Bunni'sLullaby
iterum occurremus ultra saturni circulis
- Dec 3, 2023
- 33
I've been going to therapy, doing EMDR to deal with the post-traumatic disorder, trying SSRI's and anti-anxiety/sleep aids, etc. etc. I've noticed the way I've thought about suicide has changed. I still think about it all the time, but I think it's changed in the sense of: if I do it, I know what I will do. I've come to decide on the method, the time, date, where, what I would do depending upon the means that become available to me--all down to the song I want to be listening to while I die (i.e., I Lost Something in the Hills by Sibylle Baier, if you're curious). My letters are written, though I've considered rewriting them to include more information I know would be needed for those left behind (out of personal experience).
I made the mistake of telling a close friend of mine (who has been in my life for 13+ years) that I needed to see her before May (05/19 was my late husband's birthday; I just don't know if I could make it to July, when he died). I've felt a bit paranoid in the sense that she has now told me she wants me to come stay with her for awhile and then vice versa. What caught me, was she made sure to mention she wanted to see me before May. I feel like she's worried I will go through with things without flat-out saying so. I feel guilty for it. However, I think that's the only things keeping me going anymore; the survival instinct and guilt. I've tried to do better about not telling anyone about my possible intentions or the amount of times I've relapsed with self-harm (considering I have a system now) because I just don't want to deal with it. I don't even like being vulnerable with anyone anymore because it feels shameful. I found out nearly two months after-the-fact that I went out one night with family, drank far more than I normally would, and ended up overwhelmed by grief and cried at the bar for a minimum of 15-20 minutes. They played it off as me just having a moment, but I feel so f***king embarrassed and it just reminds me why I can't stand risking it--letting go and showing how I feel like that, how broken I really am. So, with therapy, working on my dissertation (which is on suicide loss and bereavement), working full-time, making "plans" for the future that I'm not deeply or truly excited about, and everything else; I just feel like a major hypocrite, a fake, an imposter. I don't even recognize myself in the mirror. When I do not feel completely detached and empty, I'm consumed by unbearbale misery.
At the the same time, I'm sick of people telling me I'm "strong." I feel like they think I'm strong because I put on a face, a mask. I don't tell people about the nightmares or flashbacks; the depression; the depersonalization and dissociation; having so much anxiety that I feel like I'm going to puke all the time; fighting thoughts of my previous eating disorder mentality; the inability to focus or think or function; the self-harm; the suicidal ideation or planning; the ways I no longer even feel like a human being, like everything is fake and I'm stuck in someone else's body; the fear of drinking too much; smoking too much anymore; the desire to self-isolate versus the obligation to respond; the inability to actually sleep; the unbearable grief of losing my husband. I'm sick of spending my entire life hoping for things to get better when they always get worse. Why should I have to stick around out of fear of physical pain or guilt of hurting those around me? I feel it would be better, easier to just be done with it. Hell, my husband did it and now he doesn't have to be here to deal with any of it--the grief, the pain, the absolute destruction it caused. Is that selfish of me? If I died, I wouldn't blame anyone but myself. So, is it still selfish?
I made the mistake of telling a close friend of mine (who has been in my life for 13+ years) that I needed to see her before May (05/19 was my late husband's birthday; I just don't know if I could make it to July, when he died). I've felt a bit paranoid in the sense that she has now told me she wants me to come stay with her for awhile and then vice versa. What caught me, was she made sure to mention she wanted to see me before May. I feel like she's worried I will go through with things without flat-out saying so. I feel guilty for it. However, I think that's the only things keeping me going anymore; the survival instinct and guilt. I've tried to do better about not telling anyone about my possible intentions or the amount of times I've relapsed with self-harm (considering I have a system now) because I just don't want to deal with it. I don't even like being vulnerable with anyone anymore because it feels shameful. I found out nearly two months after-the-fact that I went out one night with family, drank far more than I normally would, and ended up overwhelmed by grief and cried at the bar for a minimum of 15-20 minutes. They played it off as me just having a moment, but I feel so f***king embarrassed and it just reminds me why I can't stand risking it--letting go and showing how I feel like that, how broken I really am. So, with therapy, working on my dissertation (which is on suicide loss and bereavement), working full-time, making "plans" for the future that I'm not deeply or truly excited about, and everything else; I just feel like a major hypocrite, a fake, an imposter. I don't even recognize myself in the mirror. When I do not feel completely detached and empty, I'm consumed by unbearbale misery.
At the the same time, I'm sick of people telling me I'm "strong." I feel like they think I'm strong because I put on a face, a mask. I don't tell people about the nightmares or flashbacks; the depression; the depersonalization and dissociation; having so much anxiety that I feel like I'm going to puke all the time; fighting thoughts of my previous eating disorder mentality; the inability to focus or think or function; the self-harm; the suicidal ideation or planning; the ways I no longer even feel like a human being, like everything is fake and I'm stuck in someone else's body; the fear of drinking too much; smoking too much anymore; the desire to self-isolate versus the obligation to respond; the inability to actually sleep; the unbearable grief of losing my husband. I'm sick of spending my entire life hoping for things to get better when they always get worse. Why should I have to stick around out of fear of physical pain or guilt of hurting those around me? I feel it would be better, easier to just be done with it. Hell, my husband did it and now he doesn't have to be here to deal with any of it--the grief, the pain, the absolute destruction it caused. Is that selfish of me? If I died, I wouldn't blame anyone but myself. So, is it still selfish?
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