Looking at the statistics for this blog, I think I am pretty safe to write what I am about to write. While I have a few readers (mainly from Russia, France, and India) it doesn’t look like anyone who knows me in real life reads anymore. So I am going to be honest. I am thinking about killing myself.
No, this is not a cry for help. I am not seeking attention. I’m not trying to be “emo” or “selfish” or “stupid”. I am just telling the truth.
I Googled “how to make suicide look like an accident” earlier today and didn’t find anything noteworthy as far as ways to die. What I did find was a lot of people trying to talk others out of going through with it…for all the wrong reasons. I’m sorry, maybe you mean well, but telling someone they are being selfish does not change their minds. If anything, it just drives home the fact that we aren’t fit to live anymore; when we can’t see past the pain anymore, when we’ve gotten to the point where we feel like our death would be easier on our families than our living, then being called selfish is perhaps the sharpest knife you can stab in our hearts. Thank you for killing us quicker. How thoughtful of you.
Beyond that, though, I found something valuable today. I found people who understand what this feels like. I didn’t talk to any of them (some of them are probably dead by now), but the words they wrote on various spots on the internet, the exact places my Google search led me today, reached out and grabbed hold of my trembling hand. And suddenly I didn’t feel so alone in this battle of how, of when, of why.
I have plenty of people in my life to tell me why I should stick around. Well, I say plenty, but I really only have a handful. Some of them would be angry with me. Some would be devastated. Some (like my children, and god this hurts the worst) may even blame themselves. They might never recover. I really don’t have anyone I go to and tell that I feel like I am going to kill myself. There are a few who I tell after the feeling passes, but I withdraw into a cold hard shell in the meantime. I don’t want to tell anyone my plans; they might try to change them. Or, for the few friends I have who wrestle with the same demons, I am always afraid my candid talk of suicide might trigger the same feelings in themselves. And telling a doctor or therapist? That’s a surefire way to end up in the state hospital. If I had the option of somewhere lovely like Laurelwood where they actual do try to help, then I would drop everything and run to the place. But being caged like an animal in the state run hospital where they don’t even send in someone to talk to me except maybe one time with a doctor who appears drunk and hopeless? And with the patients who throw chairs and accuse me of stealing their room even though it is the one I was assigned? No, thank you.
The depression has been rough lately. My last post on here (right after the fake-optimistic one of YAY I’M GOING TO FINISH MY BOOK AND NOTHING IS GOING TO STOP ME) hinted at a little of that depression I suppose, but it runs much deeper than that. My paranoia is back. The kind where I feel like everyone hates me, including my fiance. Everything I say gets on his nerves and I’m holding him back in life and I can’t even keep our living quarters clean or consistently cook food for us…yada yada. And to my daughters, I am just a complication. They have a good life with their dad and stepmom and stepbrothers. Every picture I see of them having a good time both comforts me and kills me. Because I am not in those pictures, and I am barely in their lives. Because I have no money and no driver’s license and no guarantee at the few social functions I have the courage to attend that I won’t embarrass them to death with one of my stupid panic attacks. And my son. When I am a good mom I am a freaking good mom, but when I’m not I am aloof, impatient, rageful, terrifying. Of all the people I know who have a mother with bipolar disorder, none of them have ever said anything good about their childhood. None of them. Instead, I hear the horrible dysfunction they had to endure, and on a good day I can kid myself and think I will never produce that type of atmosphere for my dear children. But then the rage comes. I’m not talking about a little snap of the tongue. I mean full-blown rage. Screaming, throwing things, locking myself in another room so I don’t kill someone rage. So, yes, I am a complication in my kids’ lives, dead or alive. While I am the only one available to watch our son each day, I figure if I died then my fiance would probably move in with his mom and then there would be plenty of people to share in a good, nurturing childhood for him. The good things that could come from my death are abundant in my eyes. Would they outweigh the grief? I don’t know. I hold all the possibilities in my hands and try not to drop any of them, because to tip the scale will certainly seal my fate one way or another.
I had decided I wanted to get the house clean before I did anything drastic. So that no one would call me a slob when I was gone. But just sweeping the living room floor I screamed at my son for getting in the way and then I just sank down to the pile of dust and sobbed. I thought of waking my fiance, so he could save me from myself, but I know he needs the sleep. I logged onto Facebook to see if there was a friend I could confide in (because I can’t talk on the phone and certainly not in person) but the first thing I saw was a picture of my two beautiful girls posing with their stepmom. And they looked so happy, like nothing was missing. I deactivated my Facebook account, and now here I am. Still weighing the odds, but the scale is more unbalanced. I am unbalanced. And I’m tired. I’m tired of crying all day. I’m tired of my thoughts. I’m tired of my actions. I’m tired of my past, my present, my future. I’m just tired.
