Content: Suicide discussion. Past suicide attempts. Severe depression.

I have never felt so useless and like I’m preventing people from being happy because I exist. When I ask my friends and “family” for help I do so with guilt and shame that somehow my problems will burden them and for their own benefit, they’ll leave me.

I wrote the above paragraph knowing full well that I am not evil. I don’t destroy happiness. Those are my mother’s words, and she was quite unhealthy. I have her words burned on my heart and in my eyes so that even when I look in the mirror I see evil. What do I mean by evil? I mean void of good.

I had therapy today and I admitted that I am ready to die and I wish I had died in 2018. When I admitted that about 2018 he gasped.

We talked about my second suicide attempt of three. I was in the 6th grade the first time I tried to overdose. In 2000 I attempted an overdose and ended up in ICU for 2 weeks. I had my first pulmonary embolism after a suicide attempt. The third and final time was so well planned. I made sure no one would question my absence for several days. I took the overdose and laid down. I just remember being very angry when I realized I wasn’t dead. I never told anyone. I swore I’d never overdose again. Clearly, it doesn’t work for me.

Dr D and I discussed going inpatient psych but I will only agree to that if I feel like I’m no longer capable of keeping myself safe. The hospital will not be helpful, even a little bit unless I just need a safe place. But I assured him that I’m not planning anything. I’m not impulsive in acting out.

I’m depressed in a way that I’ve not felt in decades.

I know I said to the doctor in 2018 that as long as I was returned to my family and friends that I could deal with the rest. I meant those words. I guess I just didn’t expect to feel so useless and helpless. I knew that my bladder would be affected by the main surgery. A Thrombectomy for 10 hours! I didn’t realize just how much incontinence would play on my dignity. I didn’t realize that my lungs would be permanently scared from the bilateral pulmonary embolism of 2018. I didn’t realize just how much of a mental drain there would be just trying to get myself out bed and eat a sandwich.

I’m mad that I am in a wheelchair. I’m mad that it feels like I can hardly do anything for myself physically.

I’m depressed. I’m mad. I’m lonely. I’m crazy. I don’t want to keep being emotionally burdensome to my friends.

Dr D asked if I’m planning on killing myself or doing something to harm myself. No. I’m not going to act on wild and unreasonable thoughts. I can’t take my life and knowingly devistate people. Suicide is an atomic bomb on a community. This is one of those things where I have a choice not to abuse or cause unspeakable harm. It’s not what I want. I want to stop hurting inside. I want to walk, but I don’t want to be the source of someone’s pain, the way my mother is the primary source of mine.

I gave Dr D my word I’d reach out and not stay isolated. I gave him my word I’d talk to him on the 3rd, and I will.


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