Nobody knows how much I struggle with choosing life. It’s an every day fight. I don’t want to bog them down with my heaviness. It feels pathetic to have people worrying about me. But it feels even worse thinking that once they know, they might not care enough to make a difference.
I grew up hiding my feelings. I saw my sister crying out for help every day and she was mocked, kicked, and laughed at. I didn’t want to be like her but I felt so much like her on the inside.
People who know some of what I’ve been through say, “You’re so strong,” but I’m not. I just pretend. Part of it’s because I know they need me to be. Part of it’s because I think I have to be. If not, who will help me survive? I’ve been around enough to know that I can only rely on myself.
I’m with someone who I think loves me the best he can. Sometimes I know I need more but ask myself, “Doesn’t everybody?”
Not even my best friends know how easily I could disappear. I like it that way but I hate it just as much.
I want somebody strong to love me enough to make me feel important and comfort the abandoned child inside me. Yet I wonder if it’s possible for anyone to do the latter. And I wonder if the former exists. And then I wonder if any love could ever be enough. Then I see that not believing is a crutch. And then I ask, “Is it?” Because self-doubting is just how I roll. It allows me to take the easy route of stagnation.
I was asked to share what’s helped me overcome being suicidal. But the truth is, I think being suicidal might be like being an alcoholic or other addict. I think once suicidal, always suicidal to an extent, and each day you just try to live the best that you can. So that’s what I’m doing. I try to forgive myself for all the ways I’ve failed myself and others. I try to forgive others for the ways they’ve failed me, themselves, and other people. If the opportunity arises for me to help someone else, I jump to it because it helps me feel my life is worth something.
I knew a good amount of people who ended their own lives and I hate that it had to come to that for them. I don’t think it’s what they ever really wanted, to be dead. I think they just wanted to feel loved and worthwhile. I think they wanted to be heard. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this. And maybe keeping it anonymous is a cop out but it’s a step towards allowing myself to be heard. And maybe someone reading this will see they’re not alone and it will help them, too. I’ve read the other stories on here and admire the writers’ bravery to explain their feelings and experiences in ways I still can’t. But I guess we all have to start somewhere. Although I’ve been fighting for my life for over thirty years, I figure it’s never too late to try something new.
Thanks for reading.
Shared by a KAD who prefers to remain anonymous.