I had my first suicidal thought when I was a freshman in college. I realized I just did not care about being alive, like I would not have minded dying and it did not scare me. That night, I called my best friend and spent the night at his place without explaining why I was randomly climbing in his bed at 3am.
About a year later, I asked my super religious friend if he thought I would go to Hell for committing suicide. We talked about it for a good minute and his end answer was no, he did not think I would go to Hell if I committed suicide. I asked him because I had started not just not caring if I was alive, but wanting to die. Since then, I have gone through 2 years of pure Hell.
April 1st 2017 I took over 50 mg of Xanax and drank a 6 pack and some liquor. I have had counselors and even psychiatrists admit they do not know how I survived and that it was a “real attempt”. I spent 3 days in the hospital and got fired from my job because of my attempt.
Being suicidal feels like you are constantly drowning but won’t just pass out and die. My body feels the same panicky feeling as being held underwater by your sibling in the neighborhood swimming pool for a little too long. As you are constantly drowning you see this button that says “end suffering now” and every day you have to convince yourself the suffering is worth it somehow and that you shouldn’t push that button. The drowning becomes exhausting, so extremely exhausting that I would rather just feel nothing ever again, never think again or have an emotion. I know it is partially my brain chemistry (major depression and stuff) and is partially the things I have experienced that I relive on a day to day basis (PTSD, specifically from being raped) and then it’s just the struggles I am going through now. When the suicidal thoughts got so bad two years ago, that is when my husband stepped into my life. He kind of became that reason to not push the “end all” button. And then my pets also helped me as well as hope for growing our family.
My husband did not really know how much I needed him, but at the end of March 2017 he became mean and made it clear he wanted me out of his life and that I was nothing but bad for him. I couldn’t take it. He was my rock and I felt like without him all the stability in my life would crumble. I was so hopeless and desperate to feel nothing anymore. The drowning was so bad and I just sat on the floor and decided to push the button.
I guess the button did not work that time.
Since then, my husband knew how badly I needed him to fight this battle. But it didn’t stop him from leaving and taking my pets. Every time I would try to talk to him about my thoughts and how bad things were, he saw it as me trying to manipulate him into staying with me. It wasn’t, it was me just saying how genuinely scared I was.
Everyday he has been gone has felt like that night I pushed the button. I was prescribed a bunch of Klonopin and was told to take it constantly throughout the day to calm these feelings. The very drug that can kill me is the one that is supposed to save me. It all feels like a wicked head game. I drink a lot now, sleep all day and stay up all night. To sleep I drink and take my Klonopin. And this has been my life since November 21st. I barely eat or do anything. I study psychology to try to cope with my feelings and think of myself as a chemical reaction instead of an actual human.
Sure, say what you want. Some will think I was trying to manipulate him into staying with me. Some will say I really will go to Hell and that suicide is selfish and the easy way out. Others will tell me that things will get better and “life is worth living”. I honestly just wish people would stop saying anything at all because it does not change a damn thing I feel. When I say I am doing the best I can, I actually mean it. Even if it involves alcohol and unhealthy habits, at least I am alive right?
I lost my rock and I don’t intend on ever letting someone that close to me to become my new rock. This is how things just have to be.
I found out a few days ago that my husband took my health insurance away, awesome. So even if I built up the courage to fight my weakest moment and go to the hospital, I can’t. When I need more meds or to see my psychiatrist or counselor, I can’t. Sometimes I think my husband is just waiting for the call, to hear that I finally did it. Sometimes I think he and his family want it to happen. Why else would they take away all resources of help from my little family to my insurance? These are the things I think about constantly, but I am here. Suffering. Wouldn’t want to be selfish now, would I?