I’ve never posted here though I’ve thought about it before. Scrolling through the stories of those who seem down, heartbroken, or even suicidal… Today, I will finally post, as I once again feel misunderstood and left unheard.
I tried to kill myself Tuesday. My mind raced as I left work and went out to a spot I had pictured before, but not without stopping by my apartment for a knife that I wasn’t sure would complete the work – but at least enough to try. I had texted my therapist, who I wrote a short text, one she labelled cryptic, as my mind was made up at that point. I texted, “I wonder if people like me actually get better. I won’t make it clean.” An unexpected (as I expected none) response was given, “Of course they do.” I wanted to believe the response, I still do, but I have my doubts.
I am a survivor of sorts, but sometimes, I feel like a monster. I don’t feel lovable. I don’t feel like much more than a burden who can not cope with all that has taken place or the overwhelming stress that I face daily. No one knows the unbearable pain I can not seem to get past, despite my best efforts. I continually put on the facade of a happy-go-lucky gal who has the ability to listen to everyone else around me – but I can not cope. I feel dirty from sexual abuse. I feel broken from emotional abuse. I feel lost from spiritual abuse. The physical abuse doesn’t top the words that have been beaten into my soul that still rattle through my mind and rob me of laughter. I’m triggered and tense and I don’t know what to do. I’ve been trying to stay clean as I’ve struggled with drug use, a temporary escape from the hell of being me trapped within a body that has trouble relaxing.
Once I arrived to the spot, secluded away from the hustle and bustle, I cut a few lines as my adrenaline pumped. A few scores to test myself. Then, I turned the blade from a horizontal position to a vertical one, right above my veins. As I cried and pressed, I couldn’t do it. I tried to press harder each time but could not bring myself to press hard enough to do real damage. Sure, blood puddled and ran down my arm, but it wasn’t enough to do the deed. It wasn’t enough to even come close. After some time had passed, I stopped. My dissociation kicked into overdrive as I cleaned up and gathered myself enough to drive to my apartment, talking to myself to stay alert as to not cause an accident.
Part of me feels defeated. Part of me feels enlightened. It wasn’t the first time I had tried. I had downed too many pills before, unsure if I would wake up. I had felt regret on those nights as I was afraid of falling asleep. I had felt the sickness of overdose but I kept it to myself.
I’ve been diagnosed with BPD, which sounds horrific, and has quite the stigma attached to it. (Aside from PTSD, Panic Disorder, and Derealization Depersonalization Disorder.) I don’t lash out at people, though I self harm. Not many know, none of my family, only a few friends who I had to explain when my hidden scars were noticed once at a small house party. If I ask for help or cry out, it may be seen as dramatic, as a cry for attention. If I don’t directly ask for help, then I’m faced with being called manipulative. I find myself between a rock and a hard place. I don’t like to worry people so I usually suck it up and manage to keep trucking but on days like those, where suicide seems like a legitimate option, I have a difficult time convincing myself it’s not the answer.
I was scared to tell my therapist. Though I see her point, as to be direct, I sit here feeling misunderstood. Yes, I should have told her how serious the situation was on Tuesday. I should have plainly stated that I needed help rather than the “cryptic” text message. However, after texting her a day later stating that I was unable to return to work, I again hoped she would catch my subtle drift. But who wants to be labelled an attention whore or drama queen? Not me. Not when I keep mostly to myself. Now I’m unsure she will continue to work with me because of my actions, or rather, that I shared… Depends on how you look at it. Because I see it from both angles, but it only makes me regret opening up at all if she decides I’m not worth the risk. I’ve told her things I’ve never told anyone and it would be devastating if she gives up. Then again, as I think on today’s conversation in which she offered no warmth, no words of encouragement, rather than pointing out my obvious flaws which I am well aware of, I wonder if I should continue on with her. Not all therapists are good, or rather, good for us and our particular set of needs. I just wanted to know that I mattered. I think I just wanted her to let me know that she was glad I couldn’t follow through. But, now, I feel more lost for opening up and the weight of another secret plagues my mind.
I told her that Tuesday, I was “done” and she asked, “Are you still done?” Knowing I could be held against my will, I answered, “No.” Meaning, I had learned my lesson or that I wasn’t suicidal. But, as soon as I left her office, that old familiar darkness consumed me. And suicide for someone as fucked up as I am seemed once again like a real option.