SO. A few posts back I sorta, kinda mentioned doing something that I shouldn’t have when I was feeling pretty bad. I haven’t spoken about it since, in any capacity, and it’s become a bit of an awkward topic to the point I go to any lengths to avoid talking about it. Hindsight is a fantastic thing. In hindsight I would love nothing more than to go back and give myself the biggest fucking slap in the face I possibly could. But I can’t – so it’s time to put on my big girl pants and deal with it now.
I know a lot of people see suicide as selfish. I don’t really think I had a view on it beforehand, but then again it had never affected me personally. I’d started having thoughts that I’d call “passive” around November/December of last year. They would come, I’d recognise them, and then they’d go again but I never had any intention of acting on them – I just recognised them as a manifestation of how much shit had hit the proverbial fan of my life. As things got progressively worse over the next couple of months, fast forward to early March where I was just feeling completely destitute and overwhelmed. Everything had and was continuing to wrong, but as I always do, I was keeping it to myself and I felt like I was imploding. I would like to say that my inability to talk about how I feel sometimes isn’t a reflection on the people in my life, it’s just the way I deal (or don’t) with things. I can genuinely hand on heart say that I don’t think I’ve ever felt as low as I did at this time, and it had been building up over a few months and it had reached it’s boiling point. I just didn’t think I could go on feeling that way, and I didn’t see how anyone or anything could help me. It’s a tough mindset to be in, it’s like the most negative tunnel vision you could imagine. The end of the tunnel though isn’t light, it’s just an end and that’s what I’d reached.
I’ll tell you one thing though: dying isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I don’t remember my life flashing before my eyes, and Death Cab for Cutie’s I Will Follow You Into the Dark certainly wasn’t playing. Now, I don’t need to say what I did or how I did it but of course, it didn’t quite work for me much to my surprise when I woke up in hospital. Imagine the worst hangover you’ve ever had – like “oh my fuck, everything hurts, what did I do, where am I and who the hell are you?”. Yeah, it felt like one of those multiplied by a million. I felt and looked like shit and I remember coming to feeling a bit confused as the first faces I saw were those of my housemate Dave and my best friend, Chloe. Anyone that knows Dave of course knows that he’s a miserable bastard of the highest order and very placid, and Chloe is a happy-go-lucky bundle of joy. It’s generally why we get on so well, but they’re never angry people – until now. They were understanably fucking fuming. It just goes to show how little consideration I’d shown to others with my actions. I got no sympathy from him, and I’m glad because as things started becoming clearer I realised how much of an absolute knob I had been. I started realising how easily it could have been that I actually died and it sent me into sheer panic. I’ve never been so apologetic towards myself and others in all my life. It made me realise that I don’t want to die, but it shouldn’t have taken for that to nearly happen for me to see that. What I did was incredibly stupid, selfish and nearly a permanent solution to a temporary situation.
I was in hospital for three days while I got sorted out and I was assessed to see that I didn’t pose a further risk to myself. As those who know me will know, my life generally tends to be one embarrassing event after another but I have never felt so mortified in all my days as I did then. Just like a regrettable one night stand, I just wanted to get the fuck out of there and forget it ever happened, and that is what I did. As soon as I got home I started acting like nothing had happened, much to my friends’ and family’s annoyance. They deserved a conversation about it at the least but I was intent on forgetting it had ever happened. I’ve never officially fallen out with Dave, we bicker all the time but it’s never serious. Eventually though one night after another attempt to talk to me about what had happened, we had the biggest argument I could ever imagine and it was all down to my stubbornness. Things were thrown, we both did a lot of shouting and slamming doors and I think he actually called me everything under the sun. But he was so incredibly right, and it was the eye opener I needed. Again, it shouldn’t have happened in the first place but I think we’re both glad it did as it got some pent up thoughts and emotions out.
Yet I still hadn’t spoken about it properly until now. I’ve listened to the countless lectures about it and I’ve said all the sorrys that I possibly could, but it’s still this suffocating thing hanging over me; I tried to kill myself. What the actual fuck is that even about? I mean, come on! I actually shake my head in disbelief at myself about that. Like, I could literally be dead right now (plot twist: I am and I’m writing from beyond the grave, o0o0oh). I can’t believe I’d been so weak to let my difficulties win, that’s not who I am. I literally (under normal circumstances) am a strong, independent woman who don’t need no man and that is not the behaviour I’d been showing. It’s time to (wo)man up.
I know things are hard for me right now, and they have been for quite a while. I know a lot of it is self inflicted from not talking about things and not accepting help. But this whole experience has finally opened my eyes to the fact that things are beginning to go in the right direction, and I have so many people who love and care for me. I know some people see suicide as attention seeking, but that’s really not what I was aiming for. I really was in a position that I just couldn’t see a way out of. I think it was a bit of a sub conscious cry for help, and in some horrible and morbid way, it kind of was the best thing that could have happened.
I still have my bad days and shit times. Like last week when I sat and ate dry cornflakes and watched Golden Girls for around six hours. Or on Friday night when I got very, very drunk on Jameson (my unwanted nickname of ‘Frisky Whisky’ made it’s return) and did The Weeknd’s Wicked Games on karaoke accompanied by some serious slutty dance moves (hope you’re proud, ma n pa). My hip rolling and hair flipping is a sight to behold, not in a “Wow look at her, she’s so majestic and graceful but with an elusive stripper vibe, I want to make an honest woman of her” way but more of a “Wow, who let the dogs out? Back to the care home with you” kind of thing. Shame on my terrible friends for encouraging that and videoing it for future blackmail purposes. Yeah, times like that I’m a fucking disaster. But you know what? I’m still going, and I’m learning and growing and I can do this. Mic drop.