Thursday, February 9, 2017

It's a Struggle, but I'm Still Here

Warning: This post features talk about suicide

I'm 23 years old today and four years ago, I didn't think I would make it to 20.

I was 19. I was lost, devastated, drowning in toxic thoughts that refused to relent.

I was cutting almost every day, smoking cigarettes to help me breathe, taking shots to sleep at night and just begging to not wake up in the morning.
Cool steel against my skull.
I don't remember the exact thought that triggered me into action. I know I had considered this act many times. I had picked up the gun too many times to count actually. Cool steel against my skull. I had always stopped. I had always set it back down and walked away.

I don't remember what had left me so vulnerable to those thoughts that night. I don't even remember what day. I remember taking a couple shots, cutting and lying on my bathroom floor, silently sobbing. I remember wanting things to stop, for me to stop.

I couldn't use the gun. Everyone was asleep. I didn't want to make a mess. I was already an inconvenience, I just wanted to leave and not bother anyone anymore. A mess would just cause more problems.

Pills. My parents were medical, maybe they had something stronger, something that would let me sleep. Let me leave without causing problems. I stumbled to the medicine cabinet. I just started grabbing bottles. I don't remember what. I picked random numbers from each till I had a handful of colors. I put everything back in its place perfectly. I grabbed a beer and trudged back to my room.

I wrote a note. I honestly don't remember what it said. I just know I wrote something. I remember I wanted them to know it wasn't their fault, it wasn't anyone's fault. It was me, I was the problem. They had to know it was all me not them.

I took the pills, a rainbow falling down my throat. Washed it with alcohol and prayed God would forgive me and still let me into heaven.

I woke up to my mom yelling at me that I would be late for school. Everything spun, my vision swam, my head felt like it would split open and I ran to the bathroom and puked till all I could taste was acid. my throat burned, my skin felt like ice, everything felt wrong. Everything was wrong.
"I wasn't supposed to wake up"
"I wasn't supposed to wake up, it was supposed to be over, I was supposed to be over." Sobbing overtook me and I couldn't breathe.

"I'm supposed to be gone! I'm not supposed to be here!" I silently screamed. I was angry, I was in so much pain. "It was supposed to end. Why didn't it end? Why didn't I die?"

I felt more helpless and alone than I ever had before. I didn't want to move, didn't want to think.

But I got up. I showered. I pulled myself sluggishly through my morning and to school.

I passed through school in a toxic haze, running to the bathroom to puke every hour till all I could do was dry heave. I was miserable. I was exhausted. I ended up hiding from my classes that afternoon by crashing in my acting teacher's room. He didn't ask me for an explanation. He just patted me on the shoulder and let me sleep in the practice room. I was so grateful I cried.

I didn't go home that night. I spent the night at a friend's house where I would be relatively safe from myself.

Then I woke up the next day and kept going.