Two weeks ago, I was very
depressed suicidal. I had the means, plan, opportunity. I told him and my mother. Now, I’m fully aware that my mother has washed her hands of me; there is only one star to the show here and if it’s not her, it’s not a show she’s going to watch. But I live in her house. You’d think finding your daughter’s bloated and clammy body would inadvertently make you the star of the show… Oh no, that role would be played by the grieving 35-year-old widower. Damn, she misses out again. Rats.
I don’t think my husband gets it yet. By “it,” I’m referring to my illness. We had a long conversation after I was coming out of my suicidal state and I was able to distance myself from the severe depression that was tying me to those thoughts. He didn’t seem – and still doesn’t – to understand how the mind, how biology, can fight so hard to keep us alive as a species yet the mind can turn on itself. One thought becomes a fixation that can lead to total destruction of oneself. Here was this woman he’s known for 25 years – since childhood – and he never saw her pain then (I studied to be an actress – I was good at hiding most things), just a normal kid like him. Fast forward two decades and all that’s written on my face when the curtains are closed and the doors are locked is pain and fear.
I told him I know where his guns are and despite being a pacifist, I know how to load and fire them. I just didn’t want to leave a mess for him and my mother – it’s a new carpet. I didn’t want to get found by the dog and have her eating me – she’d need to be put down.
I know the nearest access to the local river – our property is 1 mile away from a cliff that plunges straight down to it. I was warned about it as a child and I found the passage there a month ago.
I have access to my roof. I can tie a noose. Cut “down the road, not across the street.” These are the pathetic and desperate methods you teach yourself and you learn along the way when the pain seems too much to handle. And some days it is; I’m not going to sit here and say “hold on, it’ll get better!” because some days are worse than others. But guess what?
I’m still here. Clearly.
Why? I honestly don’t have a great answer. I’d love to say it’s 100% because of my husband, but it’s not. That’s a shitty way of staying motivated – to have my entire life swing in the balance of someone else’s. How much pressure does that put on him, do you think? Every drive to work would be a nightmare for him: “Stay away from me – if I get a scratch on me, my wife will kill herself! She has nothing else to life for!”
Fuck no. I’d say 45% is him. The rest has to be something else…
A-Ha! I got it! I’m a movie buff! I love comedies, rom-coms, cartoons, psychological thrillers, docu-dramas… anyway – I love a good ending. I usually Wikipedia that shit because I can’t wait 2 hours to find out what happens; I am not a patient person (I am diagnosed with ADHD as well). If I die, that’s it. No Wikipedia. No Reader’s Digest. No Cliff’s Notes. No nothing. I’ll never know if Mom gets remarried. If my sister ever finds happiness. If I ever have kids. If Savage Garden will ever get back together. How does this story end?