I don’t want to write about this. And until about an hour ago, I said I was skipping it all together. Just don’t mention it. No one would notice. Right?
But then a little voice in the back of my mind [the one that tells me to leave the house ten minutes early or to not take a particular path when on a walking trail] told me “You have to tell this story. Someone might need to hear it.” I have been trying to listen to this voice more often because whoever it is, she seems so much smarter than me.
So, here I am. But as I said in the beginning, I reserve the right to modify these topics as I see fit. The story itself, I refuse to go into. In therapy, it is referred to as a *trigger* and while I like to think I have come a very long way since then, it causes the emotions I have yet to deal with to come rushing back to the surface. And I really just can’t cope with that right now.
[Side note: This is why I really didn't like my mental health nursing class.]
Long story short: Yes. I have thought about suicide. Many times.
When I was a teenager [a mere 3 years ago], I was a cutter [that is why you will never see me in shorts]. It always happened late at night right before I fell asleep. I hated those moments…as I was lying in bed trying to will my noisy mind into a peaceful slumber. Every mistake, every word that I should or shouldn’t have said, every moment that made me hate who I was would charge through my head like a herd of runaway horses.
I didn’t talk to people about it because I felt like no one could ever understand. I mean, how could anyone sympathize with me when they realized that I thought I needed to do this? I needed to hurt myself. The desire to feel the cut, see the thin trail of blood left behind in the razor’s wake, and then feel this sick sense of relief. It was therapeutic….soothing. I did it for different reasons. Sometimes, it was so I wouldn’t feel numb...I wanted to feel something. Even if it was pain. And at other times, it was because I felt like I deserved it.
No one deserves that.
This time in my life was nothing short of hell. I was so far from perfect but then again, no one is. There were days when I didn’t get out of bed because I didn’t want to live anymore. And at times, I felt beyond broken. I wanted to scream and cry and break things so that the chaos I felt swirling in my head was apparent to everyone on the outside looking in. Cutting never solved any of this. All it did was leave scars that I think of a battle wounds.
I think that it take more bravery to find out who you are beyond all the chaos and trauma you have experienced, rather than to merely survive it. People hurt and times are difficult. We are given the life we are given because we are strong enough to live it. We may break and we may fall apart..but we are also tough and we mend. We are who we are but that isn’t all we will ever be.
There are far better things ahead than anything we left behind, darlings.
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
Day 5 - Suicide