I have questioned life and death more than someone my age should. Struggling with thoughts of suicide for a long time. I was scared to die but wanted it. I can recall a moment of complete despair. A moment that in my heart that I know I was going to die. I remember the very feeling in my chest as I lay in bed. The sorrow I felt knowing my life would end soon. I don’t know why that moment clicked while I thought of death so many other times. I was not crying because I wanted to die, but because I know I was going to die. That I may not kill myself then, but my life would not last much longer. I mourned my own death as if it was a forgone conclusion.
Years have passed, many I thought would be the last year of my life. Am older now than I ever thought I would be. In many ways, I still mourn the life I killed as well as the life I wasted mourning it. Still, another year ticks by. That has to count for something.
Yesterday I dumped my medicine into my hands. Pills in hand I studied there weight. I did not feel depressed, thoughts of suicide did not cross my mind. I just wanted to know what they felt like. It was such a surreal urge I can’t forget it. I then looked online for the overdose information on each pill. Two out of the three pills would cause vomiting and a deep sleep, likely followed by death. I looked at this information without emotion. I simply don’t know what possessed me to do so.
I should know the weight of my medicine already because there was a time I felt them before. Years ago, I was young and hopeless. I saw no way out, and the pain overwhelmed me. I wasn’t as open with my depression as I am now, so I can’t help but wonder if the people who loved me know how far I had fallen. I took a small handful of my pills, added some Tylenol for good measure and washed them down with water. I tried to go to sleep but panic set in. I ran to my bathroom and forced myself to throw up.
It all seems so silly now. There was a good chance I did not take a lethal dose of anything. It was like I was just playing at the idea of suicide. We all hold our own lives in our hands. A life is heavy, I have no other way of saying so. Perhaps from time to time we just need to feel how heavy.
The other day I had a dream that’s been weighing on my mind. I’ve almost been too ashamed to share it but I don’t think it will go away till I written it down. I dreamed that I was at my family’s small little lake house. My Mom, Dad, Brother, and sister where there. My nostalgia was over run by depression. A deep inexpiable depression that I could not explain to anyone around me. A ran away and hid myself in a small room to hide my shame. It was then that hand belonging to no one handed me a noose.
I awoke, but the dream still stays vivid in my mind. Haunting me a little. I can only think that hand was the worst parts of mind. Telling me to give up. The voice that I keep fighting everyday.
Many who suffer mental illness soon learn their greatest opponent is themselves. There is no worse bully then your own mind. Your mind attacks you constantly, always taking every opportunity to put you down. You try to fight it, but you can’t win. Every attack you try is only another attack against yourself. So we look for ways out. We hurt ourselves or seek drugs to numb the mind. When that inevitably does not work we start to question suicide.
One of the worst things to tell a suicidal person is “You will go to hell if you do.” Our lives had already become hell, we can not see anything possibly being worse than the now and then. If Hell exists it be a welcome change then the hell on earth our lives had become. If there is no hell then the void sounds just fine.
There is no escaping your mind. You can only learn to live with him. Fighting makes things worse, letting him win makes things worse. So you must compromise your life. You learn more about the foe in your head and you learn how to control and live with it. It is not a storybook ending but it is life. Take your time, learn, live.
Two twelve year old girls stabbed their friend 19 times in order to enter Slendermans world. They read such things on Creepypasta and as such the media is quick to blame it. While my heart goes out to the family, you can’t allow story’s to become a point of blame. No more than video games cause people to kill, story’s are not to blame. We grow up on tales of Bloody Mary and the Jersey Devil, sneaking peaks at Tale’s from the Crypt while our parents weren’t looking. Each generation has their own tales, and their own mediums to hear them. While am not saying such things are meant for kids, it takes more than simple observation to try and reenact them. I wont pretend I can tell anyone how to raise a child but i know something in the way mental illness can remain unseen till something tragic happens. It is part nature, and part nurture there will never be a single thing you can blame solely for such tragedy.
I don’t, i refuse to keep my connection to suicide secret. I have spent so much of my life with its weight its hardly a wonder that i see it as part of who i am. I wanted to die, at times it scared me, other times i was at peace with the idea of dieing. Despite that, am still alive. My thoughts where on the subject so much, that even in a period of my life that i don’t want to die i still think often of the subject. Its personal for me, i often walk walk to the train station, visiting the memorial of two girls who stepped in front of a train as a third girl watched on the bridge above them. I think of what there thoughts might of been like, and compare them to the pain i had.
A close family friend died last week. She was like an aunt to me, and i will miss her. Last night her husband felt he could not take the loneliness any longer and tried to end his own life. He failed in his attempt, and his future from here is still very undecided. So my thoughts turn to suicide again, feeling great empathy for such pain that life is no longer worth living. The lack of knowledge others have on the subject does not help the matter. Many people do not know how to even talk to someone like this, and fail to try and understand.
Am not sure i can ever escape death, depression, and suicide. There is a very good chance i don’t want to. Am often seeking out sad stories, everytime suicide pops up in both fiction and nonfiction i want to know the story. Is it because i can easily relate? Somewhere out there right now is a little boy, begging for help in the night, tired of life he wishes to take his life. My heart breaks for him, as i hoped someone would for me when i was on that floor, begging anyone to save me.
I don’t enjoy watching other people suffer, so why am i so drawn to such stories? Perhaps i just want to cry for them, to cry for the lost and the lonely. I’ve cried a lot in my life, i grow tired of it, but now…. I don’t know what i feel now. I feel my heart open, and my mind clear when am absorbed into such tales. Sometimes it’s healthy to cry to such things.
Even the most lonely of us support each other in this world. As even the smallest amount of interaction supports me, i support others the same. Somewhere out there there is a boy suffering, while he thinks of suicide there is another out there watching him, the only thing keeping them going is knowing this boy is bearing that burden. When that one person dies, all of his supports go with him, the people that were helping him, and the people that little did he know he was helping.