Suicide Isn’t All About Me.
One of the pitfalls of suicidal thinking is that it is inherently self-centered. It happens as an answer to panic, as a self-soothing mechanism, to make you feel, for a time, as though you are somehow back in control of your situation. Granted, at the time that it is occurring, the thoughts are not nearly that clear. Otherwise, you’d attack the source of your panic and not focus on ending life itself.
What I hadn’t realized, over the many years that suicidal thinking has fucked with my general life, is the numerous messages that I’ve been sending to the people that care about me — especially to my husband, who constantly is by my side, helping me fight against the thinking and the panic… or that the longer that it’s gone on, the more ingrained the messages have become.
Messages like, “I don’t care about how much I hurt you,” or “I don’t love you,” or “I didn’t mean it when I said I’d share the rest of our lives together, because I’m planning to end mine while you’re still young.” Suicide says, “I don’t appreciate how much love, attention, and care you give me.” It says, “You don’t matter to me. Nothing does.”
But those messages aren’t truth. I wish I knew how to erase their stain.
Doing The Hard Work To Heal
I’m doing everything I can think of to end my suicidal mindset — not just for myself, but because I do love my husband and want to be happy with him. I’m taking medicine. I’m going to weekly counseling. I’m owning my problem, doing all the work that’s given to me, and am trying, every day, to become a better version of myself.
I am so deeply ashamed of my behavior. It may seem as though I’m proud of it, since I let it all be shown here on my blog, but that’s not the case. I use this platform as a way of relating to other people, since I spend so much time completely alone in real life. It’s how I reach out.
I wish I knew how to fix the damage I’ve caused and make everything better. I feel like the cycle of suicidal thinking has poisoned my best relationships and hardened my heart. I keep pushing people away. I’d push myself away if I could. I wish I knew how to forgive myself for being so consistently mean to everyone. I wonder if I even deserve forgiveness.
Where Is The Undo Button In Life?
I swear, if there were a Ctrl-Z function for activities in the real world, I would “undo” all the suicidal bullshit. It’s so immensely counterproductive. It doesn’t even achieve what I’m actually after… and that’s a feeling of peace.
At the end of the day, what I really want – what I really am trying to get, but am fumbling like mad for and am entirely fucking up is basic, run-of-the-mill contentment. I just want to be okay. I just want to not flip out, feeling lesser-than or unable to do. I want to not be constantly afraid or feel like I’m under scrutiny where every little thing I do has to be perfect.
And no one puts me in a position to be judged like that. I’m the one, very harshly judging myself, every minute of every day. I’m the one causing my panic. I’m the one who is pissing all over true love because I’m too afraid to believe I could actually have it, and in some sick way think its safer to pretend to be tough, while I know the whole time, I’m just hurting both myself and the man I love. I know I’m fucking up, all the time, and I don’t know how to stop it. But at least I know, at this point, that the way to stop it is not by killing myself, or even fantasizing about it.
So What Does Faith Have To Do With It?
Quite a bit, actually. I have to believe — have to let myself believe — that things can be okay. I have to stop letting my fears and perceived inadequacies rule my life. I’m afraid right now even to imagine what life would be like if I weren’t in crisis. It doesn’t feel safe. I don’t even remember what a normal life is like, I’ve been going through high-stress awfulness for so many years.
I know that I have to stop ruminating over the idea that Adam is going to leave me, and have faith that he really does love me and want to stay with me for the rest of his life – and I have to stop thinking that means he’s going to die soon. He’s told me about a million times that he’s not going anywhere. Worrying about it won’t make any difference, and not believing it only robs us of happiness.
I have to stop being afraid – truly, palpably afraid – every damn day about how I’m going to fill my time so that I don’t think about suicide, and just spend the time actually doing things – whatever they may be.
I have to have faith in myself to change my ways of thinking and acting, faith in my therapist to help me make those changes, and faith in God to sustain me through all of it.
I have to dare to hope.