Coward

It’s been a minute since I’ve posted anything on here. I thought that meant I was getting better, but here I am again. But I think I need to talk about this.

Honestly, I’m starting to worry that I’m all doing this for attention. The whole “being depressed” thing. I mean, I’ve wanted to die for almost a decade and what do I have to show for it? Maybe I’m subconsciously trying to manipulate people into feeling sorry for me. That thought makes me feel physically ill, but my pattern of behavior does seem to suggest this. It seems like every suicide attempt I had ends very anticlimactically. By that I mean I’ve always chickened out of every one. But looking back, I probably wouldn’t have died from them even if I did go through with it. My first attempt was when I was fifteen, when I attempted to jump from the second story balcony. Stupid, I know. At the very most I would have broken a bone or something. But I was young and emotional at the time, so I probably wasn’t thinking all that straight.

The second time was when I was in senior year of highschool. Honestly, I was an asshole back then, so I don’t really care too much. Part of me actually wishes I’d gone through with it back then. I think that specific version of me deserved it, you know? I went to the top floor of the school, (A whopping THREE-STORIES. Wooo, scary.) and stopped at the highest point in the stairwell. My thought process was if I was able to fall on my head, I might be able to break my spine. Instakill. Either that, or I might be able to crack open my head on one of the banisters on the way down. Of course, I chickened out of that too, and another student found me crying and took me to the guidance counsellor. (He was a nice kid. Hope he’s doing good.)

I remember the guidance teacher asking me if I was friends with two kids (whose names I don’t remember). She thought the reason I was feeling this was was because those kids happened to kill themselves about a week ago. I knew it was wrong (even back then) but I felt almost envious. That they had the guts to do something I couldn’t. I think to some extent I feel that way today, sadly enough.

My third attempt was more recent. Maybe when I was 21 or 22. (My memory seems to be getting worse the older I get.) I had just revealed to my younger brother that I was bi. He… didn’t take it well. Listen. I don’t want anyone shitting on him in the replies. It’s just when things take him by surprise he kinda doesn’t know how to handle it at first. He’s completely cool with it now. My mom, on the other hand, was another story. When she heard I told him about my sexuality she was furious. She told me she doesn’t understand why I have to advertise my sexuality. That not everyone is going to be all “sunshine and roses” about it. She also tried convincing me that I was wrong, that I wasn’t bi and that I was just confused. She also kinda blamed me for making my brother feel uncomfortable by telling him. Long story short, I ended up storming out of the house. I just felt really attacked at the time. I mean, I had just exposed a part of myself that I was self-conscious about for years, and I ended up getting that kind of reception.

I ended up walking towards a road. (Not quite a highway, but there were cars doing fifty or so on it.) I knew what I was doing when I went there. I was waiting for a big enough truck to come along. I thought a semi-truck or a dump truck would be enough to do the trick. I kept telling myself when the next truck comes I would jump. Then I finally saw it. It was one of those trucks that carries rocks and gravel in the back. I knew I wouldn’t have much time to react, so tried to force myself to spring onto the street. But my legs wouldn’t move. I was frozen. I couldn’t force myself to move again until long after the truck passed.

Is it wrong that I kind of wish I did it? I would have liked to end it like that. To make it so the last sentence of my life ended with an exclamation point, rather than a period. So that one of my actions MEANT something. But in the end, it didn’t mean anything. Just like the rest of my suicide attempts. I know lot of people would tell me I was brave not to give in, but I don’t feel brave. Is it really bravery if the only thing keeping you from killing yourself is fear?

My mom once called me a coward. I’m starting to think she’s right. If I wasn’t, I’d probably be dead by now. In reality, I know there are several ways I could kill myself now. I once cut myself so deep I could see the pink. Like the spongy flesh inside. It was scary (also a little exciting), but also a reminder that if I wanted out, the exit was always right there. Death was always a slit wrist away. And yet, I haven’t done it yet. Because I’m afraid. Afraid of dying, afraid of not dying and waking up in the hospital, afraid of going to hell. (My family’s religious, which I guess kind of explains the reception I got.) I’d love to be absolutely sure there’s nothing on the other side. I’d love to just be like a candle blowing out. Just a poof and I’m gone. But the uncertainty is terrifying.

I still go back to the spot of my pseudo-suicide attempt sometimes. Strangely enough, it’s calming going back. Almost therapeutic. Part of me likes to pretend that I died there. That there was a timeline that I jumped in front of that truck and became a red stain on the asphalt. Maybe that I’m paying my respects. I dunno. Maybe I’m just hoping I’ll accidentally get run over. Then my death technically wouldn’t be my fault. That’s kind of what I’ve been doing lately. Putting myself in somewhat dangerous situation so I can be absolved from all guilt from my death. Accidents happen, after all.

Sometimes I think of my family and how they would feel. I know they’d be hurt, but honestly, I feel like they’re better off without me. For multiple reasons. They don’t really need me in their lives. Better if they just put me in a box and be done with me. But my grandma just passed away, and I don’t think my family can deal with another death right now. Especially not from someone so close to them. So I’m procrastinating. Just like always.

I don’t know why I’m tell you this. I haven’t told anyone about this except my therapist. I guess I don’t want people to get the wrong idea about my mom. She’s a good woman. I don’t agree with what she did (or what she would say to me later on) but she’s a good person at heart. I don’t want to throw her under the bus like this, but I feel like if I don’t talk about this I’m going to implode.

That’s it. Take care, I guess.