I snapped. Hit a wall. Had enough. Whatever you want to call it. And today I just feel so many things. I feel ashamed of myself, I feel weak, I feel guilty. I also feel slightly relieved – an emotion which took me by surprise. I feel defeated, ashamed of that feeling, and I feel utterly heartbroken that I failed. I feel like a failure. I feel guilty for what I would have put my friends through – mostly the trauma of whichever poor sod it would have been who’d found my body, because that’s traumatic even if you don’t know the person. I feel guilty for the fact I feel sad it failed. I feel like I’m now living a lie, just by living. And yet there’s that tiny faint glimmer of relief. Somewhere, somehow, the fire is still burning. I’m surprised. I genuinely felt I’d been finished. I half-hate this glimmer of relief, and half feel grateful. I know there’s important things I need to do and I would never want to put someone through the trauma of finding my body. I also still really don’t want the abusers to win, although this kind of got lost during the night.
I don’t really know what happened. It felt like suddenly everything overwhelmed me, like I was being brutally attacked by my own emotions. I can withstand other people beating me up, to a degree, but my own head beating itself up?! I didn’t stand a chance. How can I deflect my own head with logic, when it was attacking me with logic and pain? As much as I hate to admit it, my head is strong. And that strength can be deadly if attacking me directly. Especially because when it does that, I am overwhelmed within a matter of seconds. I have felt near on permanently very suicidal for months now. It didn’t take much of my own head attacking itself, and just a nudge more grief, and I was finished. Done. Wiped. I just wanted out. I wanted everything to end. I still do but not quite so overwhelmingly. Everything felt impossible. I couldn’t remember that I had friends, never mind try and imagine them. Sometimes that works. It sounds ridiculous but it really is like the flippin expecto patronum spell in Harry Potter 😉 😉 Sometimes life has lost all glimmers of light; everything is dark and painful, and I have no energy. If I can imagine my friends faces or hunt for a memory, it does work. It often will leave me in floods of tears but it will at least cast some light into the black mess. Dear JK, the spell is real 😉
I have felt too ashamed of myself and guilty to tell any of my friends. I guess they might read this. I guess this is me trying to tell them. I dunno. I guess I’m scared someone will say ‘do you know what, just fucking do it. I’m sick of you and your misery.’ And then I would just do it. But I think if I’m scared of someone saying that, it shows I don’t absolutely want to die, yet. It also suggests to me that some of this is programmed. I fear someone close telling me they want me dead despite them never coming close to saying that (and actually saying the opposite many times). Nothing logical or rational therefore gives my head reason to expect them to say this and yet I’m so scared of hearing it, and of therefore drowning in hopelessness and loneliness. Therefore, someone has put this suicide attempt into my head. Some abuser. Some act of programming. Yes I’ve been suicidal for months; the mixture of PTSD, depression, grief, memories and the early stages of an eating disorder is a terrifyingly powerful and dangerous cocktail. However, yesterday I planned my next tattoo, I planned stuff for next week. During the day I felt able to plan events for the next day. And then out of the blue I *needed* to die. Something pushed my fragile head over the edge. I couldn’t sleep so that won’t have helped. But I firmly believe the abusers had programmed me.
Somehow I still have the energy to feel angry at that, and bounced back today by going out and seeing a friend for coffee…by talking about future stuff… even though really I just wanted to hide in bed with the quilt above my head, preferably unconscious due to alcohol. But I know the abusers tried to kill me last night, in a roundabout kinda way. They in a sense couldn’t have been responsible. I was the one who attempted to take my life. But they were the ones who programmed it. God only knows when they programmed it – days, weeks, months, years ago…? I don’t know. I don’t massively care. The fact was I am so absolutely on the edge anyway that just a push from them could be enough. They know my head is powerful. To turn my own head against me would be their most successful way to silence me.
And yet I’m still so sad I failed. So sad I have to keep living in this pain. So sad I can’t be with my babies, holding them properly and being the mum I’m supposed to be. So I know it wasn’t all programmed. The programming was just the breeze that knocked over the wobbling stack of cards. Maybe they’re reading this blog post. Maybe this is why I’m writing it. Sorry fuckers, I’m still alive. You failed. Again. I failed. Again. But hey, you failed, and so my own failure is less despairing. Screw you.
I’m not sure what happened. Everything went white and then I saw shadows. Little blurs. I knew they were my babies and the children. I felt calm. No pain. Nothing. No memories left except for the ones of my children. My maternal instinct which is aching from having nowhere to go suddenly felt soothed, and attached to the shadows. I held each of them in turn, told them I was here now. I never wanted to let go. Ever. Then Holly appeared, kissed me, told me to go back, that she’d look after them, to please not let the abusers win. I didn’t argue. I don’t know why. I wanted to be with her and my children. But I knew she was right. I didn’t say a word. I felt too weak to speak. Gently, she pushed my chest, and pushed me backwards. She kept hold of my wrist though….and all day my wrist has felt like someone is very gently holding it. She’s still with me. Guiding me. Keeping me grounded, reminding me she’s looking after my babies. I worry endlessly they’re on their own in this great unknown after death and scared. But Holly will look after them….
I have no idea what the above experience was. I’m not a big believer in ghosts and angels and blah. My ex girlfriend put me right off all that. So who knows. Maybe it was some near-death experience, maybe it was my own head protecting itself (deciding attacking itself wasn’t so fun?!) and hallucinating at just the right point. I got to hold my babies again. There is nothing more precious…
I sobbed when I woke up. My chest *hurt* and I ached and had pins and needles all over. This has happened before after suicide attempts; like my body is waking back up. But when my energy restored itself, I sobbed. I felt so horrendously guilty. I didn’t know how I could ever look at my friends again. I also couldn’t quite work out how this was the dominant feeling…… I believe there may be further programming here.
I also felt relief that I’d held them again. Despair that I was back. Pain. Grief. Fear. Relief. Sorrow. Guilt. It was just some *mad* emotional fruit salad. I used my very own expecto patronum spell (I recommend it, if nothing else you’ll laugh at the stupidity of you living like harry potter) and focussed on the memory of all my friends’ faces, of them all laughing in a pub after rehearsal. Singing christmas carols in an italian restaurant 2 years ago… I focussed on all this and after a while I calmed, lay down on the bed and cried gently for the remainder of the night. I eventually fell asleep at 7am, and woke properly at 12pm today. Seeing daylight filled me with dread, guilt, and a pinch of relief. And that tiny glimmer of relief, no matter how small, has helped me to know – that suicide attempt wasn’t entirely voluntary. I’m suicidal but not at the point of 100% wanting to die yet. Some of last night was due to programming.
However small, there’s still some light, still some glimmer of wanting to live. I have things to do.
Dear abusers, you have not won yet. And if you do ever succeed, be rest assured my story won’t go silently with me to the grave. Fuck. You.
I do want my babies. I want them desperately. I want them all. 99% of me wants to be up there with them. But 1% of me wants to do what I set out to do, keep the promises I made, keep remembering to breathe through the pain, and keep crawling even though everything hurts so terribly. And for as long as I have that 1%, I have to keep going.
I’m so sorry. I feel weak. I feel ashamed. I feel guilty. I don’t know, maybe people will be relieved or maybe they’ll be disappointed I made it. Maybe they’ll be angry. I’m angry at myself. I’m disappointed in myself. I’m also angry at the abusers.
I also really want my babies. I’m so grateful I was able to hold them. I’m so grateful to feel Holly holding my wrist, and knowing they’re safe with her. Nobody can hurt them now.
1% of me wants to keep going. So I will.
You won’t win, abusers. I’m in so much pain as you well know, but you still haven’t won. The problem is I have memories of friends and love and compassion both alive and dead, and all of that is more powerful than your shit. I won’t deny I’m in so much pain. But I will deny you the victory of my dead body.