I’ve been suicidal for as long as I can remember. I attempted once, took a bunch of sleeping pills. The worst feeling in the world is waking up the next day after attempting suicide and having to deal with your family and the questions. To fully understand this I guess I’ll start from the beginning.
My father left before I could remember. My first few memories are of my first step-father trying to get my mom to go out with him. One night while they were having sex I started to cry, as most children do I thought he was hurting her. So he gave me the full blown sex talk, at the age of four. I still remember every word. Then about two or three months later he started making nightly visits to my room, telling me if I loved him I’d play with him and not tell my mom, and she wouldn’t believe me anyways if I did tell. So I did what every child who goes through that does, I obeyed silently. Then my sister came to live with us, and the night time visits didn’t occur as often. At first, I thought he was mad at me and didn’t love me anymore. It wasn’t until I was eight that I figured out it was wrong, and that my feelings were wrong, but by then the damage had been done.
I had my first optional sexual activity at the age of nine, with another boy about three years older then me. It was around that time I figured out that I was gay, and I knew that at all cost I had to hide that part of me. I know at this point my life seems fucked up, but it gets worse. When I was eleven my sister told my mom what had been occuring over the years with my step-father. My mother called her a liar, and kicked her out at the age of four-teen, then called the cops and told them that she had ran away. I remained silent as my mother and sister fought, I had learned when my sister moved in that a brick wall is the best way to face the world. My mother and sister have fought with each other ever since the day my sister came to live with us.
A week after my sister told my mother about my step-father my mother finally asked me about it. So I stood there and told her the truth. She asked that I keep quiet about it and I did. So for another year I endured what I felt was my punishment for having told my mother. My step-father was notorious for his beatings, and the fact that his aim was horrible. Some days my back and the back of my legs would be a dark purple and some days they would be just blue. On top of that abuse I also dealt with severe mental abuse, being told that I wasn’t worth loving, that my father left because of me, I could go on forever it seems.
a year later my step-father stole my mothers wedding ring and all the money we had to run off with some other woman. A month after that he returned, and my mother had the nerve to ask me if I would forgive him for what he did. So I took to the silent obedient mind set I had learned to escape too and lied, telling him I forgave him. Not a week later he ran off again, once again with all of our money, and half of our furniture. I have lived on the streets before, so it was nothing new.
When I turned thirteen I decided I needed to live with my real father, because puberty was on its way and I felt that every thirteen year old boy should go through puberty with their fathers guidance. To this day I have learned nothing from my father, except how to ignore, forget, and alienate people from myself. My father had left my mother to run off with some woman he had been seeing for a while during his marriage to my mother. They had had a child when I was eight. Not to break from the subject but to give you a little more information I have four siblings, a younger and older brother and a younger and older sister. My oldest sister is from my mother and her first husband, and the rest of my siblings are from my father and three different women.
I lived with my father and his current girlfriend for three years along with my brothers. During that time I read everything I could get my hands on, while listening to my father ***** at me for reading in the first place, telling me a book wouldn’t get me anywhere in the world. Through out my life I have failed at everything I ever set out to accomplish, and my father never gave me much reason to really try anyways. My brother and I had started shoplifting during those years, from every place we went to. I joined the school choir, my brother joined the high school army training program, I forget the name. One day while shop lifting from a big store we were finally caught, and went to juvy. When we got out the next day our parents demanded that we write a paper on why we had shoplifted. Me being nosy snuck into my brothers room and read his, to find out that he had planned on blaming it entirely on me, when he was the one telling me to put the stuff in my pocket, and then not letting me put the items back when I saw a worker watching us. My own brother was planning on letting me take the fall completely, so I did what I was good at.
I stole his paper and destroyed it, and took to being silent as usual. The choir and school army thing come in at this part, You see, my father and his girlfriend were big on favorites, and my brother was their favorite. We had been grounded for three months, but during those months two events occured, the choir’s concert, which counted as fifty percent of my yearly grade, and the school army presentation of the flags or what ever its called, which affected no part of my brothers grade. My brother was able to go, I was not. My teacher even called and told my father about the concert being part of my grade, but they insisted that I didn’t deserve to go.
So after that, I had gained a new persona if you will, I began to snoop on everything, I heard every conversation, saw every note, every website visited by my family. I became the database of information as far as my father’s family was concerned. In doing so I discovered my father’s newest affair, and revenge became enough motive for me to let it slip to my step-mom. I left her hints, and information, not only about my father, but about my brother as well. I led her to my brother fucking his girlfriend in his truck behind the grocery store, I had her track down my father with his newest affair in a hotel on Oklahoma, I was a rat, a very clever knowledgeable rat, who knew how to let things slip without them ever being connected back to me. My brothers first tattoo, my father’s porn addiction, even my step-mother’s hot checks and false tax information. My family had become pawns for me to pit against each other. I relished the chaos I had created from day to day. I instilled doubt and worry, I had finally become someone of importance, but only as a disease, infecting my family.
Now you may see me as a monster, or disillusioned, but I don’t care. Finally things were in my control, I had the ability to instigate fights and not even be in the same house when doing so. It was then that I began to see the world as a game, nothing more. When bullies attempted to mess with me, I destroyed them mentally. I had strong people around me, who fought anyone who tried to mess with me when I let them, and I had weak people around me so I could bully them under the false pretense of friendship. I didn’t realize it then, but I had become what I had hated, but I still didn’t care. Then the game became boring, completely and utterly boring. I’d break the mental barriers of people and yawned while doing so. I had built a wall of silence so huge that I couldn’t even see myself over it.
I moved back into my mothers, and decided to stand up for the people who didn’t. I took on bullies for weak people, and then befriended them for real, giving them more then protection, I gave them someone to ***** at about their lives. I listened, and listened, and gave advice, good advice. I had taken on another persona, helping people by listening and I liked myself, for a while. I advised, and they listened, and it felt good, for a while. But as usual I ended up hating myself again, for my emotions, feelings, the rat inside had never died, and I had secrets itching to reach others ears. I bottled it up, kept secret after secret,
but continued to snoop and sneak, hear everything and see everything. My mother would pay me for information on my sister, and my step-mother continued to ask me for information on my father.
I attempted suicide at seventeen, while living with my mother I had begun to work for her over the internet, I had quit school shortly before. I kept failing to turn in projects, and she gave me a big one to be turned in the next day. I worked for as long as I could, then seeing it was in vain, I gave up. My wall had crumbled during working for her, I don’t know how, but everything I had put behind it came crashing on top of me in a wave of despair, depression, and emotion. I took thirty six sleeping pills, and chased them with tequila, and went to sleep.
The next morning I woke up, high as hell, I was delirious, mumbling, foaming a little, had dried puke all down me, and couldn’t walk straight. My mother never called 911 or poison control, instead she laid me down on the couch and let me sleep. When I woke up my sister was there with my mother. My mother didn’t seem scared or worried, just angry. I imagine she was scared and worried, but all I remember is her anger, and the dumbest question in the world that she asked me. “were you trying to kill yourself?” and all I could think was no, I took a bottle of sleeping pills for the hell of it, of course I was dumb ass! But I lied, and said no, which I’m sure she didn’t believe.
A year later I moved in with my sister, then I met a guy and moved in with him. What I’ve left out of my life story here, my drug addiction fed by my sister, the unspeakable acts during my late childhood and all my teen years, are of course all things that helped ignite my ambition to kill myself. I don’t want to live, I just don’t, as with my game of life, I have become bored with life.
Last night I told my boy-friend about my current suicidal thoughts, and about how they have become more intricate. I’ve moved past pills and knifes, now I think about taking my truck and driving off a cliff, or dousing myself in gasoline and catching myself on fire. I envision tying bricks to my legs and jumping off a pier into a lake. But getting all of this off my chest has actually made me feel better, I think I’ll continue living a little longer, and try to get some help on Monday.