It started three months ago today. February 23rd 2009.
The year I turn 34.
My death that is, my slow painful death. “Things will get
better”, “You are such a strong person.” If even just one more person says
these trite things to me I think I’ll kill them rather than myself. I don’t say
anything however, or kill them of course, I know they mean well.
Three months ago exactly I was a wife, a mother, an Education
Assistant, and a Uni student and in most respects would have been described as
a happy person. But today I sit before this computer a broken, lost and scared
little girl who can not even begin to imagine a way to dig her way out of this
black hole she now calls life, well others keep referring to it that way
anyhow. Nor for that matter does she
know if she even wants to try.
Life.
A humorous word to me now. One of the dictionary definitions
I find most oxymoronic (Yes it is a word I looked that up too.) is;
A STATE OF LIVING
1 a: the quality that distinguishes a vital and functional being
from a dead body.
Humorous? I hear
you ask. What could possibly be humorous about the definition of life? Well
then my response to you would be; congratulations you are a healthy ‘normal’
being. But you see for me this very definition would imply that I/me/Kirsty be
referred to as a vital and functioning being. Yeah, well you had the capacity
to write this, I hear you say.
But why? I ask. Why would life refer to me as
‘vital’ and ‘functioning’? Simply because I am breathing? Surely nothing more. Because
‘vital’ and ‘functioning’ wouldn’t even begin to describe what I now see in the
mirror. These two words are as foreign to my description as they are to my
being. What if my spirit is dead? My will to live is dead? My soul is dead?
What then? Am I still considered living? Again why? Simply because I am
breathing? And anyway if I had it my way breathing is one thing I wouldn’t be
doing. So I feel the very definition of life does not take into account
anything more than breath or the lack of it.
Suicidal
ideations are never far from my conscious thoughts nor my dreams for that
matter. I am a coward. I know it. I’m not ashamed to admit it, it has after all
kept me here in this living hell. But you see, I want it to be painless, quick.
I dont want to muck it up, to have my attempt fail. My suicide, my death I mean. I don’t want
anymore pain. I could not stand to feel even the smallest amount, that’s even
having faith I could possibly possess the capacity to feel anymore. In fact
that’s the thing I’m really trying to kill off I guess. Not myself as a whole
as such but the pain part, the depressive part, the part that is allowing all
this pain to slowly consume me, to suck the life and soul out of me once and
for all. I want the pain to die. I don’t necessarily want to die; I just don’t
want to go on living. At least not like this.
Where to start?
When did it all start? I could start back when I felt the first sting of
jealousy. Or the rejection of my first ‘real’ boyfriend constantly finding
somebody ‘better’ as he put it time after time. Or the knowledge that the next
guy I liked was just adding me to his ‘collection’ of ‘lovely girls’. Or that
the man I married was not who I thought and saw me as nothing more than a
punching bag, for all his emotional, mental and physical demons. Or maybe I
should just start with my second marriage. My marriage to Mark my soul mate.
Never did I think I would ever experience or deserve such a gorgeous man to
show much a pure love. But it wasn’t to last, my past, or lack of letting it go
would make sure of that.
I blame myself.
It’s hard not too. I let everyone down, most of all Mark. I have said a
thousand times I am glad to have had the six years we had than to not have had
him in my life at all. But truth be told six years was no where near enough. I
want more. I was not ready for this to be the end. I’m still not. I love Mark,
and these events have now set in motion
a never-ending (so it seems) quest to understand why? Why he would leave
me this way. Why he would want to inflict this much unbearable and soul
destroying pain, leave this much devastation in his wake. But then how do I
explain my desire to do the exact same thing? Not necessarily (although
inevitable) the devastation or the pain but simply to be free of my pain, free
of this world and all it’s expectations and demands. To take my life.
“You need to
think of the children now; they will be your strength to go on.” Oh if I hear that one last time, I think I’ll
explode in a fit of blood boiling rage and self combust. Now you ‘normal’ people
will have read that last quote and thought how very selfish, the children need
their mother they have just lost their father, and yes by all factual accounts this
is true but…
What if their
mother has lost the will to go on? To see any point to life? Lost the capacity
to love like she once did? What then? Does she play pretend until hopefully
those old maternal feelings find their way back to the surface?
Do they really
need a mother like that? What if that mother can never claw her way from the
deep black pit in which she now resides?
Questions,
questions forever swimming in my head with no plausible answers, well none
enough to satisfy me at any rate. Am I going insane? Is this just what its like
to go through the grief process? Am I now depressed? Yes that was the disease,
the disease of loneliness that led to all this confusion, unanswered questions
and pain, the unbearable agony of all those left supposedly living behind.
I’m sure, in fact
I know for certain I am not the first person or even the only person to be
going through the pain as a ‘survivor of suicide’, no this doesn’t mean I’ve
tried it (well yet anyway, and hopefully not ever, remember the coward thing?) it just means in the very simplest of terms that I have 'survived'
the loss of a loved one to suicide.
So where to from here...more on that next time
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