I am 13 years old. I’m in 7th grade. I’m on the bus, and I have the asshole kid in front of me reminding me how fat I am. He’s added, now, to close my legs, because I smell like fish. My stomach crawled in my throat, and my heart is desperately trying to plug my ears. I’m home now. I picked a fight with my mom and stormed upstairs. My CD player is there, and now I can cry. I have no idea who was playing because I am focused on my scissors. My rounded perfectly written name on the silver blade stares back at me as I slice in my arm for the first time. I smile as the blood hides the black sharpie’d letters. I feel so good. It was as if I took my first deep breath after drowning. I watch the blood pool and drip and I cry. I clean everything up, stick my nose in a book, and go on with my life.
To most people, I am a goody two shoes, kind of weird, really smart, and into music. I was scared something was wrong with me, but I didn’t want anyone to know. I learned how to hide in plain sight, lie, and keep my real thoughts to myself. Once I became okay with cutting myself, I started thinking about killing myself. I focused on getting perfect grades, and keeping everything else in my journal, because I was scared I was crazy and going to hell.
I am 30 years old. I have just spent a few weeks in the mental hospital. I have more diagnoses next to my name then I knew existed. I’m holding a butcher knife, and I have just finished slicing my bicep. I grabbed my Haldol, threw a bunch in my mouth, I added Klonopin, and went to bed. My kids are at daycare and my husband is at work. I wasn’t trying to kill myself, but I wanted to be dead.
To most people, I was successful, amazing career, great mom, and totally had my shit together. I guess the mental hospital tends to change the world’s view, and now I hear “we worried something was off.” Before the mental hospital, I had finally admitted to myself the depression was getting a bit much, and I started taking Lexapro. I never saw a therapist, psychiatrist, etc. until I went to the mental hospital for the first time. I focused on being too perfect to be crazy. Most of my life was varied methods of helping myself along to the grave, but I always stopped myself from outright killing myself. I was scared to go to hell.
I am 34 years old. I will turn 35 one week from today. My psychiatrist has changed my alphabet soup of diagnoses to: “You’re DSM V positive and no one diagnosis fits you. You’re a person, not a statistic anyway.” For someone who has struggled with suicidality damn near her entire life, I REALLY get excited about my birthday. It’s kind of weird. Last year, I told myself I was not wasting another year of my life being treated like shit, treating myself like shit, or any other of my usual shit. I started doing yoga, meditating, and a lot of other really amazing things. In January, I lost my mind, I almost killed myself twice, and I was hospitalized again. However, I know I was not wrong last year and I have a lot of work cut out for me this year. To most people….actually, I don’t really give a shit what most people think anymore.
What has kept me going for the last almost 21 years is a pretty simple promise. I was going to kill myself after a Metallica concert. During the show, my best friend hugged me during Nothing Else Matters. I realized as she hugged me, contrary to my belief, I would hurt her if I killed myself. My brain had convinced me that I would do everyone a favor if I killed myself. I promised myself I would never kill myself for her. At 24, I changed that promise to my kids, At 34, I changed the promise (finally…) to myself. I learned at 14 my brain lies to me. 20 years later, I learned to ignore my brain instead of fight with it through meditation. I wrote to a friend today, “I am in the process of getting back to my adolescence, finding who I was before I let the world tell me who I was.
People telling their stories helped me, so I thought for the days leading up to my bday, I’d tell some of the things that helped me get to my 35th bday, despite my best efforts. I’ve been wanting to do this all month since it’s suicide prevention month, but I am a procrastinator. My story is repeated mistakes, lies, and a lot of pain. It is also love, happiness, and joy. Just like everyone. The past year has taught me so much about myself and coming to love everything about me. I have always deeply believed that the most beautiful people in the world carry invisible scars. I look at the music I listen to, stories and poetry I read, and I see the beauty that pain and love give all of us. I believe the lows you can sink to are equal to the highs you can fly to. I’m just happy to not be so afraid of being crazy anymore.
Previous Posts regarding suicide:
- No, Seriously, Suicide is Not Selfish
- Depression is Selfish
- Won’t Someone Think of the Children?
- 13 Reasons..
- AFSP – Association for Suicide Prevention
- If you are in crisis, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255) or contact the Crisis Text Line by texting TALK to 741741
If you are enjoying my writing, please follow me on WordPress, Facebook, Twitter, or my new Binge Eating Recovery blog at HealthyPlace. I post more stuff there – memes, inspirational stuff, and babblings. Thank you for reading – please like & comment, and if you would be amazing, share my stuff (just give me credit!)