I was ten the first time i tried to kill myself. I don’t even remember why, exactly. But I do know that it wasn’t “serious” enough (how can a ten year old make a serious attempt?) to do any real damage, and I was able to hide that I’d done it. And I knew to hide it because I knew, even back then, that you Did Not Talk About It.
I’m not a fan of religion for a number of reasons, but a big one is because I grew up in the kind of religious environment where being unhappy was considered a moral failing. If you felt bad, it meant you were probably sinning somehow. Or you just weren’t praying hard enough. Anything bad that happened to you was, somehow, your own fault.Â They tell you that God will take away your burdens, so you try and try and pray and pray but they’re still there. Because praying doesn’t fix a chemical imbalance.
So you’re 12, 13, 14. A lot of things in your life and your brain all have you feeling terrible. And you’re convinced it’s your fault that you feel bad, and you’ve tried and tried and prayed and prayed and nothing works, and you feel like god doesn’t hear you and god isn’t helping you and god isn’t listening. And eventually, you come to the conclusion that GodÂ hates you.Â
try to imagine how that might feel
some days i wonder how i am still alive