This probably will wind up as an incoherent mess, but when is it ever? If my mind wasn’t muddled, would I be writing this? Would anyone of us be? Probably not.
It feels strange to write about this in a public space. But it’s easier than to be judged and mocked by those we care for. Or simply told by our friends and family that we are horrible and selfish for feeling these suicidal urges. They care for you, don’t get me wrong, but they never do seem to know what to do but defend themselves.
“I want to kill myself.” Poor wording, I know. I wanted help. A reason to stop. Anything. I regret saying it. I don’t know how many people abandoned me thereafter, disgusted. My parents simply brought me to the doctors to deal with me. Six years later. I still feel the same. Maybe if I never said anything I would feel better. Maybe I’d return to my successful former self. Who knows.
All I learned was what to be labeled as: anxious, depressed, and consistently emotionally abused.
It’s funny how many people will push you down further in fear when you feel as much as a burden as you already do. You want to disappear but apparently you can’t. People around you deny it. Your body denies it.
I attempted to overdose twice. It failed twice. Therapy was useless. Meds were, and still are useless (it gives my family a false sense of security that I can remain “normal”). I remember waking up, simply told how much of a horrible person I am, how much time and money was wasted. I remember seeing the hospital bill. Then again how is it any different from the usual. The reason I OD’d was because I felt that my death would be more cost efficient on my parents’ pockets.
Yet all I did was give myself more reason to slammed by how much I still waste by existing years later.
It’s not that I don’t know how it is for someone you loved to commit suicide. It hurts. It seems selfish, but to keep them here is just as selfush.
Crisis care is useless as well. My urges to die only gotten stronger. I felt ashamed by the doctors and nurses. Even other patients ridiculed me.
My pain manifested as a never-ending migraine.
I never did learn how to cope. Nor have I found anything effective. Why participate in self harm, drugs, or any other negative means? You do nothing but realize how there’s nothing for you. No one will notice. You won’t progress. You stack more problems to cover up more problems. Yet, Coping by more “positive” means feels nothing more than forcing yourself to believe in a lie and putting up a facade. Yet I still try. But it fail and fails.
Maybe I was meant to be an emotional punching bag. My brother complains he is emotionally abused at home, ever since I moved to my dorm. I can’t blame him, I placed it on him. Not that I didn’t become to a figure to blame for everything here by my roommates either. It’s ironic; I moved to escape this feeling. Yet it followed me. You can’t control how other people are…but I was sure I could at least change my environment to something less toxic. I can’t escape it. I remain sitting against this wall. Hardly eating, no longer attending classes with failing grades, sleeping for hours without end, interested in nothing. My broken self still remains here, rotting day by day. Why try when you sense no future, no hope. I have no desire to keep on living. I am tempted by death, but who am I kidding?
Suicide is futile. Support is futile. Life is futile.
I really don’t know anymore.