Is it True that "Depression is a Choice"?

If my depression is a choice, then I must choose to be depressed for two weeks and then to NOT be depressed for two other weeks, intermittently. I don't think that makes a lot of sense.

Public records of insanity

I have often wondered why human beings should have to wait for courts or psychiatrists to declare them insane or infirm, when they may be perfectly capable of making this declaration to the public on their own, for mosts practical intents and purposes. Public declarations of insanity, such as those that individuals can make on the Internet, may serve as a record for family, friends and others of an individual "lost his marbles" and how they got them back, should that happen.

My psychologist suggests that I stop writing in my suicide blog. "You don't know what effect what you say will have on others," she says. But, the idea that my thoughts of suicide can convince others to commit suicide seems to ignore a simple fact: it's people's own depression, conflicts, disappointments and "tristezas" that make them suicidal, not someone elses. A person who does not share any of these characteristic symptoms will find this journal wholly irrelevant, unless she has a family member, friend or client who shares these symptoms. In that case, these reflections may be useful to someone.

My Most Pervasive Globalized Thoughts of Self-Hate and Suicide

My psychologist insists that my depression originates in my globalized thoughts, such as the thought that "I have myself" - a thought that makes me feel angry, sad and desperate - all of which thoughts lead to the still more globalized thought that "I wish I were dead."

In fact, my most pervasive globalized thoughts are that "I hate myself" and "I wish I were dead," precisely in that order. But, just as we can learn something by abandoning the word "racist" and identifying specific ideational, emotional and physical behavior patterns that are color-aroused and dysfunctional, in others and in ourselves, so I can learn something about myself when I say, "I hate myself when . . . " and "I wish I were dead when . . ."

I hate myself when I look at seven hundred women walking along the street before and beside me and I am compelled to accept that I cannot have one or all of them. And then I wish I were dead.

I hate myself when I think of things I would need to do, in addition to what I am already doing, to make a go of it, and I realize that I am not willing to do those things. And then I feel trapped in my own unwillingness and I wish I were dead.

Parenthetically, I feel desperate when I realize that the United States may well be on the verge of electing its first woman or Black president - a lifelong goal of mine to see that happen - and yet, in my private depressions, I feel so overwhelmed with my own grief that I wish I were dead, regardless of whether I live to see my aspirations all of the social and political changes I hoped for are on the verge of being realized and I feel so bad that I don't want to live to see the changes come to fruition.

I hate myself when when I leave a woman who loves me and I find myself alone.

Parenthetically, my psychologist insists that my depression originates in my globalized thoughts, such as the thought that "I have myself" - a thought that makes me feel angry, sad and desperate - all of which thoughts lead to the still more globalized thought that "I wish I were dead."

I hate myself when I suspect that my friends and the public are ignoring my blog.

I hate myself when I think I am inconsequential, but I don't stop hating myself when everything tells me that I am making a big difference. That is a symptom of depression.

Dreams from my Immolation

I dreamed that all of my new white clothes, including my shorts that I bought in São Paulo, had blue in on them, so I looked unsuccessfully for a place to soak them in water. They were probably ruined.

I dreamed that the floor of my home was covered with water, but the doorway was higher than the rest of the house, so I would have to push the water out splash by splash. As I began to push the water out, pieces of the brown rug began to rip off and come out with the water.

I dreamed that someone wanted me to show them how to install a fiberglass tub, just as I had done at my mother's house. I reluctantly agreed to show them, even though I didn't want to just as I reluctantly agree to certain things in the present with respect to my step-son, even though I don't want to.

I dreamed I was in a van that flipped over, leaving me face on the ground inside of the van, looking outward and wondering how I would get out of this mess before another vehicle crashed into the van in the middle of this busy intersection?

I Wished I Was Dead Again

Even when things are going well in my life in outward respects, still the fantasy of suicide is my first thought as I climb into bed each afternoon for a nap, and each night for three hours of sleep. And then I dream of my mother and our arguments.

I dreamed that I was looking for a place for myself in the world, fantasizing about calling people at random just before Christmas and asking for donations to "Eunice F." Hahaha . . . . I dreamed my mother told me that the school in which I was teaching - the same at which she was a professor - thought it better that I leave as soon as possible.

I dreamed my mother angrily demanded that I stop screaming at her when I got angry and throwing things around the house. I said to her, "You're screaming at me," which was an easier answer, since I could not agree to stop screaming at her and throwing things around the house.

I dreamed I had nowhere to live in a big town, so as I road through a neighborhood of beautiful homes I imagined asking some of the homeowners if they didn't have a room they'd like to rent. The homes, although immaculate, were on a steep hill, and I wondered if it would be possible to exit their driveways when the snow began to fall?

I dreamed of my brother . . .

During the day, I live partially in the present. At night, when I am asleep, I live mostly in the distant past. I dream in English, of English-speaking persons, although I haven't lived in an English-speaking country for over seven years. I dream of people past rather than present - of the worst conflicts and fears . . .

If I were dead, when I am dead, I hope I will stop dreaming, because my sleeping moments in life are worse than my waking moments by far. And yet I sleep a third of my days away, like a daily appointment with the torture doctor.

If I hung myself from the door frame, then I dreams would go away. If I constructed a large rectangular box with a huge blade at the end, I could crawl into the box while it stood upright, so that only my head protruded from the box, right where the blade would catch my neck as the box fell over and hit the floor.

Sometimes, I dream of suicide during the day as well. When I see enormous two-story tour buses speeding down the road, I imagine running and standing in from of them, being struck and dying. As I swim out to see at the beach, I am torn between fear of drowning and the desire to continue swimming until the shore is a distant memory.

ACarnaval Night in Bahia, Brazil

Last night, with a young male friend of the United States, I went to an big all-night Carnaval celebration in a little town half an hour from here. During the bus ride, four tall and leggy transvestites taunted the Brazilian men on the bus, saying that although the men claimed to be heterosexual, yet the transvestites could sense, “I know you want me!”

The kidding was all in good fun and one man even seemed about to unbutton his fly for some action, until one of the transvestites taunted a man who wasn’t able to take the challenge to his heterosexuality playfully. He slapped the transvestite, and her feelings were clearly hurt, but she played it off gamely. She apologized for any feelings hurt as we got off the bus and everyone went into the party, bleached blonde and red-headed transvestites, and heteros of ever hue.

As we walked into the town square, my very forward friend locked eyes with a buxom mocha colored girl of about eighteen years old, whose smile was as brilliant as the lumen on a lighthouse. Passing one another, they turned to lock eyes again, the buxom beauty now sharing some words with a girlfriend before returning to meet my pal halfway. They exchanged some words I couldn’t hear and then their lips locked together in a passionate kiss during which she lifted his hand to rest flatly upon the top of upper breast.

They talked and they kissed and exchanged telephone numbers at a capeta (fruit/alcohol juice drink) stand, and then the mocha beauty was gone.

Music filled the space, with a “Brega” (Brazilian pop music) band playing on stage, while thousands on people, from the ages of ten years old to sixty, danced and grinded, laughed and flirted, drank beer and sought partners. Initially, I just watched everyone, remembering that I’m supposed to be depressed. But then I dispensed with all loyalty to depression, loneliness and misery, and I danced and played with everyone else, momentarily freeing my mind from all concern and cogitation.

At some point, after an hour or so, I found myself wanting to go home. At three in the morning, it was long past my bedtime, and I knew I should be at my computer, clacking out another tome on the misery of life or the presidential race seven thousand miles away. Instead of leaving this Carnaval celebration, I decided to pretend that I sitting in my living room, was watching it on television. There I was no longer obliged to dance or engage with others and could just watch the teenagers enjoying themselves, watching this scene on a big screen in surround sound.

Now, my friend had found two more women, one beige with blonde hair and the other mocha again, with bountiful breasts in a revealing yellow bikini top. If my friend was to make his way with the beige girl, I would have to entertain and distract the mocha woman meanwhile. They certainly drank a lot of beer ( I don’t drink at all), but I did my part until some men next to us began a horseplay that easily turns into fighting when men are drunk at four in the morning.

We felt the stink of tear gas, and I was ready to go home, yet my friend and his girl attractions, I now learned, were determined to stay at this party until the sun came up. Who knows what might happen with the girls, the fights, the tear gas . . .

Not me. I’m a married man with a loving wife who needed loving, plus three children and a big dog waiting for me at home.

As I rode back home, chatting in English with an eighteen year-old blonde girl from Germany, I saw just one transvestite, tall and black, with orange hair on her legs.

I could spend more time at Carnaval festivities, particularly if my friend comes with me so that I’m shouldering the immense weight of going alone to enjoy myself. But I do have some qualms:

What if my life passes me by more quickly while I’m out enjoying myself?

What will my wife think if I repeatedly come home at four in the morning?

It’s nine in the morning now. The sun is full up and the dizzying music about sex that is audible from a block away – a staple in Bahia – means that another day has begun.

I Hate Myself Today / Asphyxiation

When I feel depressed, I remember thousands of instances in which I didn't measure up to my or others' expectation, and then I shout inwardly and mumble to myself, "I hate myself." It becomes so bad that my wife and children can hear me saying this, the only saving grace being that my children may not yet know what it means.

I hate myself for the times when I took a risk and it turned out badly, and I hate myself as well for the times when I failed to take a risk and lost an opportunity. I hate myself because people laugh[ed] at me and because I care that people laugh[ed] at me. I hate myself for being depressed and for not being able to find a way out of my depression.

Certainly, I could endeavor to love myself, but the mere thought makes me angry. I tried before, hard, and was unsuccessful, falling backward hard, into worse traps than those I had escaped. FUCK recovery!

I wish I were dead right now, and I revile myself for lacking the coverage to kill myself.

Before I went to sleep last night, I wondered if swallowing large objects would be a reliable way to die? If one didn't die, would the attempt leave any negative after-effects (aside from the terrible experience of not being able to breathe?)

Choking or food asphyxiation hazards include hot dogs, gum drops, nuts, taco chips, steak, or any food that is not chewed sufficiently to be swallowed and hence, becomes lodged in the pharynx, blocking the opening to the esophagus and larynx (11, 78). Even grapes given to very young infants or children have caused a number of fatalities. People must chew food adequately before swallowing.

Old age, poor dentition, and alcohol consumption also contribute to fatal food asphyxiation or choking on food (129). People should not give large pieces of food to children and the elderly, or to any individuals who are incapable of chewing the food before it is swallowed. It is also beneficial to be trained to perform the Heimlich maneuver and Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation, and to travel with other individuals who are trained in these procedures. Hi-Tm.Com

Another source says,

While reports of suicide by smothering and strangulation are common, suicide by choking is far more rare. In addition to the act being difficult to carry out, suspected cases are not easily distinguished from accidental or homicidal deaths. Here, we present a case of suicide by choking on toilet paper in a patient with a long history of schizophrenia. The case was ruled a suicide based on the patient having been witnessed in a previous unsuccessful attempt of the same act. "Choking on Toilet Paper: An Unusual Case of Suicide and a Review of the Literature on Suicide by Smothering, Strangulation, and Choking," The American Journal of Forensic Medicine and Pathology

A lot of different items can cause asphyxia if swallowed:

Foreign Body Aspiration
Fatal food asphyxia has a number of predisposing
factors that include old age, poor dentition, insuffi-
ciently chewing food, semi-solid diet, alcohol use,
sedative drug use, reduced motor coordination,
dementia, long-term care facility residence, sedative
drug use, and various neurological and other dis-
eases (e.g., Parkinson’s disease).
12,23,84-86
A study of
Chinese adults found foreign body aspiration to be
localized more in the lower airway, resulting from
bone fragments in 49% of cases.
87
Here the mean
age was 60.5 years, with a range from 24-80 years of
age and 81% were male. Another study concluded
that unchewed meat or sausage caused choking in
67% of cases, with breads, cookies, and pastries
12%, fruits or vegetables accounted for another 8%,
cheese and egg products 2%, and the remaining
(2%) known sources were non-food items including
dentures, a hair ornament, and a cork.

Preventing Asphyxiation and Choking Injuries in Manitoba

"Nuclear Beliefs" Go Nuclear

I got an opportunity to talk to my psychologist today. She says that I have "nuclear beliefs," like "I'm too bad to deserve love," "The whole world hates me." "I have no right to have friends, because I'm a terrible person."

I was about eight years old when I decided that it would be better for me if I just spent my whole life in the house and didn't try to make any friends.

Things went terribly wrong with some of my best friendships and I was told that it was because I was very, very bad. So, I decided not to try anymore.

Particularly with women. But also with guys.

Maybe if I keep adding stuff to my suicide blog I can roll it all into a book later. Yes, it may even be therapeutic.

At times like this, it seems like I just have constant bad memories and every one of them makes me urgently think, "I hate myself and I wish I were dead!"

The psychologist asked me socratically if I hadn't had times like this in the past and been able to overcome them.

Yeah . . . When I'm crossing the street, I take my time walking almost directly toward the buses instead of getting out of the way.

But, I didn't really want to recover. I wanted to die and get it over with. But I didn't have the courage.

I had a long-ass dream. I was a new teacher at a high school, having coffe in the lunch room, except that I didn't know where anything was and I was afraid to ask anyone, for fear that they would laugh at me.

God Damn, I Feel Shitty!

For the second day in a row, I awoke at 3:00 AM. Couldn't sleep. The first day, I installed an electrical switch in the kitchen, to do something constructive with my insomnia time. Last night was worse. I awoke at three, my wife asleep and insensitive to my aspirations, and I just wanted to die. I began thinking of hanging myself with my think black extension cord, only to reflect on the difficulty of making a proper noose with such a cord, and the near necessity of going to a hardware store and buying a proper hanging rope.

It wouldn't be the first time I've bought such a rope. The first two time were in New Jersey (the rope was in the trunk of my car for a year) and the second time was in Nice, France. The noose sat at the floor of my closet for two years, because it scared my friends if I left it on my bed.

This present depressive episode started on the beach two days ago, when the waiter refused to serve me. I confronted him and demanded a menu, but I never was able to get even a bottle of mineral water, settling instead for fresh coconut water from the ambulatory vendors with the hammer-spike coconut openers.

That's when I started feeling depressed. What is wrong with me that they will no longer serve me at this restaurant? What did I do?

My wife reassures that this is simply who year-round residents like me are treated when the tourist season comes, and restaurant waiters are desperate to make the big dollars from the big spenders when they can. They simply don't want us to take up chairs and waiter time when the tourists have so much more money to spend.

So, maybe this wasn't about me being unworthy. Maybe this was about the ups and downs of the local economy.

Now, I understand. So, when will I feel better? And when will minor disappointments stop sending me into major depressions?

Last night, as I cut onions into little pieces to make a hamburger that was nearly inedible with two hot peppers mixed in, I imagined hacking my fingers of with the steak knife and flushing the fingers down the toilet, so that they couldn't be re-affixed. I didn't do it. I just thought it, as I so often imagine ways to hurt and destroy myself once and for all.

A couple of days ago, in this same bad mood while crossing the street, I walked slowly and silently dared the cars and a bus to hit me. The mirror of a passing car struck my arm, but I wasn't hit by the passenger bus.

Life is so ironic. The terminally ill people who want to live on cannot, and terminally depressed people who want to die instead live on incessantly.

Tegrex Makes Me Sleepy, Gives Me Torpor

I've been taking this mood stabilizer called "Tegrex" that really does help to eliminate the furies in which I broke furniture and told people to go fuck themselves. (When I was on the phone with the telephone company at my ex-fiancée's mother's house, I my fury at the bureaucracy built up until I screamed at the operator in Portuguese, "Suck my dick, just suck my dick!" Since my ex-fiancée and her mother were regular church-goers, they were unaccustomed to such language, particularly when screamed at operators from the telephone company.)

Anyway, Tegrex removes the compulsion to scream that way. I often have insomnia as well, and sometimes can become irritable and disbalanced simply for lack of sleep. Tegrex makes me feel tired, compelling me to take a two-hour nap every afternoon after lunch, like right now. And at night sleep becomes a Tegrex-compelled requirement rather than just a bothersome and voluntary option. Many people lose their minds for lack of sleep, says my psychiatrist, so sleeping is a good idea even for those who would prefer to remain perpetually awake.

Here's an example of why it's important to take psychoactive drugs consistently once they've been prescribed: When I first started taking Tegrex, I had a week of an uncomfortable (but not unbearable ) side effect: torpor. I felt dizzy, like I had gone without food and water for a couple of days. After a week, this side-effect nearly disappeared, except that I got tired every day at noon and had to take a nap.

Well, I ran out of the medication, didn't have a prescription for more, and spent about a week not taking the medication. Now that I've started again, I have the same side-effect (torpor) that I did when I started the first time because, effectively, I'm starting from scratch again. Had I taken the medication consistently, my body would have been accustomed and would never have reverted to its old unaccustomed state.

Hey, You're Handsome!

Is that your photo, Jose? If so, you're a handsome guy! (I've decided to begin expressing what I feel regardless of our society's insistence that we suppress and deny certain feelings and thoughts in order to avoid appearing to be "gay".)

Why, after all, should it be so socially unacceptable for one man to say to another, "I think you're handsome." Will he disagree with me?

Perhaps he will think that I'm "dando uma cantada" (singing to him, like a bird for mating). Well, so what? If he likes the bird and he likes the song, then what's the problem? (I'm a married flightless bird in Brazil, so that limits my interactions anyway.)

Will the world become a worse place if a man knows that I find him handsome. I don't think it'll hurt anyone, really.

I've discussed this with my wife. She's ok with it. She doesn't find it horribly unacceptable or unspeakably terrible that there are some other men whom I find handsome and attractive. She knows that I think one of my best male friends is handsome and attractive. For that matter, she knows that I think a lot of women are attractive. If the attraction to the women doesn't end our relationship, then why should the attraction to the men be any different?

You know what? If I hear a song that I really like, I tell my friends about it. If I eat at restaurant and I'm pleased with the food, then I tell my friends about it. If I think a woman is pretty, or attractively dressed, I tell her. So, from now on, I refuse to abide by the rule that says that I have to pretend to be unaware that there are handsome men in the world. I'm done keeping this awareness to myself. I also refuse to abide my the rule that says that if I find a man attractive, I have to keep that a secret.

There are some men in the world whom I find attractive, typically because their faces seem open, warm and guileless. I think those are very good characteristics in a person, be it a man or a woman. And that's what I find attractive. Those are the men whom I want for friends.