…watching a friend go through the worst time of their life is a good reminder.
It reminds me how incredibly helpless she must have felt when I was in the same place 14 years ago. When I was slicing open my arms and wrists.
Because nothing else helped release. The numbness had taken over ever inch of my body and the only way to feel was to slice and cut and bleed. The burning afterwards and suddenly a sense of feeling normal for a few hours until the pressure started building again.
And here I am.
A continent away.
“There will be a light at the end of your tunnel,” I say.
And I hope that she believes me. At least she knows that I was exactly where she was long ago.
But she probably doesn’t believe me. Because when you are at that point, when you feel like that, you don’t believe anything anymore. Worst of all, you start believing that the world is better off without you.
In my darkest nights and days, she was the person that begged me not to kill myself and I was the one that was completely in control telling her “But you don’t understand. Everyone’s life will be better without me.”
And I truly believed it. And once I got to that point I stopped cutting shallow and I cut deep. So deep that today’s doctor’s are suprised at the lack of scars.
That is the thing about suicide. You get to a point where you deeply believe that the world is better off without you and you almost enter a stage of happiness again. A solution. The last one. And you cut. And bleed. And the blood cleanses. And the more you bleed, the lighter your head feels.
But I also know that if you want to cut deep enough. You will.
If there is one thing you learn in a psych ward it’s that people who want to truly die will find a way. I know this, because I saw it happen in front of me.
I didn’t really want to die, I suppose. I tried really hard in different ways, but I was stubborn enough to not want to die for real/
And now I am sitting here watching the hell my best friend at home is going through. And the reaching out she does and the psych wards that have turned her down and I want to jump in there and scream and someone.
There is nothing I can do except hope that a part of her wants to remain alive.
Because it is worth it most days.
I will never judge suicide. Ever. If I ever felt the way again I felt back then, I would still think it’s a legitimate way to end the suffering. But I will also never allow myself to slip so low, to a place of almost no return, to a place where I lost myself so deeply that I talked about myself in the 3rd person. I won’t let that happen again.
Yours truly was thoroughly fucked up, deeply, disturbingly, unwilling, unbendingly, stubborn, ready to die. I have never been shy to talk about this. People need to know that you can actually make it. I had to fight hard for this life. Every step I have taken I had to fight. Two forward one back, sometimes two forward, three back. I took drugs I shouldn’t have taken, I overdosed on things people don’t overdose on, I tried really hard not to be here.
And today I am still here. Amazed, some days, by what my life is today. Amazed that I might have missed a lot of this.
And she is there. Hurting so deeply. And it reminds me these days so intensely of what it felt like to hold that razor blade to my arm, of what it felt like to take handfuls of valium, of what it felt like to give up on life, to feel the relief of having made that final decision to leave this earth and fuck.
I don’t want her to leave. I wish I could take some of her pain, but I know it’s all hers.