biding my time

I’ve decided I’m going to make my exit. Not tonight, not in the near future. But the sands of time are trickling. It was around this time last year (oct/nov) that my moderate depression took a sudden darker turn. It was like a switch went off. It was a sudden emotionless matter-of-fact realization: I have nothing to live for. Nothing, truly. I have a husband who loves me dearly, but you simply can’t live for other people. This time last year I made the decision… but how? where? Planning is crucial, not only because I don’t want a failed attempt. I’ve felt out of control my whole life… I want to be in control of my own death.

Death is funny. Near, but elusive. Life is a tightrope. Everything is a threat. The water that comes from your faucet… don’t drink any and you die. Drink too much and you die. I’m tired of walking on walking on the edge of a knife in anxiety.

I want to die outside in the woods, a peaceful, beautiful setting. Since I have no tolerance for cold weather, this gives me a short window of a few months. Last November I wanted to move forward with my plan and did my research. Dying reliably is hard. Not only would I need a few supplies, I would also need to prepare myself mentally. You see, while I had a clear and rational view that I needed to go, that I am simply using up resources here, I had this pesky will to survive buried deep down somewhere. I had to start whittling it down and with steady self realization, it worked. But soon I got caught up in holidays, life, and inertia, and before I knew it, spring was dawning. My time was coming, and I didn’t have the supplies I needed.

Late March and into April has always had a queer suicidal effect on me. I think it has to do with nature waking back up, life moving forward in a realm I don’t truly belong to.  I had an anxiety attack and cut my legs up something fierce. It was like I was in a trance, shaving my legs with an xacto knife ankle to crotch. Strange, since I’ve never cut myself before. A couple of days later I was very embarrassed about cutting myself and hoping to put that fiasco behind me. But my husband had it in his head that I was a danger to myself and he excused himself to go for a drive. I was home alone, placidly surfing the internet in a tee shirt and underwear, when a stream of cops walk in. My husband called. I politely told the gang of cops that my cuts were self harm, not a suicide attempt. I assured them that I was not a danger to myself. They milled around for a bit while waiting for a call from their sergeant. Some of the cops were looking at my aquarium while others were poking at my belongings.

The call came on the walkie talkie that I needed immediate hospitalization. The police called the medics, and I told them that I wasn’t going to fight, but I wasn’t going voluntarily, either. It wasn’t right. I was completely rational and being removed from my home. I dropped limp and heavy as they picked me up and strapped me down to the stretcher.

I won’t go into the horror story at the hospital. Long story short, I was stripped of my rights and my autonomy, I was infantilized and pathologized. I was glad to get out, but it left me in a very fragile place. I don’t talk to my husband about my mental state anymore.

I pissed my chance away this summer, and now I am waiting for spring at the earliest. I still have to acquire chemicalX, which I’m looking into.

Societies view on suicide is wack. Its far from selfish… why would you ask someone to go on suffering because their relief would upset your sensibilities? You’re selfish, you twit. And its not cowardly. That will to live is a pain in the butt, it takes focus to weed it out. And guess what? That life-affirming “it will get better/its a temporary problem” bullshit? That may apply to impulsive suicides, but what about mental illness? What if you’ve done everything that they told you to do, the professionals that ignored me and stigmatized me? Made worse by the guilt of knowing I tried, I really did try, day in and day out. Sometimes it doesn’t get better.

-Fawn