I've seen so many professionals for my depression. I've dutifully tried the drugs, cognitive behavioral therapy (that with the pharmaceuticals--and there's always a new "miracle drug"--was supposed to be nearly a certain fix), and three times over ten years full courses of bilateral high-voltage ECT. I've joined groups, volunteered, reached out to my neighbors and "friends." I've tried religion, meditation, yoga. I've "invested in myself," taking online classes, staying late at work to learn new programs, traveling. And I've read for years and years people's advice and stories about what works for them. I gave it my best shot. However else I failed--and I admit there have been a lot of ways, I gave this my best shot.
When I can't even buy companionship--for even more than the time is being advertised for, and this persists for six years, and reflects the overwhelming trend of my life, it's time to throw in the towel.
I read a blog last night as I sat in an ugly motel room 2 hours away from my home, celebrating my birthday alone with some cold take-out and a video game on my laptop, a blog on the effects of meth on addicts. One person had posted some before-after pics of users, and I admit the after pics were all very scary. But another poster who'd overcome meth addiction wrote that life was so painful for him he just needed a guaranteed escape, and meth provided him it every single time. He knew the dangers meth presented, but life was so painful for him he accepted those dangers. If I were younger and less squeamish, I'm ashamed to admit, I'd search out drugs to try to escape.
I've hit rock bottom. But I've known for a long time things wouldn't get better. How? Because even when I was very young I could see the way our culture treats older people. They're not even worthy of our hatred--because they just don't exist. Except, of course, as a source of money for young people to have fun with. Now that I'm one of the old people, I see that no one even bothers making eye contact with me anymore when I politely greet them in the streets or at a store or meetup. Oh, the plasticly polite check-out people at Trader Joe's say, "Sir" to me. But though they're not intending it this way, "sir" is a label--a talisman against the uniquely disgusting--the aged. "Sir" says, "I feel good about myself for being polite to an old person whom otherwise I have no interest in conversing with, and who, I pray, moves along as quickly as possible." Anyhow, maybe some of us are just not "meant" to be here, and certainly not meant to be here after a certain age.
I can't put into words how much I'm hurting. I cannot be honest about how I'm feeling; that's a guaranteed way to alienate the few others who're around for a few seconds every couple of months, for whom positivity is a religion. The ones who'll curse me once I'm gone for being weak and selfish. You know, the ones who're too busy with their fabulous lives to get together for a movie, or lunch, or a hike, or just coffee--my treat. I've tried the hotlines. After they determine I don't have a gun in my hand they, too, shoo me away. I'm old, ugly, and chronically lonely--the diabolical trifecta. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Well, there is one thing I can do about it. And I fully intend to.