Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Last Day! Day #6 - National Suicide Prevention Week- #StopSuicide - by OrangeWalls

I remember the feeling of complete defeat as I stood at the corner of the road, standing at the bus stop, wishing I was already at home. I felt ashamed that I had made such a fuss, I felt as though I had made a grave mistake making a cry for help. I was drowning in my own thoughts, thoughts that I had encountered before years ago, thoughts that nearly ruined me. I caved –flickering brown eyes tracking my subtle facial cues and he said it was time to seek help elsewhere. Maybe I chose the wrong place to dump my woes, I thought, maybe I should have went to a different hospital. But quickly my thoughts went elsewhere: Why would people care about my problems? My problems are really just worthless. I’m worthless…

I was eleven when I first attempted suicide. It was a half-hearted attempt, something easily ignored. I was nine when I was first introduced to the concept of death. My grandmother rode the train down to our little piece of isolation and revealed to me the family trauma that followed my father for decades: my uncle, age ten, was hit by a car and was killed. I remember looking out the window, a snowy graveyard began to engrave itself in my psyche, dead voices whispering their anxieties of a possible empty void.

There’s a strange tug-of-war that occurs when I look at a subway car. I calculate the speed at which a train comes in and figure it won’t hurt very much. And then, on the other hand, I worry that the train will stop over my mangled legs, that it will cause too many delays for the patrons, that I will cease to exist. That I will cease to exist. I don’t want to be forgotten, as selfish as it is, I want to be remembered. I enter an existential crisis, contemplate the ending of myself, unsure of whether I will exist beyond the potential void.

It doesn’t stop though, the thoughts. Obsessive in nature, the thoughts roll around as a sort of coping mechanism. It creeps in every misery, every manic joy, every quiet moment, every loud scream… When I walked into my psychiatrist’s office, my mind overrun by obsessive thoughts controlled by deep rooted delusions, I was a complete mess. He knew that I needed help, help he couldn’t give. I left for a hospital I knew that had a psychiatric ward. The physician working the floor came in, looked me up and down, and assessed my calm, somewhat bubbly demeanor as malingering. I demanded for my clothes and proceeded to leave. No one takes me seriously. No one will, until it’s too late, I feel. I always felt unheard. Perhaps suicide was a selfish cry for attention?

Suicide and suicidal ideations come with a great deal of baggage. It makes you question your ability to empathize, the ability to be selfless, the ability to belong. It’s the unexpected guest. It’s the person that overstayed their welcome on your lice infested couch. It’s the warm, fluffy blanket in the middle of summer. It makes you paint a mask, a very convincing one, to the point that no one believes you when it cracks.

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