Between a toxic cloud and a cliff's edge

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I have a very tenacious memory. Though it's never by any means complete or perfect, I will remember events or people from my past (met online or in person, though given my status more often online) who've made an impression for better or worse; naturally more often for the worse. Why this is confuses me. I suspect my family may be right when they say that I have far too much time on my hands for thinking, and nothing else to do with it. Anyway, this isn't really the main point of my post, simply posted for clarity on how persistently a thought I'm having can terrorize me.

For a long time, I've been at home in misery. I'm not sure when I became this way, but if I guessed it could've started around the age of 8 onwards, since I remember having more severe anxiety issues on top of always having been a shy, reluctant kid. At some point, the constant sadness and discontent always began to sustain me. Certainly by the time I became an adult (age-wise, anyway), it became less episodic and more persistance. As I approached the age of thirty, thoughts of suicide that I contemplated about five years earlier, before I was being medicated (currently I have discontinued medication, for about six months), returned. They're very strongly charged, I'm always thinking of my mortality, and more to the point of the fact that I simply can't imagine any future or change that will allow me to move on from my current mode of existence. The only thing, oddly, that prevents me from puncturing several major arteries and letting myself bleed is the simple fact that death never feels so far off that I need to hasten it. Like a houseguest that arrived before I can remember and shows no signs of departing. The prompt to shake their hand never arrives, so. A little too cute and psuedo-poetic maybe, but that's my favorite analogy, and I'm a great fan of those.

I'm reluctant to share much details, but the persistent problem is that I feel like a constant source of disgust. It's no longer to the point where doctors and family can simply lie. And they've proven they will not be honest with me. One doctor even admitted point blank that he would be dishonest with me if it would have a good effect. I don't know, I'm very sure that I'm a foul disgusting thing, that no one would ever find attractive personally and physically. While I realize in many ways this is a self-fulfilling proclamation, the root of it will remain, and I can't ignore it. If I begin lying to myself, I'll never feel more strongly that I've lost my mind, unless perhaps I get the notion that people not only spy on me through the computer and cameras, but can also read my mind. I wonder what label would they attach to such a manifestation? Third degree insanity?

I've thought about just taking my bags and going somewhere, using what little money I have to purchase rent for a month in a growing city and hope to get a job, just accept my fate and put the decision of rejection into other people's hands, rather than preempting them, so as to avoid the shame I feel when I'm trapped with people who show every sign of not tolerating my presence. Yet there's no avoiding shame now, because I'm thirty and haven't arrived at anything. The only thing that keeps me from caving into despair, is that there's nothing behind me apart from a series of sh***y behavior. decisions, and what would probably be a most vile corpse. I don't want to let all this be what I leave behind for people to remember, and I don't want anyone to at best think of the wasted heap of garbage of my life, and at worst a quick joke, a sense of relief, and then forgotten entirely.

Okay, first off, it might be time to see a new doctor, which as a human being you certainly have a right to. Or, perhaps write it off as this doctor waxing philosophically. But from what you say, he doesn't seem that great.

From what I've read, for plain, run-of-the-mill depression, something like Zoloft works great for some people and hardly does a thing for others. And no doctor in the world can predict in advance. It's just that human biochem is complex and individual. And so, the upshot is that it's trial and error in a respectable sense. I think this would be even more the case for tricky things like bipolar, but I don't really know. So, a person kind of needs a doctor who's loosey-goosey, okay, this medicine's not working, let's try this other one which might, that kind of thing.

As far as a brighter future, how about the coming Aspie Rights Movement (which I hope makes big changes). For example, think how abomidably transgender people were treated in the 1960s and how these valued, creative , authentic people now have a much brighter future. Like being on the spectrum, it's the right to be different.

As far as meeting people, yes, sadly, most people are probably 'normalists,' to their loss, but also to my loss because I miss out on meeting people. And by 'normalists' I mean, not only are they relatively normal which is fine, but they are also biased in favor of normal and think that's the only way to go and people who are different are less desirable. Again, their loss. But because it's relatively widespread, it's also my loss.

Some people are open to people who are artistic, creative, different, original, unique. But there seems like there's never one of these people around when I need them. Or, when I'm in a low ebb, these people sure seem to be few and far between, even if they're not.