Suicide. It’s the word everyone hates or is afraid of. It’s the word that steals friends, family, loved ones. It’s cruel, dangerous, and hurtful. It’s something I’ve thought about multiple times, and here I am talking about it to the internet.
You see and hear of all these famous people committing suicide. How everyone mourns them. Misses them. Then you have your small town suicides where the community gets together and supports one another.
Then you have me. The one who has been on the verge of committing suicide multiple times, multiple different ways, and multiple different times in my life.
I can remember still living in my parents house crying my eyes out feeling the what I thought was the worst of my life. I sat in my bed with my antidepressants in hand knowing what I wanted to write in my letter to my family. I remember my dad coming into my room and taking those pills away from me hugging me and telling me it would all be okay. Little secret? It wasn’t okay.
Once I started taking sleeping pills I had another episode where I wanted it all to end. I was going to take them all. End my life and not hurt anymore. I texted friends trying to call out for help. To tell me I was worth living. I was always talked out of it. I never actually did anything.
I went on vacation a year ago for the first time in forever. You’d think I’d be relaxed and enjoy my time. You are so wrong. One day I felt the literal worst and wanted nothing to do with myself or anyone. While everyone was inside visiting I was walking the beach line tempted to walk out into the ocean and never come back. To end it all. I’m so so glad I had Terry there or I would be floating in the ocean somewhere. I got blackout drunk which I don’t do and felt completely numb. It was great.
Wanna skip forward to about a little less than a year ago shall we? I had always thought about cutting myself or harming myself but never went through with it. Here I am sitting in the shower crying holding my razor slicing it across my skin. Watching the blood fall to the bottom of the shower. You know what? It felt good. It was a physical hurt that I could put a name to. Something that made sense instead of me saying I don’t know what’s hurting me.
This happened again after we moved out. I can’t even tell you why I did it. That’s sad isn’t it? I used a pocket knife this time. Deeper pain. It felt good. I felt in control all of a sudden. What I didn’t think about was my family, my love, my friends. Did I really want to leave them? Did I really want to die?
No, I didn’t want any of that. I wanted to live and I wanted to not hurt anymore. I wanted to feel normal. I wanted to not hurt anymore.
Am I better now? No I’m really not. Do I think about killing myself still? Honestly, yes sometimes I do. Do I cut myself anymore? Not entirely. One mishap a week ago, when I had a really bad time. Do I have the will to live? Of course I do. I want to get married and have kids. Grow old. Become a nurse. Help people who suffer like I do. Am I doing this for pity? Hell no. I want you guys to know the rawness of this. Of what can happen when your depression gets really bad. It’s scary. It really is. So why even contemplate it you ask?
It helps you feel like you have control. That you have a say over your depression.
If you’ve made it to the end of this blog I applaud you. I know some people can’t. And that’s okay. It hurt my and scares me sharing this with the world. But I know my family and friends support me so I hope for no judgement.
Peace and love ✌🏻💕