Two years ago, I thought having thoughts of suicide was unthinkable. How could someone, at least someone who had a roof over their head and food in their pantries, feel like they didn’t want to see tomorrow? But now I get it, and I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
I definitely think my own struggles have made me far more empathetic and able to connect. I’d never really truly had deep harsh personal problems, so I would be awkwardly attempting to understand but not able to put myself into their mentality whenever someone would ask for help or advice.
And sometimes I wish… I don’t know exactly. This empathy and a bit of my own pride have combined in a way that means I tend to deal with other people’s problems before mine. And in the end, sometimes I don’t deal with mine at all, until I’m alone and isolated and it’s 2:30 and I still can’t sleep and I start crying and I can’t stop.
And then I stare at my wrists and feel that Donnie Darko-ish pull towards the razor that I know is sitting on the rail above my shower door. My fingers twitch, my nails hoping to scrape and scrape and scrape. If my pocket knife is nearby, that’s another danger.
I feel so damn weak for thinking about it, and fuck I know I shouldn’t feel that way. I know mentally that it’s okay, that half the fucking world feels it, but you know, it’s like faith. It’s not something you can force me to actually believe. I can’t trick myself into it.
And at the beginning of this personal Dark Age, I resolved to not keep any of this a secret. It’s got to help to share it, right? But I just – I give myself countless excuses.
One – she won’t understand. She’s never felt this before. I know she’ll try to sympathize, but she can’t really know what it’s like. She’s never been where I am. I don’t want to make her feel awkward.
Two – she’s got her own problems to deal with. She doesn’t need me dumping my issues on her too. (And if I’m being perfectly honest, this makes me mad too. Because I think she doesn’t even notice, and all I ever do is notice. She wallows and complains, and fuck I want to help, but I’ve got my own shit, and I don’t know what else to say, and we are both so confrontational any even slight disagreement becomes an awkward dance to avoid fighting because we want to like each other.)
Three – it’s just humiliating. I’ve always been okay. Even last semester, it was really pretty far from my mind, most of the time. And I could shake it off then. But now, sometimes I will only escape hurting myself by forcing my mind into blankness. If I let myself be impulsive and didn’t stop to think, I’d be dripping blood into the sink. I don’t want to admit it.
Four – I haven’t got time to deal with this.
Five – I don’t want to see the looks I know I’ll get. My friends will be wary and nervous and always checking to see if I’ll implode anytime soon. Mom will be disappointed and worried and look at me like I’m made of glass. Dad will – I don’t even know. But I can’t disappoint him like that. Any of them.
It’s so fucking sudden. I’ll be fine for weeks, and then it’s just back. I’ll be shitty for weeks and then I’ll have a good day, just the slightest sip of the most potent freedom, and then be doused in gray sludge again.
I feel numb and overly-sensitive at the same time. And I want them to notice, but I really don’t want them to either. I don’t know whether I should work through this myself, or if I should lean on them. And every aspect I admit, I feel like they think it comes out of nowhere and I’m regressing or that they missed something or that I’m seeking attention.
Yesterday was so good. So god fucking damn good. And I don’t know what just happened in the last hour.