Ok, so I suppose an update is in order. It's been a long time since I said anything substantial.
I guess, I just don't know what to say or if it matters when I say anything. Very few people listen or care. There comes a time when you just throw in the towel and forget about other people altogether. But even when you do that, you don't really give up on talking to people--you just find new ones to talk to.
If I was pressed to describe my current state, I'd have to say chronically suicidal. In fact, a few weeks ago, I attempted for the 2nd time to end it all. I wrote the letters, put them out to be found later on, left my computer password and another note for my parents on my computer, left a list of my main possessions and what should be done with them, cleaned up everything in my dorm, put up a final facebook status, gave myself 10 minutes for God to send someone/thing to change my mind, and when that didn't come, I grabbed a rope, my razor, all of my medications, and to the park I went.
I sat on the playground equipment, and immediately regretted my choice of locations. What if a child finds my body? I mean, I know that finding a body will scar anyone but a child especially. At least with an adult, I'm fairly certain they're already fucked up anyway, so finding me probably won't do much more damage, except maybe to get them into a therapist like everyone should see at one point or another. After musing on that, I pushed it from my mind. After I'm dead, what does it matter to me how I affect others? At that point, it's clear that they don't matter to me enough to stay alive for them, so what do I care?
I sat there for a while. I twirled the already knotted rope around my arm and squeezed. I wondered if the lack of circulation I felt after a while mirrored what it would feel like around my neck. I cried at the thought. I considered a movie I had seen where someone decided to hang themselves. When they found him, there were terrible scratch marks around his neck where he had clearly tried to remove the rope. He had changed his mind, but it was too late. Would that happen to me? I shuttered at that thought. It made me doubt myself
I got out my razor instead. The pills were out of the question and only a last resort. I didn't have anything medicine to stop me from vomiting them back up anyway. Not to mention, if it works, it's a slow, painful death. I pulled down the sleeves of my jacket and rubbed the blade lightly over my veins. I couldn't imagine doing it. What does it feel like to slice a vein? It must be terribly painful. And to watch the blood flow from your veins, to feel the dizziness come and realize what you're seeing is your life flowing away from you? Could I do that? I put the razor against the main vein on my left wrist. I pressed it in as deeply as I could muster. And nothing. Not even a mark. I didn't have the guts to do it. I threw the razor down the slide in frustration. Car lights flickered from somewhere behind me, and I panicked. I quickly got down and found my razor. I put it back in its hiding place and then, into my backpack.
Not the razor and not the pills. The rope. I'd have to risk changing my mind. Fate, right? Fate would decide if I actually died anyway. I just had to do it. I walked to the pavilion with the beams high enough to do the job. I looked off into the distance where the parklights shone from. There where people smoking on their porch. Would they see me? I didn't want them to have to watch that let alone try and sav me. I returned to the tower of the playground equipment and cried. I made a deal with myself. If they were gone by the time I walked past that house on my way back to my dorm, then I would go back and do it already. If they were still out there smoking when I got there, then I'd keep walking.
They were still there, so I kept walking. I didn't want to go back in case my roommate had already found the letters and the password. She hadn't. She was on her computer in bed, completely unaware that I had come fairly close to committing suicide. I don't know if you'd call it an attempt, but it certainly was the intention. I'm just a coward. I went to the bathroom and cut to punish myself. Then, I slept, went through the next day like nothing happened. No one ever knew.
What brought me here? To this chronic suicidality? Life, I guess, is the only reason for death. So, life brought me to this point. I just can't take much more of life and its bullshit. I didn't ask for life. It's supposedly this great gift that I never even wanted. It's a job I never applied for. I quit.
I just feel like I'm not ever going to be enough. Like all my dreams are impossible, because I'm such a failure. I hate myself so much. You have no idea. The things that I think would scare anybody. The hatred that I have for myself would shock you.
There's this suicide website that I frequent. I even email a few of its member outside of its context. They've helped me out of a few other potential deadly days, just by understanding me better than most people can. I don't blame anyone for not understanding me. I don't understand me. But they get it. They searched for the site just like I did. They're suicidal too, and they make me feel less alone. I post when I'm at my limit. They give me feedback. It's my obsession these days. Suicide.
I see a counselor once a week. She is helping my see things a bit differently. But what I really need to talk about--depression, for instance,--how bad it actually is and the fact that I'm suicidal and cut myself--I can't talk about for fear that I'll end up in a psych ward. It's not the ward that scares me. In fact, I could use the rest. It's the people having to know part that bugs me. Fuck, I don't want my parents or church members ever knowing I feel the way I do. They'd pray over me, and my mom would probably try to fucking cast out demons or something. No way. I believe in God and all, but I am not possessed. He made me this way, and I've prayed plenty of times myself. He's never healed me, so I'm starting to think that this is just me. Does that mean I probably need help to learn how to deal with the consequences of being me? Yes, but everything's a fucking catch-22. You tell, you get locked up, your world falls apart completely, you want to die more. You don't tell, you stay the same, your world falls apart slowly, and eventually you off yourself. I'll die either way. So I don't know what to do.
I don't even necessarily want happiness anymore. I just want rest.
