Five years ago today I came within a hairsbreadth of killing myself. I’ve had thoughts of suicide since, but never so close to following through. Because that day? It nearly happened.
I was alone in a hotel room in New York. I had a plan. I knew what to do.
I’d decided to do it there so no one I knew would suffer the trauma of finding me.
I was so lonely. I felt so lost. So fucking alone.
I felt like I would never be a person worth being a priority in another person’s life, because I’ve never experienced that feeling.
I think I’ve made it up to maybe 5th or 6th place with my closest friendships, relationships, or family members.
Other people or jobs or hobbies have always been more important than me. I get it. It just sucks. (Whether this is true or not isn’t factoring in here. It’s all in how my fucked up brain sees things.)
Five years later I still feel this way. It’s scary sometimes, how intense that feeling is.
I’d be content at being in third or fourth place. How sad is that? To not believe I’ll ever matter more than that. To want to matter to someone so badly that I’m willing to sacrifice my own self worth.
Most days I am ok. Today just hit me with a double whammy. The post that just went up about help. Followed by the memory of what this day was.
Despite KNOWING the truth, I still feel like the burden and inconvenience my family made me feel like when I was growing up. Like an attention whore who needs to be the center of attention and just wants someone to pay attention to me.
I feel like a loser.
But I’m strong. I didn’t kill myself that day.
I decided I would do three things, first.
1. I would go out and buy myself something really pretty, just for myself.
2. I would take myself out for an absolutely AWESOME meal.
3. I would attend the show I was in NYC to see in the first place. (Hamilton.)
If I came back to my hotel room and still felt the same, game over. But I didn’t.
I learned something important that day. I was capable of keeping myself alive all by myself, even as much as I may have wanted to be otherwise.
But it’s fucking hard. Being in so much pain. Feeling so lost.
I came home the next day. And first thing the following day I called my therapist. I told her I needed help.
Having the mental wherewithal to come up with a plan on the fly like that in case I hit that danger zone is not always possible, though.
I want to believe I’ll always be able to handle everything by myself. But I know that isn’t true. And I don’t want to realize that when it’s already too late.
That’s why having people in my life who can help is so essential. It’s why I share these painful experiences and memories.
I have to remember… I’m not alone.
2 thoughts on “On this day… painful memories”
A very honest article and touched a nerve with me.
In 2018 I was perhaps minutes from doing the exploding meatbag trick by stepping in front of a truck.
My son stopped me and I will forever live with the shame and guilt of knowing that in that moment the real adult was a 12 yr old boy who just wanted the only person he loves and depends on to stay with him for I am the only person who has never abandoned or abused him yet there I was intending to end my pain and cause him more.
We all have to live with our actions and sometimes we get a second chance which is what my son gave to me that day, a second chance to be the father he so desperately needs.
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I saw a TV documentary about bipolar, featuring a man who had jumped in front of a truck and somehow survived. He showed his legs and they looked like he’s survived a bad shark attack. Actually I know someone who jumped in front of a car during a psychotic episode. Ended up in hospital for ages (physical and mental hospitals). She seemed fine afterwards though, although not mentally fine. Kept having recurrent episodes of depression as the drs called it, they meant depression with psychotic features. She was only about 21. This was more than 25 years ago. I wonder how she is now.