Just a Statistic **TRIGGER WARNING**

I think we’re all just a statistic, in one way or another. Most are “normal” types of statistics. For example, a middle-class male who is married with children living in a suburban area. Or, a single mother doing her best to raise her children through the welfare system. You get the point.

But what about the mentally ill? Those are like, the “shameful” statistics. The ones no one wants to be recognized for. Some of the labels are worse than others and I’m lucky enough to be one of those people that fall into the “wastebasket diagnosis” category. But then it breaks down even further. There are supposedly different types of borderlines; the silent functional ones, the more apparent or narcissistic ones, etc. I may beg to differ about that theory of different types of borderlines, but anyway.

Then there are the suicide rates that come along with it. There are those that never attempt, those that attempt unsuccessfully, and those that are successful. I’m not sure if I view this as three separate categories or rather more of a step progression depending on the path of severity that the illness takes. I currently fall somewhere between the first and second step. I wouldn’t say I’ve ever attempted suicide, but I certainly have never been against it. Only once I did something that the they called a suicide attempt. For me it was just an attempt at finding relief. An escape from my mind that was trying to kill me and I was simply trying to survive it. They don’t get it though.

The ‘S’ word has been on my mind a lot lately. The desire for it. The how. The when. Whenever I hear about people living a long time, it brings this feeling of dread over me. I certainly do not want to live long. I can’t imagine being stuck in my world until I’m in my 80s or something. No thank you. I’d rather have a slightly abnormal early age death. I only want my kids to be grown and successfully independent first. And then that leads me into a whole slew of other things. Why am I so healthy? Why do I work out? Why do I not do drugs or smoke cigarettes? Why do I eat healthily? Why do those things matter? Well, they’re great for the here and now type things. I want to look good. I want to feel as good as possible in the ways that I can control. But dammit those things will make me live longer. I mean, we’re all just here to die. I certainly don’t want to add years to my life by being a vegetarian or having good fitness habits.

I’m thinking car off a cliff. Drowning is the scariest way to go, in my opinion, and yet its the least messy. Plus, it could be an accident. I try to not drive when I’m in an episode because I have little to no self control and usually am not fully aware of what I’m doing. Impulsiveness drives me. I don’t know where I’d end up or what I’d do. It’s dangerous. I’d be better off driving under the influence than driving during an episode. Or maybe I’d get lucky and be one of the murdered statistics. Death at the hands of another crazy person who happens to direct their violence outward. An unexpected incident where I am a mere unfortunate person who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Except for me it be an answered prayer, in my favor.

I don’t know. These are just my thoughts. Inside out. The stuff no one likes to talk about or discuss.



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