The Hidden Consequence of Passive Suicidal Ideation
Hey yall, I'm a 22-year-old female, finally coming to grips with the hidden cost of being p***ively suicidal and depressed. I've been depressed ever since I was 10 years old, and I went through immense childhood abuse, and I planned on dying at 18. I was homeless at the time and crashing on couches, and I went to college because I had to. I went to art school because I was deeply depressed and had developed no other interests and hobbies or cared about any other field of study. Being p***ively suicidal meant I didn't care about my studies and my body. I didn't care about my life, my health. I didn't develop any interest in college, either. I can't remember large chunks of it because I was dis***ociated most of the time. Being p***ively suicidal means that I haven't gotten treatment for my mental illness until it was too late. My artwork was half-***ed because I felt like I was dragging an animated corpse around. I'm just starting to care about my life, and it's too late. Because I chose to live while wanting to die, my life is a shell of what it's supposed to be.
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