I am exhausted, trying my hardest after yet another near-fatal suicide attempt but cannot seem to beat the hold depression has over my vulnerable depleted self. I wake up saddened, blundered under the weight of an x-ray vest, exasperated just by the struggle of getting out of bed alone. It hurts and aches with an intensity so deeply woven into the fabric of my being. I feel it a part of me, inescapable and imprisoning. Lately my depression has me convinced I deserve it, that I am nothing but a burden, a sewer of energy draining the life from all who love me. I felt myself helplessly sinking down the rabbit hole again, just falling and falling unable to catch my footing on solid ground. My impulsive reaction to its inflammation was to run as fast as I could in the direction of oblivion. It never occurred in the moment of desperation that this attempt could fail, that I could again end up on a ventilator in the ICU and then have to deal with the consequences of hurt friends unable to support me, desperation grief-stricken family members and a broken self so full of shame and desolation I would be left with a futile anguish so hopelessly intolerable. I remember waking up horrified, trapped in a cloud of threatening horror, an all-encompassing alloy of anger and dread, a feeling of utter helplessness at my inability to succeed and anger at unwanted saving. I am left with a total lack of fear around death, an anxiety subduing an avoidance aid to escape the suffering of my own painful self-loathing, that voice in my head whispering “you are nothing but a drain of energy, a burden, a piece of filth” and yet restrained by the powerlessness of hospitalization and inability to succeed. My therapist instructed me way back that in order to move forward in building a life worth living I must abandon the glorification of suicide as an escape, for as long as I fantasized or idealized the idea of death as my way out of my problems, I would remain unsafe, susceptible to its persuasive promise as the solution to what I could not bear to handle. For a long time, I successfully relinquished my powerful connection to suicidal ideation, but as the depressive thoughts became more and more invasive, the desperation for relief more demanding, the hopelessness too unbearable too ignore. The changes that I knew deep down needed to happen in order for my life to improve once appeared attainable became quickly unreachable, hopelessly unattainable that I felt id rather die than keep fighting an impossible uphill battle with no end in sight. I am left with the question of “now what,” knowing that I cannot keep myself safe, scared to accept help but desperate not to hurt the people who love me, the ones I am causing a tremendous amount of pain. I know I need intensive help but am terribly apprehensive to let go of this pain, a suffering that has become comfortable in a sense of numbness and protection, in exchange for a chance to rediscover a lost identity capable of feeling and managing emotion.
I am a 24 year recovering alcoholic from New York City with Boderline Personality Disorder.