persons effected’s accounts




I only made it because of meds and appliances and all that stuff billions of animals died for. I always knew, that I wasn’t ment to survive. This deep sense of certainty grew inside me since I was a little baby. When you’re ill and you’re going to die, you feel this point of loosing everything and you’re so close to passing away without understanding even a bit what’s going on, then the only thing you gain from this kind of experiences, is a huge and grounded certainty, that you’re just not ment to be. And sure, a traumatisation, that’s going to be part of you forever, but huh..

I guess, that’s likely the reason, why I always lived from day to day. Inwardly I counted the days I survived, never thought that something ahead could really happen. Well, at least not to me. However, I stayed kinda stuck in this life I never wanted or that never yearned for my existence within it. Yet I was able to survive the sickness of my body, but couldn’t cope it and wasn’t able to end it on my own. Suicide was in my mind since I can remember. When I was a child I tried by climbing on the windowsill, purposeful and desperate, but incapeable of jumping each and every time. I started cutting myself, but never could cut deep enough. I drank till I was unconscious, which was a hint. Suicide has never been a „bad“ thing to me. It was potential, a possible way of how I could end. To know that there was a doable plan to end my suffering was comforting, soothing, it stored my hope while I couldn’t believe in or had recourse to other possibilities. Also suicide was one of the only things regarding my very self, that I had power over. Everything else was under control of someone, society, patriarchy, my socialisation or the imperfection and non-functional mode of my body. Everything was violent in a unconsensual way. There was nothing I had passion for, nothing I needed, that was actually in sight, there was only pain and unsureness. I was petrified of the way I would die, cause it felt like my body wasn’t built to last and that condition really hurt physically. So of course the thought of killing myself appeared early.

I still think, that caving in to that longing or accepting, that it’s a real conceivableness, that feeling suicidal isn’t something „wrong“, can be important. At least it’s ok. It’s part of who we are, it’s real and it shouldn’t be oppressed. There should be more focus on what we need and more respect for what we want and how we feel. All this role models and disease patterns built a construct of very perfectly depressed people. We’re trained to deny our ways of existing, cuz being „functional“ is elected to be the only way that matters. Maybe there is no such thing as „mental health“. And maybe it’s just ok to be (or not to be) in any way we may are, cause our bodies and lives shouldn’t be anyone elses concern. I hate those people, who think they know better bout my own issues and requirements by refering to this stricly bordered definitions and constructions of health and sickness, madness and healing, „good behaviour“ or „bad behaviour“ and the most disgusting impertinence – their brainwashed guide of how I should feel and deal and which thoughts I should have in mind to be „acceptable“. Or worse, to be „not locked away“ or changed by their drugs. Institutionalisation and everything in addition to that is of course not the only, but one of the creepiest and most violent crossings of personal borders you can think of.

Who can tell you, that you’re „wrong“? We’re not. And even if we define so, why shouldn’t we? It’s all about holding in contempt, oppressing and deindividualisation, but we’re not generalized „sick“ – I’m just sick of these patterns. It took me a long time to figure out roughly how „I work“, what I need, what I want, why I react in certain ways. I don’t even understand „the hole me“ yet, but what I know is, that everytime I tried to take an offer to get help with complaints of my body, people reasoned me into being „mental ill“ or having to change my „inner attitude“ or something, just because I carry fear and have problems dealing with death. They tried to drug me instead of respecting the way I am and what I experienced. They mostly didn’t even listen. And I know, that I do not want to fit in their preconceived systems of function and health constructs. I guess living from one day to another isn’t that bad at all. Compared to a forcast of having a long life full of restraints and shame, that others implanted, I seem to handle just fine.

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