Okay so this is a weird way to start a blog, I guess, but lets give it a try anyway. This is all about giving myself an outlet, where I can freely say all of the things that I don’t want to tell anyone else. Not even my husband, because if people I care about knew how I truly felt, they’d never leave me on my own.
I think it’s important to mention that you can feel suicidal, and yet not be suicidal. There’s this ultimate feeling of not wanting to live but not having any intention of taking your own life. It’s quite a common feeling so I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. As an estimation, I guess I feel this way about 90% of the time. I almost want to make this pact with the world that this omniscient presence should just involve me in some weird freak incident where I, and I alone, perish. Because as weird as it sounds, I want to die, I just don’t want to do the act myself. Like I would hurt people because of that, but maybe if it were an accident it wouldn’t be so bad.
So lets skip forward a bit.
It’s a Saturday and I’ve been feeling particularly down and having this niggling feeling of just wanting the world to swallow me up, to cease my existence. There are no particular reasons for this, nothing has happened, I’m just perpetually melancholy and I have been since childhood. I’m moping around, crying for no reason. I desperately want my husband to understand how I feel, but I don’t want to speak the words because it seems so unreal when you say it. I tell him over and over that he wont understand and that I’m scared to be left on my own. After him begging me to answer as to why this is, I finally tell him that I’m afraid of what I’ll do while he’s gone, not because it will hurt me, but because I don’t want to hurt him.
Please note that this breakdown started when he wanted us to go on a simple dog walk (I find it difficult to leave the house).
He hugs me and tells me to trust him and that we’ll sort it out. Then he puts me in the car and we take our four legged children to the New Forest. And it was nice. But what he doesn’t realise is that these moments are fleeting for me. It puts me into a false sense of security, I’m at a high point for a brief time and feel like maybe things could be okay again.
When we get home, I start preparing dinner. Chopping up some sweet potatoes to make burgers and wedges. This is when he says we can talk about things that upset me, now that we’re home. It’s stupid things, things that people wouldn’t usually get insanely jealous over. It’s inevitable that he’ll find other women attractive. However, in my head that translates to ‘you’re not good enough’. These women, they’re the complete opposite of me. I’m medium height, brunette, I weigh about 71Kg, although it fluctuates. I carry most of my weight in my arse and thighs, chin and lower stomach. These women, they’re perfect. They’re slim, blonde women with blue eyes. They have toned thighs with beautifully protruding round bottoms and enormous boobs. All of this tied together with a perfect face and a tiny waistline. The kind of woman you can’t compete with, the kind that you can’t even dream of coming close to.
Yes, I understand that it is illogical to compare myself to these women. He married me and he loves me, but I’m nothing like what he is attracted to and is it so bad to want to be that? You have to try to understand. I’m not jealous because he finds people attractive. I feel this way because it makes me feel like I am nothing, insignificant.
Anyway, I mention about some amateur porn star he follows and how he can’t use her ‘getting fit’ and ‘just admiring how much effort she puts in with exercise’ as an excuse. How he must just like looking at her. To which he replies, ‘Yeah, so?’. This is normal, okay, I know that I’m not delusional. Just severely mentally ill. I tell him to leave me alone and he does, of course he does.
A million thoughts go through my mind and I just hate every inch of myself. I want to cut off all of my excess skin, I don’t want to be in this body anymore. I grab the nearest knife, hide it in my bag, and go to run a bath.
I sit in this bath for so long, I don’t have any awareness of time, I just keep filling up the bath with hot water. I don’t know what I want to do, what I came to do, the knife is just sitting beside me resting on that little handle bit in the bath. I figure I’ll just test it out, see how sharp it is, how it feels on my skin. I’ve cut myself before, not with a knife mind you, it’s actually weirdly therapeutic. The thing about this is I picked up the worst knife. It was so blunt and the end was bent from overuse. I tried cutting my skin and I pressed really hard, believe me I wasn’t scared of the pain, but it just wouldn’t do anything, it just left these cat scratches.
I felt defeated. I traced over all of the parts of me that I hated, wanting just to be able to slice them off. I wanted to pierce my belly and let all of me spill out. Yet, I just sort of sat there, trying to cut myself (failing), just feeling empty.
My husband came in after a while, he was laughing at me, I was on my belly in the bath so I guess it kind of looked funny. He didn’t know that I was on my belly because I was dunking my head underwater wondering if there were anyway to actually drown yourself in a bath.
He stopped laughing. Reached across me and grabbed the knife. Asked me if there were anymore and made me stand up, naked and vulnerable, to see if there were any more. He took away anything sharp, anything harmful and sat watching me until I got out. I hadn’t taken a towel, I didn’t have much intention of getting out of that bath. He grabbed it and watched me as I did everything, dried myself, got dressed. I had never felt so vulnerable with my husband seeing me naked as I did then. I wanted desperately to just evaporate into thin air.
You see, I would kill myself. But I know it might not work. It sounds dumb but I am cowardly. I don’t want to suffer even more, so if there were a guaranteed way to do it then I would.
And I hate when people call you selfish for wanting that. You don’t understand how it is to be me, and I don’t understand how it is to be you. My mind, it isn’t right. I can’t feel happiness the way most people can. I feel empty or pain with the occasional moments. Those moments rarely feel worth it.
Anyway, I’m kind of rambling on. Long story short, it didn’t amount to much, just a very angry spouse. And I’m okay. I’m not going to go and slit my wrists imminently.
But yes, I do still feel suicidal.