This post will be blunt. And it was hard to write. But it is what it is.
Lately, I have one good night a week. Monday nights.
Therapy nights.
Lately, I wish the weekends away so that Monday comes faster.
Because it really, truly, is my one good thing.
And I hate that. I hate that it’s…I hate that I just have ONE safe thing.
But it’s something. And it’s a big something, at that. And I’ll continue to take my something’s over nothings.
I have one thing. One thing that helps. That is for me. That makes me feel so much less alone.
One thing is far better than zero things.
Therapy went well last night, except for the fact that sometimes, I have some really hard realizations. And as hard as I try to ignore them…they’re there. Festering.
It was a good night. Therapy went well…my husband, despite being in horrible pain from his ruptured ear drum, made me feel loved…there was nothing “bad” that happened.
Which is what makes what happened all that much scarier.
When it comes to suicide…I have rules. And those rules have kept me alive for a very long time. Obviously.
Rule number 1? Do not be impulsive. Do not act off emotion.
If you’re reacting to something…wait it out. Wait until tomorrow. See if you still feel the same way.
Last night…nothing happened. I wasn’t angry or upset with anyone. Therapy was good. My husband made me feel like he cared, even though he’s hurting.
But I found myself in a position where I think I might’ve tried to kill myself.
My husband wanted to sleep with the bed inclined so there was less pressure in his ear. I suggested it. He agreed and thought it would help a lot. But I can’t sleep like that because of my back and hips. So I grabbed some blankets and pillows and went to lay on the bathroom floor so he could be comfortable.
Again…I wasn’t upset with him. I wanted him to feel better. He asked me not to. I told him I’d be right back. He passed out on pain killers and sleep deprivation. I knew he was dead to the world.
I was so tired. It was only like 9:45pm. But I didn’t sleep at all the night before either. All I wanted to do was sleep.
But I made another drink. And then another one. And then I grabbed the bottle, and brought that in there with me.
And I was panicking. Because I just wanted to keep going. I wanted to die. And I had no reason not to.
I wasn’t breaking any of my rules.
I wasn’t being impulsive. Or reacting to a situation. Nothing triggered it. And the thought that I wasn’t breaking any of my rules…was actually really kind of freeing.
And absolutely fucking terrifying.
I thought about reaching out to people. I really did. But I chose not to. I didn’t want it to be anyone’s burden.
In a moment of panic, I texted someone casually who I’ve known for a long time. She happens to work as a therapist, but that isn’t why I chose her. I don’t know why I did. We talk often, and she lives locally so we hang out frequently too.
Looking back, I think I reached out to her because I knew that whatever I said wouldn’t shock her. She wouldn’t freak out of overreact.
And I kind of just real matter of factly told her that I was about to kill myself. And I wasn’t breaking any of my rules. And that I was kind of scared.
She was helpful. It was nice to be as blunt as I needed to be.
So I drank. A lot. And cried myself to sleep in the bathroom floor with my blankets and pillows. I woke up at like 2:30am when my body was absolutely on fire in pain. I lowered the bed so it was flat, and went back to sleep.
My husband and I haven’t talked about it this morning. But he saw my face. And the alcohol on the bathroom counter. And he sees how horrifically depressed I am this morning.
He’s treading lightly. And being gentle.
I don’t know where I go from here. I don’t think I really want to talk about it. Or think about it.
My life is just hard. And scary.
And it’s just really lonely sometimes.