Suicide.

The ugly word.

No one wants to hear it.

No one wants to talk about it.

But for some, it is a daily reminder of where you are not.

The first time I can remember wanting to die I was 11.  My close relative had died and I felt terribly alone.  I’m sure a lot of eleven year olds contemplate dying and its impact on life.  I wanted to be gone.  I was pretty sure I had nothing to offer this world, and to this day I am relatively certain that was a correct conclusion.

I am poor.  In spite of my service career choice, my remuneration tells me I am not worth much.  Add that to a lack of ability to get stuff together and my bleak financial future I have no financial success.

I am ugly.  Not little sister ugly, but, move to the other side of the street ugly.  People rarely talk to me.  I’ve grown accustomed to this although I prefer chatting with others.  There is nothing I can do about my looks, and I don’t mind how I look anyway, but on a 1-10 scale I am probably a 3.

I am fat.  Not a little chunky, not junk in the trunk, fat.  BMI of 35 fat.  I can’t buy the variety of foods I would need to keep my calories down, so I am fat.

I am a vegetarian.  I am not really sure why this is a big deal, but it seems to bother everyone I have ever met.  I don’t like the idea of killing animals just to consume their carcasses.  Honestly I feel bad for the poor animal the entire time I am eating it.

I have PCOS.  You know, chinhair, moodswings, weird periods.

I have kids. Lots of them.

I dress ugly.  I have no style sense and as mentioned before, I’m poor.

I have no social prowess.  I say all the wrong things at all the wrong times.

I don’t have close friends.  Most of my friends hate my spouse and he hates people who hate him.  Anyway I am too busy taking care of everything to maintain friendships anyway.  Most of my friendships are maintained through online social networks.

I am abused.  I am a special kind of irritating (every time I have ever been pulled over I’ve gotten a ticket, cops hate me – I think it is because I am ugly and lack basic social skills).  I hate almost everything about myself too, so it is no surprise that almost every time I talk my spouse yells at me or tells me how stupid I am.

I can’t cook.

I suck at cleaning.

I would prefer to sit around and do nothing.  Mind you I don’t, I try to keep busy to distract everyone from the fact that I am a complete mess.

I tell you all of this to illustrate why, on a daily basis (nearly every day) for the better part of two decades, I think about suicide.

Most days the thoughts are about ways to commit suicide.  I can name five ways to kill myself in pretty much any setting at any time.  That being said, these are my favorite suicidal thoughts.  These are the thoughts I have when I am not depressed.  These thoughts are benign suicide thoughts.

Some days the thoughts are about ways other people have committed suicide and how horrific it is to their families when they are gone.  These are the worst thoughts.  I feel so much for the families and their pain.  The thoughts of what the moms go through is the worst.  Moms have lots of feelings.

Some days there is pain.  Pain about the life I have vs. the life I want.  I don’t understand what I have done that is so wrong that I can’t own a house or travel or have a vacation.  Why do I have to be fat and ugly and a bad cook too?  Why can’t I have the things the other girls have?  (These thoughts make me feel childish and I am more likely to use childish vocabulary rather than my typically accurate lexicon.)

Fewer days, the pain is intense.  It feels like someone is ripping your heart apart from the inside.  These are the worst feelings.  My eyes won’t stop twitching.  But I am busy and usually no one will talk to me.  So I deal.  I remember that there is a chance I can do good, maybe, although I have managed very little good so far.  I remember that all my pain would be multiplied and spread out.  It would be like sharing pain, except not yoked like an ox, more like I have a splinter so I shoot everyone I love with a gun.  On the very worst days, that doesn’t work because I remember what a pain I obviously am to everyone because all anyone ever does is tell me how much I need to change.  They tell me what a burden everything is or how I get in the way.  They remind me that I’m not funny and that my empathy for animals is ridiculous.  They ask me “what’s wrong” repeatedly, but yell at me no matter what I answer.

I wish I could change.  I wish I could be the kind of person they could all love.  I know I can’t actually kill myself, so I don’t understand how I think about it every day.  I don’t think it is normal.  It is normal for me.

I am an active member of society.  I am doing my best to be a force for good.  I think about suicide EVERY SINGLE DAMNED DAY.

#saveme #savemyself #nearlytranslucent

 

 

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