I wanted to start writing a blog last year after I started feeling a lot better with regards to my depression. I didn't do so, but I did write an opening post that I saved in my documents. I just came across it today and find myself compelled to put it somewhere. So skip this if you don't want to read a livejournal post
I wrote this after I stopped being suicidal, but when I was still close enough to describe the feeling fairly accurately.
On Being Suicidal - pt 1
This feeling is intoxicating. This is my last breath. My last deed. How can I make it clean, not messy? How can I make it where my family won't find me? Do they know that I don't make this decision lightly? Do they know I would not do this unless there was absolutely no choice?
My grandmother, love I can't take from her... killing myself would kill her... it would ruin her... still, I can't take this.
How can I make it look like an accident...
My medications, which are fatal in high doses? Should I mix them? My psychiatrist, he'd understand why I'm doing this. He is a professional. He is not my problem.
Go outside. Smoke a cigarette. See myself jump over the banister and onto the street floors below. Splat. I laugh outloud. Oh, it sounds good. And every time I walk out here, I see it.
Medication time. Chomp chomp. Fuck it, I'll take it later. Literally too lazy to even take my medication. Haven't changed my clothes in two weeks. Showers... uh... showers exist. Don't ask me about showers, fuck you.
Phone's been off for three days. Mom comes over. Does my laundry. God, I'm a lazy piece of shit. She sprays febreeze all over the apartment. I'm disgusting. She tells me she's begun emotionally preparing for my death. Because she knows. I don't talk to her about it. But she sees me dying. She sees me losing my fight. I don't even self harm anymore. No, it doesn't work anymore. It is not a respite from the nothingness. It's become part of the nothingness. And so there is nothing left but the nothingness... except.
My grandmother. The best person I know. She is old, she has cancer. She is slowly dying. We live together. Yet we barely talk. Not because we don't get along - not because there is anything wrong - but because I am wrong. I am past my expiration. But I cannot. I Cannot. Do. This. To. Her. She sees it all. In the hospital. Out of the hospital. I dance with my fate. She gently pushes away death as I walk towards it. She is not afraid of her own death; I am not afraid of my own death. But we are terrified of each others' deaths.
As my grandmother lay in hospice, before she was drugged too much, I talked to her. I told her I'd be okay. That I was starting to feel better (which was true). I told her I was sorry. She didn't tell me not to be sorry. She just told me to live. That she went through what I went through. Not leaving the house, not showering, not doing anything, seeing her world get smaller and smaller. I asked her how she got out of it. She had no answer for me, just said that with time she started feeling better. I told her I'd be okay and she believed me.
My grandmother died on 3/31/2011, peacefully, with her family around her.
And today I am living. It is August 2013, and I am starting to become alive again.
I'm sorry grandma. I'm still sorry. But I am living. I am okay. And I will be okay. And I'm not suicidal anymore.
This blog is dedicated to you. It will be about the awakenings one has as a person when they start to re-enter the world after a long period of suicidal depression.