If my suffering could be manifested physically, I’m sure everyone would be okay with me leaving

First time I tried to kill myself, I was 16. I overdosed and was hospitalised. I was raped and bullied. I left hospital and ignored calls from the police.

For the next five years, I felt myself losing a sense of who I was. A straight-A, goody two shoes, quit college (UK meaning of the word). I started over, but skipped school a lot. I ended up getting two As and a B at A Level. I got into a good university to study law, but I think they just wanted my money from international fees. I got a 2:1 with honours, but by the scrape of my tooth.

You see, three days before my first final paper I was raped again. After it happened, I ran out of my room to find for a friend. I told her everything and asked her if I had just been raped because I couldn’t quite believe it. The next day (Friday), I had an emergency talk with all the relevant people at uni. As sympathetic as they were, I had to push through because if I didn’t sit for certain papers, I would not end up with a qualifying degree and my three years of hard work would have been for nothing. I ran home, laid in bed, stared at the ceiling and felt like dying. I cried and cried and then snapped out of it. I think I became some sort of robot. I just pushed through. Sat my papers in a special room. When the clock was up for my last paper, I just ran out of the room and burst out crying.

A few months later (at 21), I was officially diagnosed with depression. My doctor did not think I was fit to go home but I convinced her to let me go. I took my anti-depressants for a week but gave up.

Last year at 24, I was diagnosed with BPD. My outbursts are out of this world and it’s getting worse. I bang my head against things, I cut myself, I drink, I try to hang myself, I throw and break everything in my sight, I scream. I tried to kill myself again in December 2013. Overdosed on Tylenol. A whole bunch. Sometimes I resent my husband for calling the ambulance. My husband, I guess, is immune to my outbursts. He becomes very cold in these moments. He leaves me no matter how much I ask him to stay and help me calm down. In these moments, I feel so alone. I just want someone to hold my hand and want to help me. My husband says I’m a grown ass 25 year old woman and not a child. I can’t face it alone. When I first tried to kill myself at 16, I ignored calls from the police and doctor because I knew I would have had to go through the whole process alone. I don’t want to do it again.

I lost my grandmother 5 months ago. I lived with her. She raised me. I watched her die. It was the single most horrific experience of my life. A lot of the time I feel like I could have done something about it but maybe I just didn’t. I don’t feel like I did everything I could to keep her alive. I have this overwhelmingly agonising feeling that I let her die. I call out for her almost every day but she never comes. I want to be with her.

I have been on auto-pilot mode. I feel determined to die. I know it is my mission to die. I won’t lie; I am scared. I don’t really want to die but I don’t know how else to reach out and end this suffering I have to deal with alone. BPD has killed me. Maybe I let it and I guess I wasn’t strong enough a person to stop it from killing me. I hate this illness and I don’t see myself recovering. I want to be gone but I want everyone I love to know how much at peace I will be once I am gone. I know no matter how much I say that I don’t want them to be sad, that they will be devastated. But I will be at peace because I won’t be suffering from BPD anymore and because I won’t be putting my loved ones through the frustration of dealing with someone like me.