Good Little Human

This post is about suicidal ideation, which I know is a difficult topic for many people…but this is mainly a mental health blog, after all. We can’t expect rainbows and cotton candy, now can we?

Please be advised before reading any further. Thank you.


If I were given the opportunity to go back to my childhood at any given point in time, I would pass and issue a hard no…but, thank you ever so much, genie in the bottle.

Honestly, the idea freaks me out. Fuck no, I do not want to be 3 again.

Not even 9.

I’ll be 46 next month and I only wish that I was turning 56 instead. So much closer to having this life over and done with. I am just exhausted by it all and it doesn’t seem to matter what I try to do to finally free myself of these continuously insidious, intrusive suicidal thoughts. The med cocktails, the therapists, the self-help books…not even praying has a lasting effect.

The battle is wearing on me, the daily wielding of my heavy sword and protective armor.

vintagewoman-freeclipart-sad-blues-blog

When I close my eyes at night, I’ll often have flashes of my demise, the many different ways that I’ve fantasized about ending my own life.

Hanging seems to be the most prominent one, although it does seem to be an unpleasant way to go. A step stool, a rope that’s been tied into a noose (learned by watching a Youtube video, of course!) and then walking as far as my broken fibro body can go…into the woods somewhere nearby where I live seeking the perfect tree.

A pillowcase so whoever finds me doesn’t have to see my face, to lessen the trauma.

Blending all of my pain and anxiety meds into a suicide smoothie. Then driving to an abandoned parking lot and drinking it, while in my car. Hopefully, I just conk out and never wake up.

Jumping off a bridge. Simple but messy. Probably painful as fucking hell for about 30 seconds or so, too.

Poisoning myself with white oleander tea. It causes cardiac arrest at some point if enough is consumed. The idea originated from a book of the same name that I read many years ago and still own.

I don’t have a gun but I bet it wouldn’t be all that difficult to obtain one, especially here in the good old USA.

Lately, it’s been the recurring thought that if I caught the virus, my underlying medical conditions would cause me to possibly be added to the…as fucking Trump said recently…the “death chart.”

He gives me the warm fuzzies, seriously. (Sarcasm alert.)

I realize that all of these thoughts are due to my disease, major depression. Although I’d love to say that I’ve only experienced these awful things as an adult from time to time, I’d be lying.

I was having them since the age of 14 or thereabouts. Roughly 30 years of this shit, this absolute shit, just plain garbage.

I envy normal people who actually enjoy being here.

I do what I’m supposed to do, you know? I am compliant and take my medicine every day. I have a therapist. I get up each day and go about the often arduous task of being conscious.

I TRY.

I FIGHT IT.

It’s so hard having to put my “I’m fine” mask on every fucking day. Suck it up, push it all aside, pretend that I’m doing alright. And some days are easier than others. I’ll get a false sense of security when I go a few days feeling almost normal like I’m bloody happy to be alive.

But it always comes back for me. It enjoys lurking in the shadows.

The reason why I don’t just finally succumb to it is because of one person now…my daughter.

To leave that legacy behind, that mom just couldn’t hang, is what keeps me here. Everyone else is my life would get over it soon enough but not her. She needs me to stay.

And so, for her, each day I gear up and fight it like the good little human that I am.

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