ill off myself one day

on my bipolar II

🚩Trigger Warnings: mentions of SI, depression, anxiety, death

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(image source)

Happiness Is a Myth (and That’s Fine)

I don’t know if I’ve ever been happy. I’ve been excited, amazed, perplexed, ignited, content, even blissful in flashes. But happy? The kind people write self-help books about, that pure, unblemished state of joy? That’s always felt like a scam or illusion.

Happiness as the antonym of sadness doesn’t make sense to me. Even in my best moments, there’s always this undercurrent of something—melancholy, nostalgia, unease. It’s like happiness is a color, but mine’s always tinted just a little gray, like living with constant sunglasses on. Maybe it’s the trauma, maybe it’s genetics. (My family practically keeps the SSRI market alive. I’ve been on six myself, like some kind of antidepressant charcuterie board.)

This isn’t a sob story. It’s just reality. My void, my little raincloud—it’s been around as long as I can remember, tagging along like an uninvited guest. Therapy? Check. Meds? Check. I’ve done the outpatient rounds, the partial hospitalization stint, even spent 10 days inpatient. None of it has fixed the gray entirely. It just keeps the storm from turning into a hurricane.

The Weight of It

My mom used to watch her own mother slip into the haze of Alzheimer’s. “If I ever start losing it, smother me with a pillow,” she’d say. I’d be horrified. That’s my mom—how could she say something like that? But the older I get, the more I get it. She wasn’t being dramatic; she was being practical. Why live if you’re not really living?

The first time I thought about death—like, really thought about it—was middle school. Because, duh, middle school is a horror show for anyone with a pulse. My bus stop was at the end of our long, steep driveway hidden by trees. I’d wonder, What if I stepped out in front of a speeding car? How fast would it need to be? How quick could it all end?

But even then, I didn’t really want to die. I had hope, some vague idea of a future where things got better. Now, 15 years later, I’m still here, still on meds, still in therapy. The difference? That hope is harder to find. What’s left is a kind of resigned understanding that maybe I’m just not built for the full technicolor version of happiness.

me too Bo

Terminal, But Not Urgent

Here’s the thing no one wants to admit: mental illness can feel terminal. And why is that so taboo to say? If we can acknowledge that physical illnesses exist on a spectrum—from mild colds to untreatable cancers—why can’t we extend the same grace to our brains?

Let me be clear: this isn’t a cry for help or some romanticization of ending things. I’m not going off my meds or ghosting my therapist. I’m not spiraling. I’m just saying that knowing I have a choice—knowing I could leave on my terms if life ever became unbearable—gives me a weird sense of power. It’s not some twisted joke; it’s reality.

And, honestly, the whole “my body, my choice” argument falls apart when it comes to death, doesn’t it? We’re all about autonomy until someone says they’d like to check out early. I know that’s controversial, but the hypocrisy is hard to ignore.

“For suicide correctly, and widely, defined is choosing to go on our own terms. Not compromising on our duty to history, An act of defiance in the face of the moral imperative.” -

Guerre and Shalom

On Suicide

I also really love this post by

Sudana Krasniqi

that I feel encapsulates my feelings in a far more poetic way:

enough rope

No Timelines, Just Truth

My death isn’t impending, and my mental state isn’t in free fall. I’m stable, I’m loved, and I’m here. But am I happy? Hell no. I’m anxious and tense 24/7. I’ve ground through four nightguards in a year and a half, and even my sleep isn’t safe from the chaos (shoutout to The Body Keeps the Score for validating that one).

Life is heavy right now. Politics are a circus. The planet is on fire. It’s like we’re all collectively holding our breath, waiting for the next disaster to drop. So yeah, my mental health feels precarious. But I’m still pulling out every coping mechanism I’ve ever learned, trying to hold it together.

No, I don’t need a welfare check. But maybe the world does.