Scacie
She/Her
- Feb 24, 2023
- 238
I have been suicidal since I was 13, and wanting to CTB since so young definitely did a thing or two to my perspective. As my SN and AE makes their way to me, I have come to terms, knowing that I'll finally leave in a few weeks. Its a luxury, I suppose, to have the power to choose your exact date of death. I have been taking these few weeks seriously, went out and saw my best friend for probably the last time just a few days ago. I'm thinking and making drafts of the note I'll send to her for after I CTB. I'm considering gifts, things that she said she wanted, and meaningful things to gift her.
Other than this though, I'm also making peace with death. One of the perks, I guess, for having many mental illnesses, is that I'm no stranger to suicidal thoughts. When I was 13, the thought of suicide seems so scary and daunting. And yet, over the years, as I suffered more and more, suicide has became increasingly comforting. Gone are the original fears, and replacing them are excitement, happiness and calm. In my darkest days, fantasizing about my last day, and what happens next are what kept me sane, what sent me to sleep, what gave me hope. Still, though I still thought It'd helpful to look up more on this topic. I found a forum post about making peace with death, and in it, the topic of grieve was widely discussed. She (OP) was grieving about her past, a better time, and the illusions of a better future. Unlike her, however, I never had a past to look back upon sweetly. My childhood years were lost, locked away in a place deep and inaccessible. Many of my trauma responses today has no clear explanation, its origins lost to the seas of dissociative amnesia. My teenage years were one of turmoil, and deterioration. Truly, I lost what little life I had till then. I would stay up late at night, thinking what had gone wrong, and what made my life the way it is. I had hope then, and would think of a better and brighter future, a timeline where all my troubles were resolved. And yet, l would always come to the same conclusion---its too late. Sure, there were things I COULD have done in the past, routes that lead to the future I desire, but I can't change the past. When I look at what I CAN do, it is blank, my future so tantalizing close, and yet unreachable. The same conclusion followed me when I was 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, and 19 Each time I would see all the things I could have done, and yet I see nothing I can do, except for keep going downhill. Truly, hide sight is 20/20, and foresight is legally blind. A punishment fit for the fiery pits of Tartarus, where I'm forced to look back at all the mistakes I have committed, every single one that lead me to this place, and yet I can't do anything to fix it.
However, for the first time in forever, I can see something that slightly resembles a future I can tolerate. In previous posts, I expressed a desire for nothing but death, and the happiness and peace that follows. This still holds true even now, hence why I am so hesitant to embark on it. In my hands is a referral letter to a psychiatrist, give to me in late February that I have discarded till now. In theory, I COULD send this letter to the hospital. I COULD seek treatment for my many mental illnesses. I COULD finally get on prescription HRT, one day finally unlocking the surgeries I need. I COULD go to university, and study for the course I love. A major in psychology, where I can perhaps help others like me one day. Ironic, amirite? I'm not sure where this hope came from. A large part of me hates it, despises it. Its giving a decision that seems certain and inevitable just days ago a tinge of doubt. Perhaps having my SN coming to me gives a sense of security, that I can always use it if need be. But, it isn't here yet, there's still a chance it gets seized in customs, and my last hopes being replaced by despair again. I don't want to think about Plan B if that happens, its too painful. Or perhaps my weeks long depressive episode is clearing, and I'm finally heading towards euthymia, even for a little while. Or perhaps I have a hypomanic episode ahead, and I'm destined for an endless cycle of pain and suffering until I CTB.
I'm just, so tired. I don't want to be better. I just want to give up, and finally sink. Its what I want for so long. Even if I do seek 'help', the road just seems so long, so painful, and I'm so tired. I wished the road never appeared in the first place, so I'm never presented with this choice. My childhood and teenage years aren't gonna un-traumatize, my parents aren't gonna un-abuse, and the country I'm in aren't gonna un-discriminate. What's the point?
Sending the referral in would mean my life being turned upside down. I would need to talk about everything I buried for so long, everything too painful to even think. I might even lose the roof above my head. After all, telling my parents how their abuse gave me mental illness aren't gonna win any favors with them.
I'm sure when the time comes for me to go, I still will. Its what I wanted for so long, and simply an easier way. And yet unlike previous years, it isn't death that haunts me anymore. Its this illusion of hope, and I fucking hate it.
Sorry for the long rant, I just hate this sense of doubt, especially since (hopefully), all I need to CTB are coming soon. Why did that god forsaken letter fall out of my bag?
Other than this though, I'm also making peace with death. One of the perks, I guess, for having many mental illnesses, is that I'm no stranger to suicidal thoughts. When I was 13, the thought of suicide seems so scary and daunting. And yet, over the years, as I suffered more and more, suicide has became increasingly comforting. Gone are the original fears, and replacing them are excitement, happiness and calm. In my darkest days, fantasizing about my last day, and what happens next are what kept me sane, what sent me to sleep, what gave me hope. Still, though I still thought It'd helpful to look up more on this topic. I found a forum post about making peace with death, and in it, the topic of grieve was widely discussed. She (OP) was grieving about her past, a better time, and the illusions of a better future. Unlike her, however, I never had a past to look back upon sweetly. My childhood years were lost, locked away in a place deep and inaccessible. Many of my trauma responses today has no clear explanation, its origins lost to the seas of dissociative amnesia. My teenage years were one of turmoil, and deterioration. Truly, I lost what little life I had till then. I would stay up late at night, thinking what had gone wrong, and what made my life the way it is. I had hope then, and would think of a better and brighter future, a timeline where all my troubles were resolved. And yet, l would always come to the same conclusion---its too late. Sure, there were things I COULD have done in the past, routes that lead to the future I desire, but I can't change the past. When I look at what I CAN do, it is blank, my future so tantalizing close, and yet unreachable. The same conclusion followed me when I was 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, and 19 Each time I would see all the things I could have done, and yet I see nothing I can do, except for keep going downhill. Truly, hide sight is 20/20, and foresight is legally blind. A punishment fit for the fiery pits of Tartarus, where I'm forced to look back at all the mistakes I have committed, every single one that lead me to this place, and yet I can't do anything to fix it.
However, for the first time in forever, I can see something that slightly resembles a future I can tolerate. In previous posts, I expressed a desire for nothing but death, and the happiness and peace that follows. This still holds true even now, hence why I am so hesitant to embark on it. In my hands is a referral letter to a psychiatrist, give to me in late February that I have discarded till now. In theory, I COULD send this letter to the hospital. I COULD seek treatment for my many mental illnesses. I COULD finally get on prescription HRT, one day finally unlocking the surgeries I need. I COULD go to university, and study for the course I love. A major in psychology, where I can perhaps help others like me one day. Ironic, amirite? I'm not sure where this hope came from. A large part of me hates it, despises it. Its giving a decision that seems certain and inevitable just days ago a tinge of doubt. Perhaps having my SN coming to me gives a sense of security, that I can always use it if need be. But, it isn't here yet, there's still a chance it gets seized in customs, and my last hopes being replaced by despair again. I don't want to think about Plan B if that happens, its too painful. Or perhaps my weeks long depressive episode is clearing, and I'm finally heading towards euthymia, even for a little while. Or perhaps I have a hypomanic episode ahead, and I'm destined for an endless cycle of pain and suffering until I CTB.
I'm just, so tired. I don't want to be better. I just want to give up, and finally sink. Its what I want for so long. Even if I do seek 'help', the road just seems so long, so painful, and I'm so tired. I wished the road never appeared in the first place, so I'm never presented with this choice. My childhood and teenage years aren't gonna un-traumatize, my parents aren't gonna un-abuse, and the country I'm in aren't gonna un-discriminate. What's the point?
Sending the referral in would mean my life being turned upside down. I would need to talk about everything I buried for so long, everything too painful to even think. I might even lose the roof above my head. After all, telling my parents how their abuse gave me mental illness aren't gonna win any favors with them.
I'm sure when the time comes for me to go, I still will. Its what I wanted for so long, and simply an easier way. And yet unlike previous years, it isn't death that haunts me anymore. Its this illusion of hope, and I fucking hate it.
Sorry for the long rant, I just hate this sense of doubt, especially since (hopefully), all I need to CTB are coming soon. Why did that god forsaken letter fall out of my bag?
