The other day I received an upsetting letter, which I opened when I was alone in the living room. I sat on my bed, emotions turning in my stomach, unable to even think clearly, just needing to not feel, to slow it all down. I wanted to regain control over myself. So I went onto the balcony where I knew there was a glass with green water and a dead plant in it, I picked it up, poured out the brackish water and the carcass of the plant. Then I knelt on the concrete balcony and smashed the glass against the ground, and proceeded to cut my left thigh with the broken glass. Melinda found the letter and immediately knew that it would mean some bad days ahead for us. (also me cutting is in no way her or her fiance's fault) She cleaned up the glass, found the pieces I had hidden, and held me while I cried.
Something like that would be hard for anyone. But for the depressed, suicidal it tends to mean suicide thoughts and attempts. I then later argued about the letter with my best friend, who tends to be very good at not triggering me. She is the person that I share practically every thought with. I talk to her pretty much every day, and she is really good with my condition. Only this time she was tired, and not in the emotional place for this conversation. The end result was, me stealing a glass, leaving the apartment in the middle of the night, and hiding near the pool cutting. (although please realize that in this situation pretty much any course of action taken by Anna would have triggered me.) Melinda and Trevor wound up finding me, bringing me back, and dressing the cuts, because Anna could tell she had triggered me and contacted Mel telling her to check on me. (Oh and Trevor and Mel are going to replace the glasses with plastic cups.)
Then the next day, I took off again, couldn't find a better way to hurt myself, so wound up punching a tree and staring at traffic weighing the pros and cons of walking into it. (which was the second time that day I had stared at cars rushing by wondering that.) I sat under a tree by the side of the road, shrouded in shadows, until headlights would swing by shining on me briefly, giving me a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I imagined what it would feel like to be hit by a car. I imagined the impact, the feeling of being plastered on the asphalt. What it would be like to be in that amount of pain for the last few moments of life. I worried about giving the driver PTSD, and about wrecking their car. I wondered if they would see me in the headlights and try to break, maybe I would just wind up in another hospital hooked up to machines, as doctors and techs surrounded me working hard to bring me back, even though it would mean more physical and emotional pain for me. I thought of owing my parent's even more than I do now in medical bills. I sat there paralyzed by emotional pain, and racing thoughts until Melinda ran by looking for me, and I called out to her.
Some days are so hard that I curl up in a ball and cry about how much I "can't do this" and how I just want to die. Sometimes I beg Anna to absolve me from feeling guilty for committing suicide. I ask her if she would forgive me for being weak, and unable to live. I beg her to let me go. I cry about how much pain there is in the world, not just for me, the whole world is crying out. I lie on the grass wanting so much to stop breathing. Some days make me want to violently lash out, to break things and scream as loud as I can. To learn how to throw a better punch so maybe I can impact something. To share some of the thoughts that I keep to myself. Some days I just want to be happy, to go shopping, the be the "normal" 21 year old girl. I want to listen to my music too loud, and drive too fast. I want to dance, until I forget why it hurts. I want to drink until I can barely remember my name. I have all different days, I guess mostly I want to matter. To people, and to the world. Just to have a place, and to have worth, to not be so incredibly sick.
Something like that would be hard for anyone. But for the depressed, suicidal it tends to mean suicide thoughts and attempts. I then later argued about the letter with my best friend, who tends to be very good at not triggering me. She is the person that I share practically every thought with. I talk to her pretty much every day, and she is really good with my condition. Only this time she was tired, and not in the emotional place for this conversation. The end result was, me stealing a glass, leaving the apartment in the middle of the night, and hiding near the pool cutting. (although please realize that in this situation pretty much any course of action taken by Anna would have triggered me.) Melinda and Trevor wound up finding me, bringing me back, and dressing the cuts, because Anna could tell she had triggered me and contacted Mel telling her to check on me. (Oh and Trevor and Mel are going to replace the glasses with plastic cups.)
Then the next day, I took off again, couldn't find a better way to hurt myself, so wound up punching a tree and staring at traffic weighing the pros and cons of walking into it. (which was the second time that day I had stared at cars rushing by wondering that.) I sat under a tree by the side of the road, shrouded in shadows, until headlights would swing by shining on me briefly, giving me a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I imagined what it would feel like to be hit by a car. I imagined the impact, the feeling of being plastered on the asphalt. What it would be like to be in that amount of pain for the last few moments of life. I worried about giving the driver PTSD, and about wrecking their car. I wondered if they would see me in the headlights and try to break, maybe I would just wind up in another hospital hooked up to machines, as doctors and techs surrounded me working hard to bring me back, even though it would mean more physical and emotional pain for me. I thought of owing my parent's even more than I do now in medical bills. I sat there paralyzed by emotional pain, and racing thoughts until Melinda ran by looking for me, and I called out to her.
Some days are so hard that I curl up in a ball and cry about how much I "can't do this" and how I just want to die. Sometimes I beg Anna to absolve me from feeling guilty for committing suicide. I ask her if she would forgive me for being weak, and unable to live. I beg her to let me go. I cry about how much pain there is in the world, not just for me, the whole world is crying out. I lie on the grass wanting so much to stop breathing. Some days make me want to violently lash out, to break things and scream as loud as I can. To learn how to throw a better punch so maybe I can impact something. To share some of the thoughts that I keep to myself. Some days I just want to be happy, to go shopping, the be the "normal" 21 year old girl. I want to listen to my music too loud, and drive too fast. I want to dance, until I forget why it hurts. I want to drink until I can barely remember my name. I have all different days, I guess mostly I want to matter. To people, and to the world. Just to have a place, and to have worth, to not be so incredibly sick.
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