It is 3:25 AM.
I am one in seven billion, a germ in a petri dish, a minute or hour on the scale of eternity. I've thought about suicide countless times. Some have told me that if I were to die, many who loved me would be heartbroken and would cry. But this is only temporary, just like everything else.
People die. People get over it.
I tried to take my life back in March of this year, 2014. It was spontaneous, like my emotional filter in my head just snapped for no reason and I just had to end my life.
I remember what it was like. I was sitting on my bed, looking at the white wall from an angle. I was not feeling sad, or tired, or upset that day at all. I was very... neutral. Out of nowhere, I had the urge to go outside and in my head I was telling myself "I'm done." It was a calm, quiet whisper in my mind. Repeating.
I got in my car, and calmly drove down the main road towards town. It takes approximately 16 minutes to get to where I was heading. While I was driving on the main road, hot tears were dripping down my face. I was not sobbing, or crying out in a plea for help, or even begging God to end me. I was slowly breathing through my mouth, and just crying. Both hands gripping the wheel, my will driving me towards my unknown outcome. Would my life end this day? Was this the end of my book, my story? I imagined a gravestone, the numbers of this day and year etched into the face.
For months before, I had been researching barbiturates and euthanasia. I had quietly accepted for myself that I was coming to the end of my wits and that I would truly want to end my life soon. I dreamed of it, and I even tried to find sources of drugs that would guarantee my death, but they were not legal to purchase as a standard consumer. So here I was, driving on the longest road of my life to CVS. My plan was to <Mod Edit, WildCherry: Methods>.
While I was driving, my levels of stress and self hatred were becoming more and more apparent to myself. I was twitching. I wasn't just twitching in the face, and I didn't just have shaky hands-- I would involuntarily violently jerk my body like I was trying to get out of my skin. I was seething at that point. I remember screaming. I remember bashing the back of my head into the headrest repeatedly, wanting to stop existing no matter the cost.
<Mod Edit, WildCherry: Methods>
I grabbed my phone and sent a message to a friend. "I need you to give me one reason to stay alive right now. Please."
All I needed was one reason. One bullshit reason to cling to, to push my mind into begging for. I was so shocked that I had gone that far with my plans, because for months I was ignoring what I was feeling and felt like my level of sadness and despair was normal. I could not believe that I was about to end myself.
It was a long night. My friend had a very tough time getting me to hold on. In no way was I feeling better-- in fact I was feeling worse. I felt so disgusting and immature for losing my composure and bearing. I went home, and some other co-workers drove me to the hospital to get checked out. They said I wasn't an immediate threat to myself, so I would have to wait for the mental help clinic to open up in the morning and evaluate there. That's what I did.
For a couple months, I got professional help on a weekly basis. They did the regular steps for helping me look past my problems. Go outside more. Do things with people. Spend time with friends. Try to connect with people you care about. Break the cycle. I tried to do it all as best as I could. I was on the medication, and things were okay. But I was only okay in the way that I was okay before-- just ignoring my feelings.
Now I am worse. feelings of love and excruciating pain are mixed up. One triggers another and now they are synonymous to the point where acts of kindness towards me make me want to break down. I don't miss friends or family, in fact I am coldly indifferent to them and I don't think of them anymore. I think of death every time I go to sleep at night, and in the morning when I wake. I sold or gave away many of the things that used to be important to me. I work longer than I'm asked to, and for reasons unknown to me. I don't get paid overtime. My efforts go unnoticed and I know it.
I started resorting to different ways of making myself feel okay. yesterday I knelt on the floor, took my shirt off and started whipping myself with a belt. I knew that pain releases endorphins, and I did it until I was quietly lying on the floor, mouth agape and eyes still. It was the only way I could get myself to stop hurting.
The people who love me can't even get me to care anymore. I just work, eat, sleep, and get by. I can't see why I'm trying to stay alive anymore. I know surviving day by day is a method of living in hopes of the better future and experiencing good things that eventually come, but even that does not entice me. I want none of it. I feel like life is a game and I've definitely overplayed it.
What am I supposed to think?
I am one in seven billion, a germ in a petri dish, a minute or hour on the scale of eternity. I've thought about suicide countless times. Some have told me that if I were to die, many who loved me would be heartbroken and would cry. But this is only temporary, just like everything else.
People die. People get over it.
I tried to take my life back in March of this year, 2014. It was spontaneous, like my emotional filter in my head just snapped for no reason and I just had to end my life.
I remember what it was like. I was sitting on my bed, looking at the white wall from an angle. I was not feeling sad, or tired, or upset that day at all. I was very... neutral. Out of nowhere, I had the urge to go outside and in my head I was telling myself "I'm done." It was a calm, quiet whisper in my mind. Repeating.
I got in my car, and calmly drove down the main road towards town. It takes approximately 16 minutes to get to where I was heading. While I was driving on the main road, hot tears were dripping down my face. I was not sobbing, or crying out in a plea for help, or even begging God to end me. I was slowly breathing through my mouth, and just crying. Both hands gripping the wheel, my will driving me towards my unknown outcome. Would my life end this day? Was this the end of my book, my story? I imagined a gravestone, the numbers of this day and year etched into the face.
For months before, I had been researching barbiturates and euthanasia. I had quietly accepted for myself that I was coming to the end of my wits and that I would truly want to end my life soon. I dreamed of it, and I even tried to find sources of drugs that would guarantee my death, but they were not legal to purchase as a standard consumer. So here I was, driving on the longest road of my life to CVS. My plan was to <Mod Edit, WildCherry: Methods>.
While I was driving, my levels of stress and self hatred were becoming more and more apparent to myself. I was twitching. I wasn't just twitching in the face, and I didn't just have shaky hands-- I would involuntarily violently jerk my body like I was trying to get out of my skin. I was seething at that point. I remember screaming. I remember bashing the back of my head into the headrest repeatedly, wanting to stop existing no matter the cost.
<Mod Edit, WildCherry: Methods>
I grabbed my phone and sent a message to a friend. "I need you to give me one reason to stay alive right now. Please."
All I needed was one reason. One bullshit reason to cling to, to push my mind into begging for. I was so shocked that I had gone that far with my plans, because for months I was ignoring what I was feeling and felt like my level of sadness and despair was normal. I could not believe that I was about to end myself.
It was a long night. My friend had a very tough time getting me to hold on. In no way was I feeling better-- in fact I was feeling worse. I felt so disgusting and immature for losing my composure and bearing. I went home, and some other co-workers drove me to the hospital to get checked out. They said I wasn't an immediate threat to myself, so I would have to wait for the mental help clinic to open up in the morning and evaluate there. That's what I did.
For a couple months, I got professional help on a weekly basis. They did the regular steps for helping me look past my problems. Go outside more. Do things with people. Spend time with friends. Try to connect with people you care about. Break the cycle. I tried to do it all as best as I could. I was on the medication, and things were okay. But I was only okay in the way that I was okay before-- just ignoring my feelings.
Now I am worse. feelings of love and excruciating pain are mixed up. One triggers another and now they are synonymous to the point where acts of kindness towards me make me want to break down. I don't miss friends or family, in fact I am coldly indifferent to them and I don't think of them anymore. I think of death every time I go to sleep at night, and in the morning when I wake. I sold or gave away many of the things that used to be important to me. I work longer than I'm asked to, and for reasons unknown to me. I don't get paid overtime. My efforts go unnoticed and I know it.
I started resorting to different ways of making myself feel okay. yesterday I knelt on the floor, took my shirt off and started whipping myself with a belt. I knew that pain releases endorphins, and I did it until I was quietly lying on the floor, mouth agape and eyes still. It was the only way I could get myself to stop hurting.
The people who love me can't even get me to care anymore. I just work, eat, sleep, and get by. I can't see why I'm trying to stay alive anymore. I know surviving day by day is a method of living in hopes of the better future and experiencing good things that eventually come, but even that does not entice me. I want none of it. I feel like life is a game and I've definitely overplayed it.
What am I supposed to think?