BrokenShadow Member Profile

...See more Every time I wrap up a weekly session with my therapist, I have to complete a form about my depression symptoms. On this form is the question of, "Have you ever attempted suicide?" My answer is always no, and I walk out of that building shortly after. I am clean from self-harm, I have never been hospitalized for having suicidal thoughts, I scored a 10 on the weekly PHQ-9 form (much lower than my usual score), and my therapist isn't concerned about me. I must be fine, right? I'm not yet on the radar for suicidal ideations, right? Wrong. I am NOT fine. I should be on the radar and closely watched. Every single day, the thoughts to take my life grow more and more vivid. I can see all of it very clearly, from the moment I press that blade into my wrist to the moment my body stops breathing. All I can think about is how badly I wish to die and what may be waiting for me on the other side. Yet, if what I've just said is true, how am I able to say that I have never attempted suicide? Truthfully, I haven't. Never once have I swallowed a handful of pills, tied a noose around my neck, sliced my wrists, leaped from a bridge, stepped off of a tall building, or put a gun to my head. Never. That isn't to say I haven't considered taking my life, but I definitely haven't tried any of the common suicide methods. So, that brings the question of, "Why am I still here?" (What's stopping me?) I'll be honest here. Yesterday, I was prepared to die. I texted someone I know and told him goodbye. Before my mother left to meet our extended family at the lake, I gave her a hug and said I loved her. Sometime later, I climbed into bed and stared at my wrist. I could clearly imagine driving a blade through the blue and purple veins. Blood gushed out from the open wound, my eyelids began to close tightly, and I found myself standing beside my unconscious body. ...All of this took place while I stared at a perfectly normal, unscratched wrist. (I would say this in more detail, but I'd hate to trigger anyone.) To prevent myself from doing it right then and there, I got out of bed with the motive to do laundry, because I had a basket full of dirty clothes that I wanted to take care of before I died. I grabbed the basket and headed to the bathroom, where I popped the lid to the washer and looked inside. Damp blankets from the living room couches were resting inside. I started to pull them all out and move them to the dryer, but I noticed that the washer was covered in black dog hair. I felt too weak and tired to take care of it. I put the blankets back, grabbed my basket, and retreated to my bedroom once more. I then thought about how my body may look when it is discovered. I was (and am still wearing) hideous pajamas that highlight my large stomach. The baby-blue, long-sleeved shirt has two yellow stains on it from top ramen that was consumed over a year ago. The red, gray, and white striped pajama pants have grown tight around my thighs. All of my other comfortable clothes were dirty, so there was nothing I could change into. I came to the conclusion that I wouldn't want to be found like this. My clothes would be caked in dried blood by the time anyone noticed I was gone, so there was that to worry about too. To put this simply, I didn't slice my wrists, because my insecurities got the better of me. I spent the rest of the day in my bedroom. I binged on food like I always do, and I only got out of bed to take care of my basic daily needs. For the most part, I was lying in bed motionlessly, between intervals of watching movies, Anime, and YouTube videos. I listened to the children next door while they laughed and played with their parents. My mother get home at around 6 pm and took up a friendly chat with her boyfriend, which I attempted to block out with headphones. Before she left at 9:30 am earlier, she kept saying that she'll see me later, so I stayed in my room and hoped to hear her call my name. She never did. I waited for her to remember that I was home, like I always am, but she sat outside my window and spoke about how wonderful it was to see our family at the lake. I heard her leave with her boyfriend, return again, and go to sleep. Not once did she mention my name. Had I gone through with committing suicide, my mother wouldn't have noticed. My still body would have laid in a pool of dried blood for the entire day, without ever being missed or searched for. That is what I realized yesterday, while I sat in bed with headphones pressed tightly to my ears... I am completely alone in the world. Nobody misses me, wants to be around me, or would notice if I suddenly decided to die. My body would likely lay there for DAYS, and begin the process of rotting long before anyone opens my bedroom door. That is how isolated and lonely my life is... If I died, nobody would notice. This is the shocking realization that has stopped me from attempting suicide, despite having thought about for four years. I always stopped myself with the knowledge of certain death... The moment I slice my wrists, I am guaranteed to die, because a concerned parent or sibling isn't going to come running into my room. Nobody. Would. Notice. When I'm gone, I'd just be another lost cause, and easily forgotten. I am still here, because I am too upset by this realization to follow through with my suicidal thoughts. I am still here, because I cannot bare the thought of eternal loneliness, and knowing that I will never be missed; that it will take days (possibly a week) for anyone to notice that I am gone. That is what is keeping me here. THAT is my tiny ounce of "motivation" to continue living. When I complete that form in my therapist's office, and she clicks "no" on her computer to that question of whether or not I have attempted suicide, I want to tell her the truth so badly. I want to tell her why I haven't committed suicide yet, and the little facts that are keeping me bound to this lonely life that I live. I want to tell her, truly, that I need help and that I cannot go on like this forever - that someday I will find the strength to push aside the facts and drive that blade deep into my veins. Yet... I'd hate to be a burden in a mental health ward, hospital, or any such thing, and I'd truly hate for my mother to have to pay for the expenses. Therefore, I don't tell my therapist. I don't tell anyone. I just push forward each and every day, doing whatever I can to survive it and reach the next day. I keep myself alive. I force myself to stay on this planet, and endure the lonliness and sorrow that I will surely face at my time of death. I am building a tolerance to my daily pain... For the time being, that is why I am still here.

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