Read the title again. This could potentially be upsetting. [Slightly, you may or may not want to read this. You know me offline, and you might not want to know this about me.]
A classmate of mine attempted suicide in Spring 2013. A friend of a friend committed suicide a week and a half before Christmas.
One would think that after seeing the shock, the confusion, the guilt and the pain experienced by the people I would be completely put off the idea of suicide, and yet, in my darkest moments, I’ve come closer to actually doing it than I feel comfortable with.
A lot of the bookmarks on my web browser have to do with suicide. I’ve made two detailed suicide plans (one as a backup in case the first one fails), right down to where I’d get the materials I need. I have in my phone text history, a series of text messages sent between me and a friend written at a time when I thought that the pain of dying of asphyxiation over the course of a week was preferable to the pain of living my life. Might I note that at this point in time, the reason why I felt life was not worth living was basically that I had written something rather stupid and someone I respected had seen it, and a dog I liked had died (and I couldn’t find a photograph of the dog that I was looking for). Each of the factors on their own would have been manageable, but given who I am, that pretty much set me up for failure right then and there.
I look back at that now and think of how ridiculous it was to want to die so badly over something so small, and yet even now, I have moments where I find myself going over my suicide plans again and again, wanting to be released from the pain of living in this world. People often like to tell suicidal/depressed people that things will get better. I always find that difficult to believe. I already have everything I could have ever hoped for, and yet it’s still not enough for me to want to live. I don’t know why. I wish I did, so that I could stop this. Deep down, I don’t want to kill myself. I don’t want to feel like death is the best option for me. But I do, sometimes. It scares me.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about suicide a lot. For the past week, nearly every day, I’ve hit a point where I have seriously entertained the notion of harming myself (although I know that I’m most likely not going to make an attempt on my life). When I was hospitalised, the first thing that I thought of was that after I was released, I might be able to use the pain meds to commit suicide (a subsequent check of the chemicals showed that they’re not actually suitable for suicide). Thinking of the pain that I might cause to others if I committed suicide used to be enough to persuade me that it wasn’t a good idea, but it’s getting increasingly hard to believe that anyone would actually be upset. I honestly believe that most of the people I care deeply about dislike me and I even think that my parents would be ambivalent about my death and move on quickly (even though logic tells me that this is most likely not true) because I’m slowly losing touch with reality. Now the only thing that can reliably make me consciously choose to live is the knowledge that there’s a pretty good chance I won’t make it and I’ll wake up knowing that as much as I fail at life, I also fail at death, and I don’t know if I could deal with surviving a suicide attempt.
I don’t have a point I’m trying to make, I’m just trying to vent my emotions, really. This is about as bad as things get for me, and I’m not always this insane. [Slightly, if you’ve read this far, I’m sorry. It’s extremely unlikely that I’ll do anything, so you don’t need to be worried about me.]