Before we get started here, this is a big disclaimer: this is about suicidal ideation. Yes, I'm in therapy. No, I'm not a danger to myself. I think writing it out is important. It's uncomfortable. But it's burning through me right now. So there's that. It'll probably be hard for my friends and family to read, if they do. This stuff is on my mind almost every day, especially lately.
Ever since I was twelve the only end to my life that I can imagine has been by my own hand. It seems really dramatic to say that. I'm sure other people think about their lives in their twilight years, grey-haired, maybe surrounded by kids and grandkids. That's never been a thought in my mind. When I think about my death, it's always been a different kind of vision. A pill bottle or swimming out to sea or a make-shift noose. Conquering my fear of heights and jumping off of a bridge. It's the only end I've ever envisioned for myself. There is no other out. Sometimes it's not because my life is so bad. It just seems like a fact. Never an "I'll show you!". Just "this is how it ends for me." It's as easily understood as a firefighter dying from smoke inhalation or a cancer patient finally succumbing to their illness. It just makes sense.
When it gets too much to bear, people always ask me if I'm current on my medication. If I need my dosage adjusted. If I should be seeing my therapist more. When it gets really bad, I don't want to do any of those things at all. I want to quit everything I'm doing to stave off the inevitable and just let it happen. I don't know if its about courage or about laziness. Maybe some part of me thinks there's something left to live for. I told my therapist recently that I keep going for spite. To show the world it hasn't beaten me. But I don't know if that's true anymore.
I turned 29 today and spent an hour crying in the office bathroom because I can't think of a reason to live anymore. This isn't about self-loathing or wanting pity from the world. I used to think I was a good person that bad things just happened to. And maybe that was true at first. Somewhere along the line, I let trauma mold me and I don't think I'm a good person anymore. I don't think I know who I am anymore. I'm not sure I ever did. I've taken every good thing in my life and ruined it beyond recognition. When I try to be better I inevitably fail. I can't think of a single person whose life couldn't have been improved by not meeting me. I've isolated myself from the people who used to care about me by using what's happened to me as a crutch. I don't think I've ever felt more alone. Reinventing myself sounds exhausting.
People have told me before that I'm strong. Resilient. I've been through so much. An abusive, absent, alcoholic mother. Two sexual assaults. A physically abusive boyfriend. Poverty. Undiagnosed mental illness that made stability impossible for me during the most difficult times of my life. But I'm so tired of being strong. It seems pointless. Everything seems futile. Progress seems pointless. I don't want to be strong anymore.
Everything I've built I've inevitably torn down. The only guarantees in my life are that I'll push people away. I'm trying to unlearn it. I don't know if I can. Maybe some people are beyond help. Maybe I always was. My mother always treated me like there was something wrong with me when I was a kid. I wasn't a happy kid. I'm not a happy adult.
Sometimes it's not about wanting to die its about wanting the pain to stop. It's not about wanting to punish anyone it's about wanting to be free. I know I won't hurt or harm myself. I just want it to stop. I want a chance. I want a shot. I want it to be easier than it is. I want a do-over. I want to feel like I matter. I want to want to get out of bed in the morning. I want to want to live. I want to see myself grey-haired forty years in the future.
But I don't.
