I think I was 6 or 7 the first time I considered suicide. I really didn’t want to go to swim class–such a stupid, stupid reason to want to die. Nevertheless, I locked myself in my room and considered how to kill myself. I decided on a knife. I wanted to slice myself open. The knives were in the kitchen, though. I put on my swim suite and went to class. But from that day on, death was in the back of my mind. By the age of 10, I was mentally rehearsing my suicide note nightly and crying myself to sleep. My room was on the second floor, and my window was missing the protective screen. It would be so easy to climb out onto the roof and jump–but I was so afraid that it wouldn’t be high enough to kill me. Countless times, I’ve wished for a gun, or to be brave enough to step in front of a car. I would like to die, but I don’t want to harm anyone else. I don’t want to traumatize a driver, I don’t want to traumatize my family. I want to fall asleep and never wake up.
There are six kids in my family. I am not close with any of them, but they all seem to deeply love and care for each other. I’m not sure if my parents love me. If they do, I don’t want to hurt them. I can’t stand disappointing them. I don’t want them to be blamed for my death, either, even if I never felt like I could ever talk to them on an emotion level (they were always very awkward whenever the subject even came near that, and any kind of physical affection just wasn’t a thing in my family). I think they are generally good people. There is just something wrong with me that I don’t want them to be associated with.
I’ve never had a friend, either. Just acquaintances. No one I would ever talk emotionally with. I’ve never told anyone about my persisting death wish. But that’s also partially because I feel like I don’t deserve to feel this way–I get good grades, I have a family, I’m well-fed, I’m privileged. How dare I be so sad when I have it so good? Again, there is something wrong with me.
But I don’t trust the psychiatrists. My brother is bipolar, and after experiencing some of the “family treatments”, I can never respect or trust their methods. They were just so hurtful and pointless. And I don’t want my parents to to deal with the stigma of having another “crazy child”. I don’t want to deal with the stigma of being “crazy” either. I don’t want to bee seen that way, and if I ever get the guts to go through with dying, I don’t want anyone to stop me.
But I also don’t think I have the right to take my own life. I was given a chance to live, and I don’t think I have a say in who lives or dies–even for myself. So my desire to die and my belief that I don’t have the right to kill myself tear me up. I don’t know what to do and I can’t tell anyone. I think there were times when I didn’t obsess over death. How do I get back?