. Das liegt nicht unbedingt an den Menschen um mich herum, sondern sicher auch zu einem Großteil daran, wie meine Krankheit sich manifestiert und nach außen hin zeigt. Sich meiner anzunehmen würde eine Dedikation, Engagement und vor allem so viel Zeit erfordern, dass ich eigentlich gar nicht will, dass es diese Person gibt. Denn wer auch immer das auf sich nehmen wollen würde, muss selber so kaputt sein, dass ich nicht will, dass so viel Leid einer Person zugefügt worden sein kann.
Warum muss diese Person so kaputt sein? Na, ich habe oben ja bereits geschlussfolgert, dass Leute nur dann mitfühlen und nachvollziehen können, wie schlecht es dir geht, wenn sie selber Erfahrungen damit machen mussten.
Niemand auf dieser Welt sollte meine Erfahrungen teilen. Wenn das bedeutet, dass ich alleine sterbe, wann auch immer das passiert, ist es gut so, denn es bedeutet, dass niemand den ich je traf meine Erfahrungen teilen musste.
Ich weiß, dass es einigen Leuten schlechter geht (oder besser, gehen müsste – ich kann ja nicht in sie hineinsehen) als mir. Ich höre immer wieder die schlimmsten Geschichten von Missbrauch, mentaler und physischer Vergewaltigung, Vergangenheiten voller Fehlschläge und Rückschläge, Todesfälle – bei manchen Menschen frage ich mich, wie die immer noch atmen können. Bei deren Geschichte wäre ich längst erstickt; ich selber habe ja kaum etwas handfestes hinter mir außer einen Sorgerechtsstreit durch früh geschiedene Eltern, eine Beziehung mit einer starken Borderlinerin und mittelschweres Mobbing in der Schule. Sicher, das ist nicht nichts! Doch verglichen mit dem, was ich alles schon gehört habe – denn 99% der Leute, die ich näher kennenlerne, sind nicht nur leicht, sondern meist stark kaputt, das zieht mich unterbewusst stark an – sollte ich eigentlich nur dankbar sein, was mir alles erspart blieb.
Doch andererseits soll man ja Gefühle nicht miteinander vergleichen.
Wieso tun das also immer alle anderen, wenn sie sich sagen „Mir geht es auch nie lange schlecht, also kann es ihm doch nicht (fast) nie gut gehen?“
Ich bin nicht wie ihr. So wenig wie ich meine Gefühle invalidieren darf, weil andere schlimmeres Zeug als ich erlebt haben, so wenig dürft ihr meine invalidieren, weil es mir „doch nicht SO schlecht gehen“ kann.
Doch, tut es.

Und wenn ich doch wieder mit dem Alkohol aufhören kann, weil es z.B. wie nach dem Muster üblich bald nicht mehr hilft, dürft ihr mir das ruhig weiterhin glauben. Auch ohne, dass ihr „relaten“ könnt. Auch ohne, dass auf meiner Stirn „Alkoholiker“ steht. Oder in meinen Tweets – oder meinem Blog.


Dieser Post wurde so von mir auf dem SubReddit /r/SuicideWatch veröffentlicht. Kopie kommt hier rein, der Vollständigkeit halber.


I am writing this here, because until now I had a blog in german for venting or just writing about my thoughts & life, but now I’m fluent enough in english to write this kind of thing in this language, so I thought I’d try here to get some actual feedback, which I don’t get on my blog as almost noone reads it (although closest friends & family know of it – guess I’m not that interesting or important after all).

As the topic states, I am NOT suicidal at this very moment.

That isn’t always the case, though. To be honest, it isn’t most of the time.

I’ve been having suicidal thoughts since I can think. Starting off as „How can I get the best revenge on my bullies“ in basic school, continuing as „My parents need to know they’ve been failures“ and currently mostly as „I’m doing nothing with my life and am a waste of tax money“, I have not known a life without any thoughts of this kind.

I did not do it yet though. The reason for that is that I’m too afraid of the pain that comes with the process of dying – or ending up not completely killing myself, sitting in a wheelchair for the rest of my life, not being able to finish what I started.

I know, though, that this is a lie. I am very aware that there are methods out there which meet both requirements of being secure & painless. I have never researched those to prevent them from entering my head. A friend of mine whom I told about this „predicament“ started to tell me about one of those methods, or at least attempted to do so – I shut them off (verbally, although I wanted to hit her really hard) immediately. I just can’t let this kind of thoughts get into my head – it would literally kill me.

The thing I keep telling myself is that I have no other choice. I have no choice but to keep going. Killing myself is not an existent option. It just isn’t.

It’s the only kind of self-training (like, the thing you do with a dog, there’s no proper english word for it) I do to myself. I’ve always rejected these methods in other depression-fighting therapies from the start as „I’m not dumb enough to let myself believe it works“ and „I’m not a fucking monkey“. These methods would include training yourself to smile in the mirror, having more positive thoughts, writing down what was good in each day and so on – I never did any of those for the reason stated above, and I don‘ think that will ever change cause I’m a dead-rational & consequent person, if I think it’s appropriate.

This rationality does not come from anywhere.

I had an incredibly intense relationship of 22 months with my first girlfriend when I was 18 (I’m 23 now) in both directions – pleasent, and terrible. She was – is – suffering from Borderline, and at least when we were together, she was not in therapy for it, although she was aware that she had it (in most moments). She did not go to therapy cause that would’ve involved breaking her parent’s image of „their“ „perfect little girl“ that has no problems and is always happy. She wasn’t – but I was one of the very few people who knew that.

She threatened to break up many times, as borderliners do, and I always prevented it. Once, I tried to break up, she slapped me in tears and I just couldn’t do it anymore. (Even though I’m BDSMer, slaps are a hard limit for me for that very reason; I’m afraid it would kick me right back into that emotion.)

Eventually, after 1.5 years fighting against her image of herself and others, I managed to convince her that a) she’s actually beautiful and worthy of love & attention and b) other people don’t always want to use or do bad things to her. Until that point, I sometimes would’ve asked her to have an open relationship (just so I could fuck with others; being in a relationship always makes me feel like the whole world would want to fuck me if I asked). Suddenly, she asked me to have one – and I agreed, happily. She immediately found a couple whose sub she became (in BDSM-context) and I found – surprise – noone.

That was the second time I lost all control over my emotions which never happened before. I became jealous. (The first time was an occasion in which I let her sleep with a (female) friend of mine so she wouldn’t whine about her virginity anymore.) I could not take that at all – jealousy is something for „minor“ people! So I let it out all on her, even though I was the one who wanted this all along. These two things and fighting more and more often, and a few other things, led us to break up, although it came more from her than from me.

To this day (These three words are, by the way, the title of an awesome poem by Shane Koyczan which I can strongly recommend watching on YouTube) I can not stop thinking of her every day – and dreaming about her every few weeks. Those dreams always have the same kind of content: We meet, she wants no contact, I can convince her to have some and we become at least friends, sometimes a couple again. These dreams don’t come from missing her only, though. They also come from guilt.

When we broke up, I fell. Far. I stopped going to work or university, lost the job b/c of it and eventually went into a mental health clinic. I was thrown out 4 weeks later b/c of self-harming behaviour. (They offered to keep me in the closed department; I declined.) But while I was there, my ex with whom I was still friends – or trying to stay friends with – visited me a few times. One day, she mentioned (with me starting the topic) that she would break the rule of not sleeping/playing with anyone else the couple gave her only for me – like, I was the only person she would break her promise for. My brain just could not take that. I was still so much over her that I took that as an invitation, pulled her down to bed and tied her up (as we would usually do when we were playing). She never stopped saying „I’m not allowed to“ – never did she say she did not want to, so I kinda ignored that. But she would also fight, physically, more than usual. She fought so hard that eventually I asked her if she remembered the safe word we never used – she said no, I told her, she used it immediately. I let her go, she seemed peaceful, but later I got a message telling me that I belonged in jail and am a dangerous person, after which she blocked me everywhere.

The following years, I tried to contact her 3 or 4 times; filled with guilt and the thought that I raped her (although I never got undressed and did not sleep with her, sexual stuff happened on her side) I wanted to make piece with her and know that she forgives me for what I did. Eventually, she answered a facebook message I could send after she made a new account, telling me that she indeed forgave me. We small-talked for a day, then she blocked me out of pretty much nowhere.

A few weeks back, I got another message from her. In it, she says that she lied. That she is suffering every day because of what I did, that I am a horrible person, that she wants to see me dead and that she never forgave me and only said that because she tried to make piece with it herself, but never could. She also said that she never could let anyone get close to her again.

My answer was that I hate myself for it probably more than she ever could, and that she will never hear from me again. How could I bother her with my existence anyway, after I obviously destroyed her life like that?

After this, because I let my feelings take over my actions in this one instance, I never had feelings have any control over my life anymore. I live my life purely on rationality since then, and do not plan to ever change that, fearing I might make such a mistake again. I am not sure if I could take it if I hurt someone like that a second time, or worse.

I’ve had two (both long-distance) relationships since then. One where I did not pay enough attention for her and did not take care for her so she had to break up, and one that even goes as far as overseas which I ended because of too-much-alternating views on – everything.

This is not the only part in my life that’s shit.

I had to stop studying because of psychological and financial reasons. Student-loan-agency would not pay anymore cause I was taking so long – I was only studying half-time, could not do more cause of depression – at most, and I lost my 7th job within 4 years, most of whose I lost b/c of some parts of my personality disorders.

I am diagnosed w/ a narcissistic, a sadomasochistic (which should not get diagnosed at all nowadays anymore) and a schizoid personality disorder. Those are just the three they put on the front of my last – third – mental health clinic report; two others which are mentioned in the text are a schizotypic and a histrionic personality disorder; the diagnosis from the second clinic was just Borderline.

I have a hard time living in general. Everything I do is learned. I had to learn how to behave – not manners, but why not to undress in public, why not to hit people I don’t like (although I rarely have aggressions against other people, it’s hard to make me aggressive), what signs of emotions are and all this kind of stuff. I can not feel into people – I read them. That’s one thing I can do by now. I can read people. I see them and very often know what they feel, even what they think, just because I learned so hard how to pretend to be a normal human being that I immediately see when someone derives from the „normal“-state. (People who do that permanently – being „not normal“ – are also those I’m emotionally and sexually attracted to, by the way.)

This messed up many relationships already. But the thing that did that the most until two years ago (when I stopped letting other people suffer under them) is probably my emotional breakdowns.

Every once in a while, I have a complete meltdown. But I do not cry. I do not lie on the floor. I carry on like normal – I’m always pretending anyway, it’s not that big of a deal to do that while I feel like my head is about to explode from sadness and rapid thoughts. Oh wait, it is. But I manage to do it anyway. It’s virtually impossible to see from the outside wether I have an emotional breakdown. My voice gets a calmer, I talk a bit slower and sometimes clench my fists because I need to leave the force building up in my brain somewhere. But noone ever saw it, and I am not completely all by myself (although I do not leave my apartment as much as I’d like to). There used to be a knife in my fists before, but I stopped self-harm a while ago as it stopped to help against these phases. I also have no scars from it, as I always used blunt knifes or other blunt stuff which hurts a bit more, but leaves less traces; noone can see what I went through this way. I for myself scan people as soon as I see them, and scars on the lower arm parts is something I always – always – will notice on you right away. Same goes for long sleeves when it’s unneeded, and I will ask you to show me your arms if I can’t get a glimpse on it after some time if you wear those.

These meltdowns got reduced almost two years ago thanks to a medication that slows down my brain a good bit. I used to break down daily before taking it, now it’s „only“ once a week or so. But it does nothing against the depression – and because of me being always suicidal, noone will give me antidepressants or noradrenalins so I start to do stuff b/c both of those raise the suicidility when you start taking them.

What ended four years ago, though, is crying. I never cried a lot – ten times at most in my life – but even that stopped when I got thrown out of the first clinic. I’ve not cried ever since. I do have little sadness attacks in sad movie plot points, for example, where I want to burst out in tears but can’t, but those only last for 2 or three seconds and are gone again.

Currently, I am waiting for the approval of an application for a therapeutically-accompanied apprenticeship as a software engineer. I do not really want to do it, but I have to do something, people tell me, so I do what I must so they don’t hate me. I can’t deal with hate at all. I don’t care if people don’t like me, but hate has a reason – and that reason is my fault, for me.

People in the last clinic have been telling me I try to make people hate me on purpose, although it might not be a conscious process, just so I have some kind of connection to them.

I never had the feel like I could control anything that happens in my brain. Emotions are always the opposite of what I want to feel – and most of the times what is appropriate and helpful to feel – and my thoughts are clogging up my brain like crazy often, even with my medication.

I manage. Somehow, I still live. I have no idea, but I will continue to do so. I am writing this now because I’m somewhat stable. I hope people have read this, although I know how much it is. And I hope they have something – anything – to say that could help me. Any and all advice is greatly appreciated.

Thank you for reading.