SUNDAY NOVEMBER 18TH 2001 AD

And yet I had a suicide attempt! On the morning of Friday the 16th of November. Only instead of deep sleep there were hallucinations, delusions, visual and auditory hallucinations. I was reminded of Grandma - I saw her sitting on her bed and saying something to me and smiling. I began to think that my Parents and I should go to see her. It seemed to me that a neighbour was ringing the doorbell and saying that I had a phone call from my Parents. I said : "Thank you, I'm on my way." and what was my surprise when I went to the door of my flat and found it closed and no one behind it.

I had swallowed 21 10mg Zyprexa tablets, 10 x 1mg Rispolept and 12 x 3mg Rispolept. I thought that this horse dose would immediately wipe me out and that I would fall into a deep sleep. Meanwhile, I went crazy again. For a short time, but always. The subconscious switched on and bet on life. I don't know why, but at 7.30 a.m. I called Mum and asked if the trip to Grandma's was on. Mum realised something was wrong with me and told me to come to my Parents' house. She recognised from my slurred speech that I had "taken pills", as she put it as she put it. She called Father and told him what I had done . Father arrived quickly and made me drink a solution of medicinal charcoal in water to stimulate vomiting. He succeeded and I returned some of the undigested tablets. I recognised the Rispolept.
I don't really remember what I did next. I'm sure Mrs F. came in to clean up and I'm sure Parents went to Intermarche to do some shopping. In the evening I think my parents went to visit friends and I watched "Magnum Force" with Clint Eastwood. During the night I dreamt something, but I can't remember what. ( this is probably again indicative of islands of oblivion)
Yesterday, Saturday the 17th of November, my sister arrived. In the evening the Parents went to their name day , so we had a chance to talk in private. Among other things, she said that she didn't want to get into the role of a therapist and that I should go to a clinical psychologist. I think she also said that she doesn't understand my problems and that she won't convince me that life has meaning if I think life is meaningless. She stated that Mum gets irritated when I talk about my thoughts, intentions and suicidal problems.
(Parents have just arrived from a visit to friends - Bari the dachshund is very happy to see them)
It's 6.16 p.m. Outside the window it's night and in my heart it's WINTER. I wonder how long my depression will last and if I will ever get out of it. As of today, I rate my chances 50% to 50% maximum. It is hard because I have lost my job
and I have little contact with people. Also, 2 days ago I was at the very bottom and I haven't bounced back from it yet. I have drifted up a bit, the weak current of life is carrying me, but this life has a taste of tap water. I still find it hard to get up when I'm alone. Today I got up after 2pm. I slept hard until 11 a.m. I'm sure I slept until 11 a.m. And I dreamt something again and can't remember what. I should say to myself: dream - dream, Allah - faith. But Allah sends me such interesting dreams , that I always regret when I forget at least one. Maybe it is because my daily life has turned into a slow nightmare. It is dominated by PUSCTA. And it is really difficult to find meaning in such a DROWN. Because, once again, it happened that I set out to do something and it didn't work out. In the end, even suicide didn't work out for me. I don't know what to do anymore, who to tell my story to. It is difficult to accept the fact that you are terminally ill - and that perhaps no one can help me. The prospect of a meaningless life is not at all appealing. Addiction to medication is nothing pleasant. This shell that surrounds me is as thick as armour. I should make a window in it to the world and occasionally look out cautiously. Destroying the shell is dangerous, because then I become vulnerable - as happens in psychosis or mania. It is also made more difficult by the fact that I like to fall from extreme to extreme - from a high high to a deep low. As of today, I'm in a low, but, if I didn't take my medication and get an injection, I could 'have a high' again in a matter of days.

At the moment I don't want an up , nor a down , just balance, harmony and well-being. I want mental comfort, but I don't know how to achieve this. My dream is to be happy, to be content with what I have, to have a girlfriend who gives me the will and the enthusiasm to live and friends who will not let me down. And then there's going to America. Again, it seems unrealistic, because again I have no money. The Lord God is punishing me sternly, or perhaps I am punishing myself for Duino - for this first and most important failure, which has cast a shadow of hatred and alienation over my entire life. I cannot come to terms with that defeat - to this day. To this day, I cannot forget what happened there. The more I try to free myself from it, the more perfidiously it gets me - in the sudden questions of curious people and in the nightmares in which I prepare for the IB, fearing that I won't pass. GOD, IF YOU EXIST - SET ME FREE!!!

19.39 - I had dinner - bread with Masmix, tomatoes, slaw, mustard, pickled chanterelles and ham. Mum told me to wash (the dishes) first and then ask what I could eat. So I washed the dishes first and then ate.
I have become so used to orders from my Parents that sometimes I don't know what to do. I find it so hard to be independent. I think it's because I've lost the ability to work and therefore to earn money. And the circle closes - we are back to the illness. To GENEZA. I suppose I could write 1000 pages and still not get to where it came from. The easiest way to say it's from genes, that I inherited it from some crazy ancestor that my Parents don't want to admit to. Yes, because they are ashamed of my illness and they are sad about it and it is a nuisance to them. HOW VERY? Probably all too much. But what can I do if I'm not fit for work? Even writing sometimes makes it difficult for me as I am not always inspired. The fact that I'm writing in peace at the moment is a gift from God, but I still have to turn it into money, and that's worse. I don't know how to do it, who to go to with my texts and what to write about to sell well. I find it so hard to accept that the world is mostly a big brothel where everything is for sale. And this stems from the impractical idealism that the Church and my Parents and Grandparents infused me with as a child and during my youth. I cannot free myself from it. I cannot convert everything into money. I have problems counting money in general - partly due to medication that impairs concentration, but also because I am not used to counting. For so many years, my parents did the counting for me, so I didn't have this basic skill necessary to survive in capitalism. Why did I imagine capitalism as a paradise on Earth? And why can't I accept the fact that it is not? Why do I have such poorly honed adaptation mechanisms? And why do I keep making the same mistakes? Could it be that the habit of making them has become "fossilised". Why has one failure led to another? Why am I socially maladjusted? What is so difficult that I cannot learn? Getting up in the morning, wordiness, saving money? The ability to make money?Conformity?

Are my suicide attempts and manias and psychoses an expression of rebellion against the established world order? Am I unable to accept that things are as they are? That for money people are ready to commit the greatest sins? to the greatest deceptions and manipulations? Do I feel disgusted with myself for coming into contact with and being influenced by the people committing these acts? Not really, but I've gotten a bit dirty and I feel bad about it . It's because of this fucking idealism and instilled integrity. It's because of the religion and faith that tells you to believe in miracles and in happiness only after death....

Why is all this boring to me? THE EVIL AND THE DESRRO? Why was I bored with my flat and longing for slavery with my Parents? Was the financial pressure so unbearable? Was the job that tiring? Did Clopixol really make me that weak and depressed? Or has my psyche completely blown up and I can no longer pull myself together?
Where is the line between chemistry and soul in my body? And what can I do to recover and be at least a little bit happy? Pills alone won't help. This I already know. But without the pills I'm also "knocked out". Everything has to be put together and harmonised somehow. In the meantime, what always gets me down is bad organisation - clutter and disorder, or emotional bigotry. Chaos on my desk and chaos in my head - as my favourite psychiatrist, a figure as fascinating as he was controversial, used to say. But even he could not prevent my suicide attempts .
Why did life get ugly for me? Why am I so weak? Why have I returned to my hometown and no longer have the concept of getting out? Why do I have a visa and can't use it? There are more and more of these questions and I don't have and don't know the answers....

So ENIGMA - the mystery of life and death. Of meaning and meaninglessness. Loneliness and companionship. Sympathy and antipathy. Finally, love and hate. A circle of stone. An iron hoop. A funnel without an exit. A city prison. Life as prison. The compulsion to live. Lack of satisfaction. No pleasure. Lack of hope. THE DEATH OF HOPE. Can it be resurrected? Like a phoenix from the ashes? Is this depression worse than psychosis? How much longer will I play with death? Why am I in such a rush to that world when I have no proof that it exists? What has finished me off so mentally? Loneliness? The toxicity of human contact? The inability to realise my dreams? The bar set too high? A constant lack of money? Inability to sell yourself? Impotence? Feeling constantly tired? Boredom? The same thing over and over again? A vicious circle? A situation with no way out? Drug addiction? Severe mental illness? Incurable? Poorly treated? Family pressure to go to work? PRESENCE. "GEOLOGY IS THE STUDY OF TIRBCs AND PRESSURE." - Geology is the study of time and pressure. What is the imprint of what I am? Why did these experiences weaken me so much? Why did I not go to work on Thursday the 15th of November 2001 Anno Domini? Where did this depression come from and why is it so strong, already sickened and resistant to treatment?
(Mum has just come in and says "enough of this good stuff already").
9.04pm - I'm finishing up. I wonder when I'll sit here again and if I'll be closer to a way out
out of the situation and closer to mental comfort. God willing. If God wills. As God wills. And yet I believe in Him. Mother of God, please support me.