Help?

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Hi. I believe I've yet to make a post on these forums, but even these forums overwhelm me. So yeah, I've felt isolated. I had one local friend. She was ten years older than me, and her fiancee has AS as well. They moved to Texas in January. I first became suicidal when I was thirteen or fourteen. I'm queer (bi-gender, homo-romantic, borderline asexual) and grew up in church with a Baptist Christian family, and that wasn't the worst of it. I think that I only didn't kill myself back then because I was weak and because I couldn't write a satisfactory suicide note. For a while I felt suicide just wasn't the right option for me; that it just wasn't something I would do. And I've avoided any physical self-harm for years; though I sometimes press a knife against myself when I feel particularly suicidal (I mean the side of it; it's almost comforting.). I often attempted to kill myself by starvation through fasting, and although I didn't have the self-control it has affected my eating habits and I'm rather skinny. I'm incredibly lonely. I'm somewhat narcissistic and also have awfully low self-esteem, so I'm always berating myself for my actions and for the times I'm happy with myself. My mom has said she is sick of hearing about me having AS, and how she thinks it's an excuse any time I bring it up. My dad doesn't understand me very well either. I've been to a few therapists, but I either feel uncomfortable or too comfortable to bring up anything very serious. When I'm feeling particularly suicidal I feel like I want to talk to someone, but I also feel like I can't. On top of not being able to communicate well, I'm afraid I'll appear attention-seeking, and I don't want to hurt or upset the people I care about by telling them about my problems. The one time I called a hotline the operator said hello, I couldn't get anything out, and they ended the call. So here I am.

Something that helped me get out of spells of feeling particularly suicidal was this novel I've been working on for a long time. Something I read in something by Stephen King (maybe The Stand, which I'm the middle of right now) mentioned how some writers committed suicide after garnering success or something after their work was published. Sometimes I think my work in progress has only kept me going because I want to get it out for the autobiographical elements; to have my story known, even if it's not entirely clear which parts are from my life. And after it occurred to me how much more likely I would be to commit suicide after publishing it, it didn't matter anymore; I stopped caring about the novel in that It Keeps Me Going way. Thus began another of my spells. I was sitting on the computer hoping I could talk to someone, when an online friend of mine invited me to her online character roleplay thing. I joined it--a good distraction--but the very next day she told me about how people from a previous rp we were both in had been harassing and making her miserable for months, and she asked me to take over the rp as the new mod then left. And there was someone else we both knew who would be the co-mod. But only if she didn't have to talk to people. She's not good at talking to people. Which made two of us. So I said that was all right; she didn't have to talk to people; I would do all that. My first day as a mod I confronted someone about their rule-breaking, and they felt I was yelling at them. Someone else from the rp was a friend of theirs and also became upset with me. And a third person was consistently rude to me while I was consistently level-headed with them. I haven't been back to the rp since then. I believe that was earlier this month.

This past Saturday was my friend's birthday. He just turned twenty-nine. I'm nineteen. He lives about forty-five minutes away; although I had trouble driving there and back and it took me quite a bit longer. I totally thought I loved him, that he was my favorite human being, the platonic love of my life. When I made it to his house Saturday I was the first one there, which was great. I had bought a video game for him, but it turned out it's for a console he doesn't have, which was embarrassing. We chatted a bit; he let me borrow a few books (two textbooks (one on communication and one from an acting class) and a collection of the first three books in Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles). A friend of his (a young woman his age) I'd met once before and got along with rather well arrived next. Then three people I'd never met arrived, the six of us piled into a vehicle meant to seat five, and we drove to a club in Cleveland. It was too loud for me to talk with anyone, I didn't get the entertainment of cross-dressing, lip-syncing and bad dancing, and I didn't feel like I could dance at all, but I liked being there. I liked being around my friend. While we were all standing at the bar he drew me closer and said he didn't want any repressed homosexual dragging me off; "unless you want a repressed homosexual to drag you away." And while we watched the show he would frequently touch my shoulder, which, though I don't much like being touched, I found comforting. On the way to The Chamber, the goth place in Cleveland, he told us "a story." He said that "the only man I truly loved" woke up one morning and said he wanted "a normal life," married, moved to Tennessee, and had kids (maybe just one now? I think); and that the guy had called him earlier in the week, not realizing it was his birthday, to complain about how awful his life had become. And apparently my friend's response was: "You wanted a normal life. You got it, f****r." Then we were turned away at The Chamber because my friend had forgotten to renew his license and it had expired at midnight. So we went somewhere to eat, and he (very drunk) spent a while trying to convince the heterosexual guy with a girlfriend to let him see his penis. He fell asleep during the ride back to his house. It was dark, I had been confused on my drive there, he had drawn me a map and given me verbal directions for a quicker way back which I was unfamiliar with, so I figured I should sleep on his couch. The girl I knew asked for me if I could stay, and he nodded. In the house he nodded towards his room, and I followed him in. He asked if I wanted to sleep in his bed. I said okay. He asked the same question a second time, and I said okay again. I kind of felt that the question meant something different the second time, but I was unsure. He changed into a different shirt. Sat beside me on the bed and took my shoes off. Walked around the bed; lied down. He started touching me, rubbing my arms, which was all right. When he started rubbing my legs I understood that it was sexual in nature, but it didn't feel sensual to me. And. Well. I had actually thought about fooling around with him before. I'd never really fooled around with anyone before. I might have been all right with it, but I was uncomfortable then, because he was drunk. I said, “You're sure this is all right,” and he said, “Oh, it's perfectly good.” Yet, with him drunk, I wasn't made comfortable. He kept asking me if this was okay, if I was all right. At first I either couldn't respond at all or could only say “I don't know” or “Dunno.” Later on, when he asked I could only moan or groan loudly. I tried to be okay with it at the time. I mostly did what he told me. I would go into more detail about what happened, but I don't want to make you more uncomfortable than you might already be. But—okay—I guess I'll say he penetrated me. We tried a couple positions, and he had me on top of him and doing the moving. When I couldn't make myself do it anymore we stopped. We talked a little. He said, “I just feel like I made you do something you didn't wanna do,” and his arms kinda went limp. I asked how long he'd wanted to do this, and he said, for a while, and that he'd thought about it the other time I came over and we watched Pushing Daisies. He said he thought I would want to fool around. I asked if now was really a good time. He said it probably shouldn't have been when he was drinking. I said, “Don't be too upset,” and he said, “I'm not upset.” I said I had to go to the bathroom. He helped me find my clothes. I went to the bathroom, washed my hands, and had a glass of orange juice. On the way back into the room I said, “I'm really okay.” “You're okay?” I nodded. I felt perfectly okay. I thought, 'I was raped at least once as a kid, and I'm mostly okay with that now.' I made myself okay with it, because I still wanted us to be friends. We chatted a little more. The last thing he said before he fell asleep with his hand over mine was: “I just can't believe I forgot to renew my license.” I was awake for about an hour after that. And I woke up a couple times. But I actually slept for around seven hours. We talked pleasantly for about an hour with one of my favorite CDs playing softly (I had listened to it on the drive to his house and suggested we could listen to it.) He wrote directions on the back of the map he drew, but I erred early on and needed to call both of my parents multiple times to find my way home. I had planned on texting my friend to let him know I made it home. I quickly forgot. About ten minutes after I arrived home he texted to ask if I made it home. Here are the texts:

Him: So, did you get back home?
Me: Yeah; I meant to text you. I erred horribly on the way, but yes, I have arrived at my current place of residency. Only about ten minutes ago, or less.
Him: Well im glad you got back home.
Me: Yeah.

After what happened I had felt closer to him. And on the drive home I was peachy. But after the exchange of texts I felt awful. I felt stupid. I said to my room, “Well, you got what you wanted. Sorry I screwed it up.” I tried to read more of The Stand, but I quickly fell asleep for about another seven hours. I was kind of okay, but after a while I became angry. I was still pretty calm, though. I was sitting at the computer, not doing much, and I looked over to see my mom on the couch, appearing to be asleep. She has sleep apnea and doesn't sleep well without her machine. I began to try to help her off the couch, and she snapped at me: “What are you doing?” “I'm trying to help you up.” “Trying to get rid of me?” “No. I just know you don't sleep well without your machine.” “I'm waiting for Dad!” “I didn't know. I was just trying to help.” “Yeah; I can tell when I'm not wanted.” On the way out of the room I said, “I was trying to help, not trying to be an a**hole.” “You don't have to talk like that.” “You don't have to say mean things to me.” “I'm not saying mean things.” “You said, Trying to get rid of me? I know when I'm not wanted.” I asked why she was trying to hurt me; if she was trying to hurt herself. She said, “Whatever. You don't even know what yesterday was.” “You don't know what yesterday was for me.” And then she was headed upstairs and I walked the other way. She was mad because she thought I didn't know it was Mother's Day. Hah. So I went into a bit of a rage. Didn't really do any damage to anything. Didn't wake any sleepers. Oh, this was a few hours ago. There wasn't anyone on Facebook chat I could talk to. One of my other favorite human beings appeared to be on Tumblr. Ehh. But I sent her a few of my poems a few days ago, and she still hasn't responded to that message. I asked if she was there, and she said yeah, hey there. I said sorry; never mind. She asked what was wrong, and I said I was overwhelmed and that I should probably talk about it but couldn't. I felt like suicide had never made more sense. I looked online for suicide help chats? Someone on Yahoo Answers asked if there was such a thing, and one of the people answering said they didn't think it would work because there's emotion in spoken word and so on. I can't call hotlines, though. The one friend I could probably talk to about it is a busy college student and currently appears to be completely unavailable. So I ended up here and took hours typing this. Now that I'm finished I feel like it doesn't matter. I feel like my problems don't matter. I feel like this whenever I do something like this, and I think sometimes I stop myself. I don't remember that clearly. But I mean, I feel that insignificant. I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know what I'm doing in any regard. And now I'm going to stop rambling and probably sleep for another seven hours. (I feel so melodramatic.)

I read your entire post. You sound like a passionate individual who is full of life energy.

Being young with AS is often about being really, really confused, alienated, depressed and full of suicidal thoughts. Your job is really just to survive it. Survive it and relish the way youth magnifies the beautiful and the ugly into melodramatic proportions.