Would it be considered giving up to accept that I cannot fly? Or, that I cannot breathe underwater?
We have this crazy idea that, if we just try a little harder, we can push through anything. That it will always pass. That things inevitably must get better. Because, surely, it can’t always be this bad, right?
I know someone who uses the threat of suicide to blackmail people into complying with their wishes.
“You can’t leave me, I’ll kill myself.”
“How dare you disagree with me! Your mean behavior makes me want to die.”
On and on. Every other day. I’m not saying that person doesn’t need help, but it’s not the same thing. That is a mechanism for perpetuating abuse. I’ve know others like that, too. My mother always threatened to kill herself over every little thing. My siblings and I could never say anything. How do you fight against that without being the monster? Which is why it’s so ingenious and effective.
So, I grew up with this odd perception of suicide. That it’s a vile thing to use against people to make them do what you want. That, if I ever said I wanted to die, it was just me seeking attention and forcing people to pretend to care.
I hated my mother and it took a long time to be able to recognize the differences between us. And, for me to acknowledge that she was ill, not just a horrible, bitter woman bent on controlling others.
For me, life has been one acceptance after another. Ever lowering the bar, learning to live within adjusted parameters. I have lived with chronic pain all my life. And, it seems like every time I figure out how to function again, a new twist appears and I have to start over.
I know I will never have a pain-free existence. I know I will have flashbacks and blackouts with convulsions until the day I die. I can’t remember most of my days due to intense dissociation. The good and bad all fade to nothingness, except when it comes rushing back. And I have no defense against it, no hope. It’s not a tumor I can have cut out. Hell, it’s not even a recognized ailment. I’m expected to keep pushing through.
I’m not a combat veteran, I’m just someone who was severely abused for the first 11 years of their life. You don’t get over these things. That’s like trying to get over your eye color. It’s not inside you, it is you.
Fine, I can accept that. I do accept it. But, I can’t drive because I dissociate so hard, I forget where I am and what I’m doing. If the danger was only to myself, I wouldn’t care, but what if I crash into someone else?
I can’t work. I have no support structure. I have no means to save myself. I know it’s my duty to live so that other people don’t have to be put out by my death, but how can I? I apply for work whenever I can anyway. I am desperate. I would beg for someone to just give me a chance, but who would? There’s nothing special about me to make up for my deficiencies.
I am not angry.
I am not terribly depressed or sad.
I don’t think I deserve to die, or that I don’t deserve to live.
It’s merely another acceptance. I’ve gone as far as I can, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with recognizing that fact. When is it enough? Yes, someone will cry and maybe even hate me. But, what about my pain? Why should I have to keep playing this unwinnable game, just to save other people from hurting? At what point is it okay for me to rest? To finally have peace.