It hurts too much.
I don’t know how to carry on. I fucking hate myself.
I ruined my life; I ruined myself.
I have tried so many times, I’ve got one method left on my list.
ThisÂ existenceÂ is fucking pointless.
I don’t want to be dead. I’m suicidal, and I recognise this fact. I think about killing myself the way other people think about what they’re going to have for breakfast. I don’t want to die, I just can’t face the fear and the despair that always return to my mind. It gets to the point where I can’t see any other alternative.
I’ve tried to kill myself a lot of times, 16 to be exact, and I’ve always failed. My last two attempts were definitely the most serious, and both almost ended my life. The first I ended up withÂ multipleÂ organ failure; the last I jumped in front of a tube train and lost a finger. It sounds ridiculous to jump of a speeding train and manage to survive like that. I still don’t understand it. Though it’s fair to say that my attempts are getting more and more desperate, as there is little planning or thought before them.
I’m glad to be alive, I’m glad the last attempt didn’t end my life. But I’m not sure what my life is or how to continue it. I feel such anguish at the thought of carrying on. The worst thing is that on the outside I always appear to be absolutely fine. I can be feeling like I’m about to go insane, and everyone around me will think I’m perfectly content. It’s aÂ defence thing from when I was a child, because my dad was abusing me and I couldn’t tell anyone. I’ve told people about it now, and he even went to prison for it. I’ve never talked about it to anyone though, I’ve never processed my feelings, my thoughts about all of it. It drives me to the brink.
I was in counselling, however the centre I went to didn’t have crisis support, so when I attempted suicide it meant that I couldn’t attend that counselling service anymore. I don’t know what to do. I can feel how fragile am I, and how little it would take for me to fall apart again. I’m terrible at talking to people about my feelings, and I’m even worse at asking for help. Writing in a place like this is the closest I will get.
I’ve been applying for work, and the thought of getting a job terrifies me. I love to work, I’ve always loved to work. But if I get work, then there’s more pressure on me to not get sick again. I’m thinking of going back into hospital, I don’t feel that I’m safe left by myself.
I don’t understand how I’m still alive. I honestly don’t. My last attempt wasn’t my first, it was my 16th, and I’m still not sure that it will be my last.
I would say I’m lost, but that would imply that I’m actually going somewhere; I’m not. I’m in this rut and I wish I knew how I got here, but I think it’s one of those things that creeps up on you.
So, seven weeks ago I jumped in front of a tube train. It wasn’t planned, I think I decided in about five minutes. I had previously thought about it, and I’ve been really close before, but I just couldn’t do it. It used to be a way to scare myself into living.
Before I jumped I remember crying, because it wasn’t that I wanted to be dead, I just couldn’t bring myself to keep on living with everything crashing down on top on me.
I lived, I jumped about a second before the train got to me, and somehow I missed almost everything and landed in the suicide pit below the tube. I crushed part of my hand and lost my little finger. I got the impression that it was a bit of a warning that I wouldn’t get so lucky next time.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t believe that people like me are supposed to live. I don’t understand how I keep surviving Â attempts that would kill most people…
I’m sick, I know this, but I don’t think I’m ever going to get better. Why is it acceptable to put down a sick animal, but not a sick human? I wish someone would just put me down. Let it all end.
Please log in to report posts