My tightrope snapped….

Dance little girl dance.

Spin little girl spin.

Watch the world blur and know….it’s you that’s spinning opposite to it.

This last….while, have been my hardest in a long time. I didn’t even realise until a week ago, that it was so bad. I knew my mood was fluctuating. I knew I was on the waltzers and they were getting faster….I didn’t realise they were about to go into orbit.

But to orbit they went, and they took me with them.

I’ve had a busy, testing few months. I was sexually assaulted in public, I’ve struggled with work, university was so much pressure…I’ve fucked up so many things. And I’ve been paying the price, physically and mentally.

My brain got so loud. So loud. And it hurt. I took painkillers it hurt so much, obviously they didn’t help.

The thoughts were so loud, the colours so bright. It hurt to open my eyes, it hurt to have conversations. It hurt to think.

I had to do all of those things, obviously.

I’m through it now I think. I slept last night  for the first time in months. Which is good because the other day I was so exhausted I sat in the shower and cried.

I’ve gotten out of tune with my feelings. I’ve refused to acknowledge them for weeks and weeks, I’ve swallowed the tears, pushed down the anger, turned away from the pain. All that happens is they sit there, gathering momentum, until it blows. Until someone leaves crumbs on the side, or brushes against my accidentally….and suddenly….I’m broken. I’m on my knees.

And on my knees is exactly how I’ve been recently.

Not that anyone would have noticed. I entered survival mode. I turned beige. I painted my face, and put my hair up. I went to work. I came home. I cooked tea. I showered. I got through.

But that articulated truck of mine, it didn’t stop. It never does, normally I swerve and it misses me, but this time….I wasn’t paying close enough attention.

I’ve been derailed, and so the climb begins again. The thoughts are getting quieter now. I’ve made some definitive decisions, which always helps. I’ve accepted that this relapse is happening, and it’s time I got into the swing of it. You can’t beat anything if you refuse to accept it’s even happening.

So, here the climb begins. Here….this is where I straighten my back, hold my head high and smile at the demons.

Those bastards think they’ll win. But they won’t. They never will.

They just caught me napping.

Belated, but what you gonna do?

Following on from a recent story line which dealt so well with male suicide, I guess I’ve been revisiting with some old friends of mine.

Friends, demons, it’s all interchangeable right?

 

Some people would say it’s not healthy to focus so much on what they see as “depressing” or “weird” (usually the same people who post those twee little things on Facebook about Mental Health issues, and conflate depression with feeling sad, or assume everyone who is a dick has a mental health issue, news flash: you can be just be a dick). Personally, I think to pretend they never occurred ; or to shy away from confronting them, is to deny who I am. Denying my history.  Denying my past.

It is not self indulgent to contemplate my attempts of suicide. Nor is it wrong to speak openly about it. One story told, can be one life saved. I do it not to garner attention nor sympathy. Rather, because I’m still processing it, still learning from it. Still growing. And lets be frank here shall we, I never thought I would still be here to do that.

I’m trying to reconcile what I did then, on each occasion, to who I am now. What changed for me to stop suicide being a viable option? What changed in me to allow myself to see a future?

Well, nothing. And yet everything.

I had a child. Ultimately, that’s what it boils down to. When we remove the whole dressing up of the situation, it’s because I had my daughter. I’m a people pleaser, down to my core.  I shy away from confrontation and hurting people. I’d rather be unhappy and displeased, than cause one moment of discomfort to someone else. So how could I possibly bring a child in to this world, and then cause that amount of trauma?

After all; every child is born wanting to love it’s mother. Needing it’s mother. How could I take that away from someone so innocent? I couldn’t cause that child to live with the consequences of my actions. My last suicide attempt came merely weeks before finding out I was pregnant.

 

That didn’t stop, or change the way I felt though. It merely changed my responsibilities. Changed my direction. It became my beacon, my guiding light out of the maze my mind had become.

But, even to refer to is as a maze seems disingenuous. It implies I was lost. But to be lost, you need to have had an end destination, and know you were off course. I didn’t have that. I had; well, nothing.

 

In my own experience, on neither occasion did I want to “die” as such. I don’t think my brain processed any thing in such terms. If it had, perhaps I’d have been more aware then, that I was wired incorrectly. I just wanted it to end. The loneliness. The sadness.  The fog. I just wanted it to stop and go away. I wanted the pain to ease. I couldn’t breathe. Every moment was suffocating me. It just wouldn’t go away, and I was so exhausted. I couldn’t get over how strong other people were, feeling like that and continuing anyway. Retrospectively I realise other people don’t feel like that. Now, nor do I. But then, I was so exhausted, to my soul. And yeah, I wanted to not be here. But it was more, I wish I’d never been here in the first place, that I’d never existed. Not that I wanted to die.

 

Even trying to explain it now, seems impossible. So how did I stand a chance when that feeling was wrapped into every fiber of my being?

 

And then, even if I had been able to articulate this to people, I know the responses I would have received. I see it now. “It’ll be okay” “We all feel like that sometimes”  sometimes.  Fucking sometimes. “You just need a hobby.”

 

Which is why I don’t offer those responses. If someone opens up to me, and tries to talk, I sit. I listen. I hear. Then I ask them what they want from me. It is not my place to offer platitudes.

 

Because that’s what they are you know. They’re pithy little phrases people offer when they have fuck all else to say. When they think they’re helping, but all they’re doing is emphasising how alone you actually are. It’s not their fault. They’re trying to be kind. Trying to help. But they don’t get it. They shy away. Why do you think I’ve not discussed my attempts in the last few years?

 

It’s a horrible feeling you know. And it doesn’t just happen. The final decision might be a snap choice, but the build up has been there for months, years even. It’s such a lengthy and destructive process. Not only to the victim. But to everyone surrounding them. That guilt others must feel when a loved one takes that step…..but it’s not their fault. It’s not the deceased’s fault. It’s …. well. It’s a blameless thing.

 

I talk about my current situation, the one with the BPD, a lot. But not so much the suicide attempts. Yet I remember them like flashbulbs. I’m not ashamed of them. I’m saddened I ever came to that point. I’m saddened I nearly took a vibrant life out of this world. I’m saddened I didn’t have the words then, that I do now. I’m saddened that it’s taken far too many years for me to learn a bout myself in this way.

And I’m sad you know, I’m sad for all those other souls that feel like that. Hopefully, they’ll be like me. Be unsuccessful. Learn why they did it, and how they can be healthy and, stable in the future.

 

I’m pleased, obviously, that I failed both times. But I also appreciate now, that if I hadn’t attempted to kill myself, and goddamnit I meant for it to work, each occasion, I appreciate that it didn’t. I’m pleased I’m here.

I’m happy. I’m happy I’m here, and still annoying people. Happy I failed. And here’s to my future.

 

And to you, to have found this, you’re at some point of your journey. I promise you, you too can find your stability. It is every bit as bad as you think it is, but I promise you, it can, and will get better.