Afew days ago, I did something I've been scared I would do. I tried to commit suicide. By slitting my wrists hoping that the pain would be below my pain limit. It wasn't. At that moment, I experienced so much pain that I couldn't even cry. Eventually, I sought help and I'm okay now. Atleast I'm okay physically though mentally I'm in a state of despair. I'm at that point where no, I don't want to die and now looking back at that day I tried to die, I feel stupid and tired of inflicting pain on myself.
I don't remember when I got to the place where I felt that suicide was the only way out. I remember years ago when my mother made me talk to a counsellor and one of her first questions was whether I'd ever had suicidal thoughts. As I answered no, I was disgusted and I remember thinking that I would never allow myself to be driven to that point where I felt the need to end my life. Yet here I was years later, at that point where I felt that nothing was working out. I haven't been happy for a while now. Hard as it is to believe, my life is one big freaky mess. And I made it that messy.
Over the last few years, I have run away from alot of things and places. I run in search of happiness, or maybe it's in search of myself. The yearning of my soul to find out who I am. What drives me. What I really want to do. Who I really want to be.
I have ran away from people who made me cry. From places where I felt lost. From bad choices and my mistakes. From challenges I felt I could not get over. From tragedies.
In all this time I've been running, not once have I felt the need to end my life. And here I was, lying in a hospital bed, nurses checking in on me every few seconds incase I tried to rip myself apart again.
In this strange town where no one knew I'd been admitted to a hospital, I cried as I listened to the nurses talking about me in hushed tones outside my room. I cried when they asked me if there was someone they could call for me and I said no. I cried when I looked out of my window and out at the ocean, it's beauty overwhelming me. I cried when I watched the sunset and wondered why my sun had refused to set. I cried when I looked at my phone and saw a message from my potential boyfriend asking me if I'm okay and I felt ashamed of what I had done to myself. I cried when he called me and I couldn't pick up because I didn't want to explain what had happened to him.
Here I was, alone and not talking to the one person who was making an effort. I thought of calling my mum and telling her what had happened but then I thought I shouldn't because I haven't because talked to her in months. And I didn't want her using that incidence to berate me. In this town I love so much, I was alone and it was killing me. I thought of all the people I've met here and yet I was very alone.
Now looking back at the moment I tried to die, I fear that I'll do it again. That one of these days I'll want to die and I'll kill myself. And then I'll be that loser who killed herself. That loser who was selfish enough to opt out instead of toughing it out like everyone else does. That loser who gave up. That loser who quit. That's not the person I want people to remember me as. I don't know how I would want to be remembered but I know I don't want to be remembered as a loser.
Days later after I'd been discharged, I told him I'd been in hospital with a bad case of malaria. He said nothing. A day later he asked me what had happened. I told him. He said nothing. And I remember thinking of how pathetic he thought I am. How now I'd driven him away and how he would never talk to me again after that. I even thought it better if he didn't want to because I was a pathetic piece of shit that no one would want to be associated with. And then he called me. He talked like nothing had changed and then he told me in a steady voice that he had beef with me and I told him I like chicken more and we laughed but deep down I was ashamed and scared that he would condemn me. Instead he asked me when I wanted to talk about it and I told him when.
So he calls me and we go through the motions, we laugh, we tease each other as we always do then I tell him we can talk about the 'beef'. He didn't condemn me. He didn't judge. Instead he told me that suicide was not the answer. He told me that yes I'd gone through shit but no, I wasn't supposed to end my life. He told me that I mattered. That I was loved. That there was someone who would be hurt by my decisions. That I should start writing again and keep myself busy instead of bumming. That no matter what happened, suicide was just not the answer. And I cried because I heard the pain in his voice. I cried when I heard his voice cracking up.
And sometimes I want to believe that I matter and I'm loved. Actually, I know I matter and I'm loved but I overlook that. I'm selfish like that. I hate myself for being selfish because I know there are people who get hurt because of my selfishness.
I think of my mother who hasn't heard from me because I feel like she doesn't love me enough.
I think of my extended family who try to talk.to me but I don't pick their calls or text them back.
I think of my friends who try to talk to me but I push them away because I don't want to get hurt.
I think of this man I'm falling in love with yet I haven't met him in person yet but who makes me feel loved more than the people I am with everyday. I think of him now and know that I want to meet him, know him better and see where this thing we have goes. I think of him and I grey myself for being so selfish as to want to kill myself.
I know one thing now as I write this piece. I don't want to die. I don't want to be a loser. I don't want to quit.
I want to live. Whether I'm happy or not. Whether I matter or not. Whether I'm loved or not. I choose life and hope that I won't have another suicidal moment. For my sake and his. I choose to live.
Quote: I'd rather be causing the chaos than laying at the sharp edge of life.
Home | Jasmine Thompson.
Xoxo.
