Suicide: The Reality.

No one ever really talks about the nitty gritty parts of a mental health illness. You see the glamourised photoshopped version all over the media. The touched up and glossed over stories which always have a miraculous ending. Their purpose is to provide hope to those suffering and maybe they do in a way help people to become motivated. But they don’t tell the whole truth and I suppose this article is my truth. Should I be nervous? Should I create an incredible story of strength through pain? No. Because when the pain is so extreme you can’t always be strong. Pain in theory makes you weaker, particularly in a physical sense.

I have spent many days sat on the floor with my back resting against my bed. Head in my hands. Listening to sad music and deciding whether to fight the tears or admit defeat and let them fall down my puffy cheeks. Dripping onto the floor. Slowly. The urge to chase down paracetamol and codeine with a bottle of red wine. The urge to cut into my disgusting skin. The need to punish myself. The need to just let it all go. To not be the strong one. To be weak and pitiful. But then after all this I still have to rise the next morning. I either find myself on the floor dribbling. Or I am hunched over the toilet bowl vomiting. The sting from the cuts is so painful it almost numbs the emotions that can increase rapidly. As the codeine and alcohol dissipate the feelings of guilt, shame, and loss strangle my stomach and force more emotions to escape. The reality is that in the moment all these behaviours worked a treat but that was in the moment. How long is a moment? As long as you continue the behaviours for. It can go on and on.

When I did this in the past it was nearly every night. I would walk my days away in this dissociated state to try and block the crushing feelings of abandonment and then by nighttime I couldn’t wear the mask. I couldn’t fool the person in the mirror because in my bedsit it was just me and my thoughts and feelings. All of which crowded the whole space making me feel smothered by everything. People can judge me for my behaviours and I hold my hands up that I have never coped well. But how could I? I was abused and then I did this stupid thing of reporting. Everyone said I was brave and strong. It ruined my life. I lost my whole family the day he was arrested. Like the click of a light switch. Like a candle catching the wind. Gone. And then I turned to medication which I didn’t need but I craved. And maybe choosing a cocktail of codeine and paracetamol mixed with alcohol wasn’t a great choice. But it made me feel a hell of a lot better than I did fully conscious. 

Some days I was particularly suicidal and it wasn’t glamorous or tragically beautiful. It was make up running down my face whilst frantically calling helplines as tablets lay in front of my feet. It was yelling at friends and storming out of therapy sessions because my psychologist didn’t ‘get’ it. It was swallowing copious amounts of tablets. Drinking bottles and bottles of wine. Slicing my body to shreds and pulling my hair out. It was screaming into pillows. Eventually it faded into numbness. I would walk in front of cars. I would accept requests for sex and then fight against them as they bruised my body. I would constantly change my mind. Then all at once I stopped eating. I gave up. I purged every drink I forced down except for the alcohol. I didn’t eat for 3 weeks. And this romantically beautiful suicide attempt didn’t end the way my mind wanted it to. It ended in a Mental Health Act assessment, handcuffs, forced NGs, tears, and loneliness. Psychiatric wards with abusive patients. It wasn’t how they tell it in those stories. There wasn’t a miracle moment. There wasn’t a day I wanted to live and most days I am tempted to go back to the drugs and the alcohol and the sex. The abuse. I don’t know what stops me but maybe I am waiting on that miracle moment. If it exists.