Triggers for suicide.
It’s odd how simple life gets when it becomes a battle of living vs. dying.
There are no thoughts of the future, wondering where I’ll be in a year, 5 years, 10 years. No thoughts of the past, at least not that I am aware of.
Guilt that I imagined my own death and felt relieved. Guilt that I told my therapist that I don’t have a plan, but it turns out I do. I know that there are people that care for me, I do know that. And apparently that’s been enough to keep me alive so far, but it’s not enough to keep me from thinking those forbidden thoughts. It’s not enough to keep me from actually hating that I’ve done something – anything – to make people care for me enough that I know they would feel badly if I took my own life. I actually resent, sometimes, that there are people who care for me, because that’s why I haven’t acted on these thoughts yet.
Longing for T to just take away the pain. For her to be able to fill the gaping hole. To go back in time and make sure it didn’t even happen, so that I wouldn’t be here now. Longing for the people who have kept me here so far to disappear or simply forget about me so that I could then rationalize doing it. Longing that I didn’t already do it.
Those are just wishes, though. And while I can long for those things, they aren’t going to happen – a realization that is all the more upsetting and a catalyst for stronger suicidal thoughts. A part of me wants to hear that it’s okay to feel like this and that it doesn’t make me horrible. That we aren’t just making false claims and that the motives behind this desire have a real cause. Or course, part of me wants permission, but I also know that some parts would feel at least a small bit of relief if T just said that she understood why we want that. Actually, I think she has – but I don’t remember it. My mind has apparently replaced it with judgments.
So now here I am, still here, and if all my mind can formulate are negative reasons – but reasons nonetheless – to stay here, then that must be enough for now. But, what if it’s not? What if those reasons have a certain lifetime “use” and they get to the point where they’re not effective anymore? What then? What if I’m reaching that point right now? Oh, how I wish that I had already reached that point, shameful as it is to admit.
But until then all that’s left is pushing away the thought that comes when driving. Ignoring the impulse when I see – or even think of – something sharp. Disregarding the hate that I feel for the pulsing veins in my wrist.
And then dealing with the guilt for all of the thoughts above.
Maybe it’s not as simple as it seems.