In November 2012 I tried to kill myself. The picture above is the note I left next to my bed. “I’m sorry you ever thought I was getting better. Maybe I was, maybe it was fake. I think everything is fake. I thought I would make this more poetic. I guess life isn’t poetic. Don’t miss me, I’m happy here.”
I’d been sick for a long time, and I knew it. A mixture of a shitty childhood and troubled adolescence doesn’t make for a stable young woman and my kicks came from masturbating my self destruct button. I was in a sort of hiatus from life, I’d lose my keys and think it was a perfect time to die. I’d hear someone sing perfectly, and just know I needed to die, somehow. I’d had a great day with my friends, so it seemed about right to do it then. The morning of the day I lined the pills up wasn’t like that, it was a billowing dark, with a centre of lazy melancholy. It crushed me but kept me hollow and I knew it was going to happen. I suppose on the surface it seemed pretty standard, my family weren’t talking to me, I was in an unhappy relationship with some who wouldn’t let me go but didn’t have the energy to care, my course was getting stressful, but inside the only reason I could care about was that there was something WRONG with me. I saw people at work in my shitty retail job kicking up a fuss because the home delivery would take three days instead of two and mattress toppers needed to air appropriately and I just wanted to pull them closer and seethe into their ear about the things I saw. So if they were normal, I was sick.
I saw myself hacked to pieces, I got the razor, and I made some pussy scars over the healing creases in my arms, and it didn’t help. My flatmate was out, I wasn’t, the thought of spreading my darkness made me sick. I called my boyfriend, he didn’t pick up. I didn’t think he would, but wanted to be surprised. I remember disappointment, feeling like I would never be surprised again. Like some child.
That’s when I started to take pills. As a suburban junkie and painkiller addict it wasn’t hard to find them. I was throwing them all in my mouth, even things that wouldn’t make a difference. I just needed the feel of them. This is when things get strange. The same darkness that whispered “die” laughed in a triumphant sort of sickening way “and now your mother will have a dead daughter.”
That was the first time life seemed an option. I left a message on the table for my flatmate, telling her I was feeling dizzy and needed to get bloods taken. With my history this was a regular occurrence, she wouldn’t worry. Then when I died she’d think it was natural. But if I didn’t, I had cover. I went to A&E. I waited for two hours. I took some sheet music out of my bag, to just go over and learn it. I put it back, I was going to die, I would never sing again. I worried about an upcoming piano exam, but I would never have to sit it. But then I remembered if I died I’d never get to play Rach 2. So it was breaking even in my mind, so it wouldn’t matter if I lived or died, right?
A nurse pulled me aside, she took my blood pressure, temperature and asked me questions. I just didn’t speak and she didn’t care. That’s when they put me in the ward. That’s when a doctor told me he I was going to be okay.
I cried for the first time.
I didn’t sleep, the counterpoint and cross rhythms of separate drips and machines just haunted the backs of my eyes and all I could see was red. Someone started rustling a bag at 3am and I whispered “Shut the fuck up” (thinking there were about 10 people in the room and she wouldn’t know it was me, turns out I was just one of three, awkward.) Nurses don’t look at the suicide girls. They can’t smile at you. You have to be followed everywhere. They can’t close doors.
I stayed there for the week, I don’t remember a thing. Apart from a doctor telling me unless I quit painkillers, drinking and started taking better care of myself I wouldn’t see 25. I went to three different psychiatric evaluations. I couldn’t tell you what I said in any of them. I didn’t care, this was another hiatus, I was going to die.
I got out on Friday, I went to work and planned to take more next time. I knew it for sure now, but I just didn’t know when. I was an abortion, just trying to get an appointment that suited my schedule. I had to help a friend for her exam, couldn’t do it then. My shitty boyfriend was coming over, I couldn’t die before I broke up with him. I had gained two pounds sitting in hospital for a week, I couldn’t die fat. I was serving customers and seeing my colleagues and just wanted to tell them that the darkness wasn’t gone. They didn’t even know it was there. Turns out I was yellow, maybe they did notice, but didn’t say.
Something has kept me alive.
So, that was more than half a year ago.
Today I found my note and wasn’t afraid.
I have found the HERE where I am happy, or at least getting there. I am alive. My friends haven’t abandoned me, I have a boyfriend that loves me, my family are speaking to me. I think I have a future.
That isn’t to say it isn’t a struggle every single day. Which it is.
And this is why I am here.
If you’re from my real world, feel free to ask me about anything you read, see, whatever, but please don’t talk about me to others. Don’t be concerned for me or ask people “how I’m doing.” It will surprise you who knows about these things and who doesn’t. Just be the same person to me and I will do the same.