Earlier this week I (as my doctor has previously referred to it as) “gathered the tools.” I walked around our house trying to decide if this would be the place where I do it. I’m not so sure. I sat on the floor, tools in hand, and decided it’s not the time. Not yet.
I feel as if, in October, I opened a door I can never close. Coming to close to a suicide attempt has fueled an inner monologue I didn’t realized existed within me.
“Well, I could just kill myself right now.”
The amount of times this thought crosses my brain when I’m feeling sad or struggling is staggering. I’d say “scary” but, honestly, the idea is no longer scary – it’s desirable.
I want to say I’m not suicidal. I keep belittling my own feelings by telling myself that I’m just being over-dramatic. Sure, over-dramatic enough that nine months ago I found myself with a cord around my neck and ready to kick away a chair in my laundry room. I can’t say I’m not suicidal because I don’t think that would be the truth.
What is the truth?
I feel so sad.
I feel so lonely.
I feel like I’m not enough.
I feel unworthy of love.
I feel like I don’t matter.
I feel like I’m a burden.
The difficult part is when I make a post on social media and share these feelings, I start to accuse myself of seeking attention, and then the comments or messages I receive also make me uncomfortable. Part of me hates that I need someone to tell me that I matter and the other part of me doesn’t believe them anyways.
I’m still in this fight but mental health is kicking my ass.