I try to remember why I wanted to kill myself. I don’t know. I can’t recall, but somehow I still know why I want to be out of this “reality”. Sometimes I wish I was in an empty space, where I can hear nothing, not even a sound, not even me breathing, nothing at all.
I was 12. It was long ago now. I wanted to die, but i never found the courage enough, then this person cae to me, she helped me a lot, and I don’t even remember what she looked like. I felt I was I love with her, she took care of me like no one did before, not even my mother.
When I come to write this, I realize that all this, the depression, the suicidal feelings, the hate against people has something to do with her: my mother.
I don’t know where she comes from or her childhood. All I remember of her is beingÂ authoritative, demanding and just hateful enough. I remember her screaming, calling me “son (daughter) of a *****” whenever she got mad or so… now, it all seems an invention of my mind… but I know these things did happen.
Being an emotional fragile kid as I am still, her behavior caused me severe damage. Whenever I see photos of her being careful with me, it have this hate and raw feelings, this hate and serial killer instinct, but since I can’t murder her I damage her with words and my behavior. I don’t feel proud of it, but I feel so good because some part of me feelsÂ rein-vindicated.
As I said before, I was just a kid, I was only 12. I found relief in music, I played the guitar and started to write. Writing has always been a “therapy” for me. Most of the things I wrote were all my suicidal thoughts.
But when pain was that bigger, I developed a masochistic personality. I would get needles in my veins and get blood out of me. I seemed like a game to me, like some “experimental” thing… but this little pain, the blood, made me forget for a while the pain inside.
I got over that. I no longer get blood out of me, but I continued writing. I’ve always been the great student, the nerd, and I’ve always felt the pressure of being the “good daughter”. I thought I was writing things, like being a writer, like being somehow “artistic”. But when I read the writings now, they make me shiver. I was really deep into suicidal patterns and ideas. One of it is called “Right on the Suicide Brink” which is a clear description of how I’d like to kill myself… I was only 14…
At the age of 15, I felt something weird… I liked girls… the one boy I ever liked rejected me. I felt somehow stupid and turned into girls. Nothing happened.
I am not a lesbian. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends and sex partners… I’d slept with girls, everything, yet suicidal behaviors area around the corner of my head. I did drugs, I did alcohol, I did a lot to “anesthetize” pain as I say. I go to sleep to shut the voices in my head, I go to sleep not to feel, not to think. I still want to get drunk from time to time, just to shut my thoughts, and just lay… lay in oblivion…
My family was concerned, they wouldn’t understand why I was in such erratic way of life: why alcohol? why all this mess? why? what are you playing at? what are you doing? how long will you keep playing this way? don’t you see I’m worried?” Â shut it up! I don’t want to hear a thing, especially when it comes from my mom. She is the drama queen. At this point I hate her. I so want her died. If someone has to die is her, not me. I don’t want to die, I want to be left alone. I don’t want to hear her “caring voice”.
If you ask me, I don’t know why I feel this pain inside. I feel like some Internal bleeding, I don’t want to cry, I feel this empty, deep, echoing bleeding pain inside. And when this pain is so big, my hands begins to shake, my heart begins to shake, I start to sweat, I feel like walking, like running, like going out and scape but I can’t. And then, I found a solution: I started piercing my body. Not forÂ aestheticalÂ reasons, but to feel pain in my body not to feel the pain inside. I would make theÂ piercingÂ bleed and never heal so could feel the pain. So the pain in my body would shut the pain inside… I still feel this way…
I’m 23 now, and I still feel suicidal. I have every reason to be happy, to enjoy life. I have a familiy who loves me, I study, I have friends, I’m professionally recognized by everyone, I have a boyfriend and we really love each other, I have it all, even the dishes with tiny bubbles… proof that they were made by the honorableÂ indigenousÂ people of… wherever… But I still suicidal. Most of the times is anxiety and stress related. One thing I know for sure is that I don’t want to die. I want to live forever. But somehow pain is always so big that it leads me to develop a self-destructive personality. I abuse of alcohol, I barely eat and drink lots of coffee, I sleep a lot and everything seems to bother me. I feel this uncontrollable hate against everybody, I fell like I want to kill. I feel like everyone I despise must die by my hand. I feel like going psycho.
And at the end of this post… I feel sad… it all started when I was 12… now I’m 23 and i still feel like i can’t get over it. It’s about 10 years of feeling the same way