I only ask because I suppose I am hit with this very question each time I wake up. That’s how life can be when your mind is buried deep in trauma. I don’t think my brain likes working like healthy people’s brains do. It feels backwards and almost the complete opposite.
How can a body physically want to live and coexist with mind so focused upon dying? You end up in the middle ground flitting between both scenarios. Embracing life one day and wishing it away the next. It’s exhausting being me. I’m not quite sure how anyone could survive my existence, but I do. Being so divided in parts is hard to juggle. Somedays I don’t want to leave my flat because the chaos inside my head is far too great and could cause havoc outside. So I lie in bed and I feel so completely alone. I know I’m not. I have a lot of friends around me. People do care. But sometimes it doesn’t feel like it’s enough but it should. I get so angry because things could be much worse for me. I’m no longer living in a refuge. I have my own flat and I have structure to the majority of my days. Why isn’t this enough to fight those dark thoughts that torture me at night? Maybe it’s me. Or maybe it’s what happened to 10 year old me.
I saw my nurse this week and we spoke about abandonment and losing my mother. It hit a nerve I suppose. And I sat there and looked at the floor and I tried so very hard to say something. Anything. But my mouth wouldn’t work and the more scared I became the more I cemented my lips shut. Because talking is always a risk but talking when you feel attacked and not heard is near impossible. Something bad was already happening so I couldn’t have spoken. Why didn’t she see me? She kept saying to look in my bag and I didn’t want to. She kept asking what was happening. “Sophie calm down and talk about what triggered it”. But honestly Sophie heard the trigger and then she was gone. I didn’t know what had happened. And then I felt so small. I wanted to hide away with Rabbit, our favourite teddy. Hide and never come back.
I find seeing doctors and nurses incredibly difficult. They explain people away as illnesses and they don’t tend to spend much time on the reason behind it all. Ask me what happened to me, not what’s wrong with me. And if you do, you can then build upon the foundations broken many years ago. Being seen as an illness triggers me inside. When I was growing up, in that house, there was no such thing being unwell unless you could measure it and visibly see it. Meaning my mum always needed to know the diagnosis to provide the care. And this creates a difficult tug of war internally. Because I don’t want to have to overdose to get the care I am desperate for. I don’t want to starve myself. I don’t want that. But what if that’s the conditions? I’m used to having to be physically poorly in order for my mum to care about me. It was the only way. And the problem with learned behaviour is that the more you age the harder it is to argue with that mentality. People can respond quickly to physical discomfort but mental pain makes many feel awkward. I self harm sometimes just to bridge that gap so that people can care for the harm I’ve caused and possibly help the metal torture lurking in the shadows. Sometimes I hurt myself subconsciously because a part of me is desperate for my mother to care. She never will but the hope is naively still there.
I stay up late most nights under many covers trying to will my eyes closed. I’m too scared to close them for longer than a blink. My hands grip the blankets closer and I try to feel comforted. Trying to cover myself up because I am so ashamed of my whole body from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I feel like there is this blackness that has grown and expanded to fit securely over my skin and I can’t risk this poisoning the people I love. The words still echo through my head. You’re a liar. No one will ever believe you. We don’t care about you.
My need to feel wanted and loved is greater than anything I’ve ever experienced before. My parents should love me but instead they hate me and I have tried so very hard to change their mind. I did everything right and I tried to be everything they wanted me to be, but their expectations changed too frequently. No sooner had I done one thing, another popped up and I tried my hardest to cover all bases. The problem is that when you have to be someone completely different to who you are, it’s hard to keep that act up. It also kills you because you know deep down you will never be her and therefore your efforts are futile. It didn’t mean I gave up though. I tried to, but each time I felt even worse. At least if I kept trying I was still holding a hope for more. More love. More respect. Just more.
There has to be more, right? Because I feel so very alone sometimes and at night the dark thoughts breed my paranoia. They breed those voices that say I’ll never be good enough and I’ll never be emotionally stable. Is it time yet? Time to let it go. Sometimes holding onto something hurts more than actually letting it go. Do I just say goodbye to a little girl’s dream for her parents to love her? Do I walk away and just put hands up? Give up. Enough now. No more talking. No more professionals. No more people saying we lied. Just no more. I don’t want to talk about the abuse ever again. I want to destroy every little mark on my body. Every scar he caused. I want it over now. I must accept that I deserved it. End of story.
But it will never be over. That’s the worst part about trauma. I might want it gone and do my best to erase it but there isn’t an eraser big enough to rub away what he did to me. 14 years of it. Too many memories to destroy. It’s not fair and this injustice takes me right back to the question I asked at the start. Is today a good day to die?
If anything this whole situation has made realise that I don’t want to be this person anymore. I want to put good into the world because I have tried taking care from multiple people and it has never been enough. I’ve learned that it’s not what you take from the world that’s important, it’s what you leave. I think this very sentence sums up what I aim to do. And dying will mean he won. It will make me a victim and not the survivor I know I can be. I might stumble and I might end up back in hospital, but it’s all part of the journey. Trauma likes to pull you back just when things are picking up. It’s sneaky like that. But with time and compassion I will be able to pick up the broken pieces and make something beautiful out of them.
One thing I’ve learned from being in hospital numerous times, is that you can’t know whats going to happen. I might kill myself tomorrow or next week. Or never. No one can stop someone from dying. You can’t stop the inner torment suicidal people feel day after day. You can support them and listen to them. They are no different from you and I. They are just a little stuck on this long path of recovery. They need your help and your love. So please don’t judge a person for wanting to die. Don’t guilt trip them and list all the wonderful things they have in their lives. They know about those things. Trust me, they do. But sometimes those wonderful things are not enough. It’s not their fault. It’s not your fault either. It’s just the way it is.
Is today a good day to die?
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