Desperate, to a big extent


#1

I’m completely lost in regards of all of this. I don’t feel no longer human and, it seems, that I’m doing a lot of damage around me.
I’m not able to feel empathy anymore to a big extent and there are people around me that seem to want to help but I simply don’t care anymore, mainly because, as I said, I don’t feel human anymore. I can’t enjoy a TV show, I can’t have meaningfull talks with people, I can’t masturbate - the list goes on, I’m just not myself anymore.

Even before all this I wasn’t in the best place imaginable. As I was taking propecia I was interned over 3 times in a psychiatric hospital. Something that, in my case, had never happend before. I had always had dealt with problems with depression along my teenage years, but the “episodes” I had were more in the line of panick attacks and somewhat semi psychotic episodes. By psychotic I don’t mean me hearing voices or seeing things, but more in the lines of me having sky high anxiety, being worried of going crazy and pretty much having really bad gastrointestinal issues.

Now I’m wondering If I’m going crazy alongside having pfs. I just can’t deal with this shallow well that I can’t seem to get out from. I’m so pathetic. I’ve been talking with people who’ve had pfs for a while now and have gotten out of it or have adjusted to it so well to be able to live a semi normal life after it, things like having a job, still have friends, being able to unwind from this whole process.

I just think I’ve done everything wrong. I have becomed in a weirdo along other people that have PFS. Not being able to unwind from your own fucking suffering is one big level of hell, I’ll tell you that much.
Lately I’ve been Psyching myself out, thinking that as said above, that this is way more than PFS. This thought scares me to death . For some solid month and a half I’ve been trying to find a way out of all this, sometimes getting inspired by a lot of recovery stories and others just getting broken by the regular posts of users in here.

For 2-3 solid days straight I’ve been thinking on just killing myself in some way. I know I can’t keep on going living like this - If I do it i’ll become a monster. This days have consisted in me being walking and passing through my apartment and just not unwinding from this whole thought process. Today, for example, I woke up and the first thing that came to mind was that I needed to send a message to the world. If I did killed myself it should be done by portraying the hard reality of all this. The Idea of getting my hands on a gun somehow, going into a mall, grabbing a hostage while having a megaphone on my hand and spitting the hard truth about all this could be a good idea.

I just feel so bad that I’ve turned into this. If I keep on living I’ll become into a shell of my former self and probably will keep on getting worse, this leading me into getting interned into a psych ward probably. I have no way out - at least it seems like it.
Just thinking that close to a a little bit more than a week ago I was reading and enjoying TV shows was a light of hope to some extent. Now I’m more miserable than ever.

To be fair, I crashed from a really high dose of Tribulus some days ago which led me to, I suppose, this said so state which I’m in.
People are getting tired of me, saying that I keep running in circles and circles and circles. Even people with PFS. I don’t know if this is common in the first stages, people have told me it really is, but there’s a tiny corner of my mind which tells me that maybe my silly ass should have stayed in the psych ward.

The psychiatrist that saw me after my last internation in the psych ward told me that I had no signs of schizophrenia or bipolar disorder - that I had a hypochondriac personality. This was quite the relief, but now that all of this is happening, I can’t trust myself on anything. I’ve lost most of my personality and people are able to tell; I’m able to tell.

I feel like I’m just doing everything to not recover to some extent, psychologically speaking. Torturing myself due to the misanthropic sea that I seem to be fermenting in.
The idea that people have tried to help me and even aknowledge what I have in retrospective has been a great thing, but I just hate that I can’t seem to care anymore.

“There’s no uncurable illnesses, but uncurable patients” - this train of thought has been engrained in my mind so deeply that I can’t seem to be able to get rid of it.