This post has no ulterior motive so don’t get your panties in a bunch. I just read something about suicide and it got me thinking.
Thinking how suicide is a lifesaver. I’m sure many don’t share this opinion but for those living under the torture of mental illness or possibly some physical illnesses, it may make sense.
In reading what I read, this person’s suicide attempt story, it took me back. I wouldn’t say I’ve ever attempted. I’ve fantasized an awful lot but never attempted. I say that because I’ve never done what I’ve done with a set intent or goal to die. But her story was so familiar and so unlike mine, both in such heartbreaking ways.
The good old fashion variety pill pack and liquor cocktail. The back of the ambulance. And who can forget the heartless doctor with the clipboard.
What separates her story from mine are the friends. I was alone. I remember needing to go to an inpatient setting so desperately. I talked to my mom who once again dismissed that I was feeling anything at all. I didn’t know what else to do so I swallowed what was in my bottled possession and called an ambulance myself. I didn’t want to die persay. I just needed something to dull the pain so I didn’t kill myself.
I remember nothing but the one paramedic. My only memory over a span of at least 24 to 48 hours. He didn’t treat me like I was just another pick up and drop off. I remember him asking me about my life. Looking at me when he spoke to me and he had a kind look. I remember him somehow showing back up later when they changed my room. There was a safety to him in that moment. Unlike any of the others.
As I write this it brings up a lot of anger. Anger that I could go to my mom, trying to do the right thing in telling her that I’m not well, it’s an emergency, and I need to go, and at such a life threatening moment that she would fail me like she always had. By writing me off and telling me I was fine and she couldn’t help out because she had to work and had other things to do.
I feel like my heart has been broken so many times in so many ways. How could she do that? She never came to visit me in there. Not her or my sister. They never called. They never came to see me when I got home. In fact we have never talked about it again. Just another dirt pile under the pretty rug.
My whole life growing up I was set on never speaking to any of them ever again once I got out of that house and away from them. Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t follow through on that. I know why. My kids. Still sometimes tho I wish I would have just ran far away. I’m not sure what real purpose they serve me as family if they can’t be counted on in severe times of need. They’re more like the closest acquaintances I have.
I hope I don’t experience this ever again. The cocktail that lands you a ride to the place with the heartless clipboard holders. I hope my family one day understands how they failed me. How they contributed, and still do, to my issues.
I’m hurt. I’m sad. I’m angry. I can’t sleep.