The beginning

Hello everyone, I’m not a native speaker, so at first I would like to apologise for any mistakes I’ll possibly make in this post.

I don’t plan to leave any suicide notes, because I don’t have anything to say to most of the people and those to whom I do, wouldn’t want to listen. I’m writing this journal, because I don’t want people to freely shape my image after I die. Especially that they only see me as an idiot, or a monster, or a silly fool. Or a failure (that part is true though).

I found this website, while searching for the most suitable metods on how to kill myself and I was reading your stories since then.  I’ve been depressed for almost all my life – literally. I tried to commit suicide for the first time when I was about 8 or 10 y.o. Imagine that… I’ve never managed to actually live since then and I was slowly decaying to the point of no return.  I’m grateful this forum exists because it gave me a platform to say it out loud for the first time ever and it feels nice. At this point in my life I’m certain that I will not die from natural causes and before that happens, I would like to share with you my story, bit by bit. And I promise you, that my life was a series of calamities, some so unlikely that I’m personally amazed that they actually happend.

I’ll start from the beginning. My paretns weren’t made for each other, to say at least. They had me in their forties and decided to live together. Like flatmates. They almost never spoke with each other and never show each other any affection. Also, they both had their own companies so usually they left before dawn, leaving me alone in the apartment or with a nanny. I developed serious abandonment issues. I was angry all the time, I was biting and hitting my mother and all the nannies, so they would leave and my parents would be forced to spend time with me. I was very conflicted, so if my mother finally tried to show me any affection – I “refused”. I was terrible to her, because she was the reason for my anger. I don’t remember ever hugging her or saying “I love you”. I was showing as much affection to anybody as my parents did to each other. With time they started to abusing them selves and spoke only to scream at each other. I will not elaborate on that, because it was so traumatising I can’t speak about it no matter how anonymous my ass is.

Eventually they finally managed to force me into going to kindergarden. I was an outcast from the day one (it pretty much stayed that way for the rest of my life). It was also the first time when I became really sad… All the girls had beautiful braids tied with colorful ribbons – except  me. My mother was geting up extremly early and never braided my hair, so I always stood out. I was blacklisted by all the nannies, so my mother had to drive me there, usually before their opening times, on those occasions I stayed with the headmistress in her office. But I remember this one time, during winter, when the gates were closed and my lovely mother just left me there and told me to wait for them to open. So I stood there, in the snow, waiting. Pretty long time if you ask me. I felt so sad that I had this feeling of blood in my veins freezing. Like it was dark matter of sadness flowing through them. Did you get this feeling sometimes that your blood changes to “hot ice”? I don’t know how to explain it better because it literaly feels like just that. It comes and goes in waves, resonating through the body.

My father didn’t care about me either, he never wanted a child and now he had one. When an older boy from the neibourhood was picking on me, I eventually snapped. I picked up a stick and I piked his bike wheel through the spokes, so he would fall over. That obviously damaged the bike, so the boy went to my house and called my father on the intercome, thinking he’d get me into trouble. He was wrong, my father didn’t care at all, so he hunged up. Lol.

I’ll spare you the details of more boring events from my childhood that led me to depression before I even hit 10. I felt alone, abandoned, starving for attention. Every night I was lulling myself to sleep with self-destructive thoughts and being convinced that noone gives a crap about me, even though it wasn’t true.

The pain I had was growing continously and ultimately I decided that I’m going to end it. Seriously. I had a clear, focused mind, I knew what I was doing, I wrote my suicide letter with those huge, uneven letters that children make and left it on my father’s desk. Then I went to the kitchen and I took aaaaall the pills that were in the medicine shelf. I swallowed them and went to sleep, because I thought that I’ll die in my sleep, even though there were no sleeping pills in my house. The point is that I was convinced I will not wake up. That I’m actually dying. I didn’t die, because the strongest medicine we had in the house was ibuprofen. Unfortunately. I didn’t fall asleep either so I was just lying there with a stomach ache. My father arrived home, found the letter, went to my room, checked my temperatule (lol, seriously?) and went back to his room to watch TV. When I finally understood that I failed, I was devastated and embarassed. I snatched the letter back and destroyed it. None of my parents spoke about it or spoke to me about why I tried to kill myself. Why would they? I never wanted any affection from them again, and I promised myself that I’ll leave house as soon as I turn 18.

That time I knew for certain that noone gives a fuck about me at all. It has never changed, even though I’ve pulled various stunts throughout my live to change that. They either failed or their effects didn’t last long.

Thanks for reading, if anyone actually went through this boring essay.