I've been in a "down" period lately, and I feel like expressing myself to try and combat it. Plus, if I ever have to ask stuff about this topic, I can link here instead of having to put it all out again. ^-^

(Mods, I've put this topic in Real Life Experiences because I am not sure if it is worth credits. If you feel it would be better suited elsewhere, feel free to move it as you deem fit.)

Anyway, history...

I was diagnosed with Clinical Depression when I was 17, after my parents' divorce and when I was living with my father (A WHOLE 'nother issue that may be typed up to beta my autobiography... LOL). Personally, I believe I may have been diagnosable as early as 13, however.

My memory is very difficult. I can't remember dates and names to save a test score. Plus, I often wonder if I've repressed things (Nothing serious, I wasn't molested or anything!!!), but then I figure I'm just making excuses for faulty equipment. LOL Probably a bit of both. Anyway, I remember this happening my first Air Cadet camp, however, so I can pinpoint this to 13. The memory itself is vague, but kinda telling.

It's just me, at camp, away from home and my parents for the first time (And isolated by langauge, this camp being in Quebec and me being the 10% minority that couldn't speak French). I don't know what inspired the thought, but I realized I hadn't considered suicide. At the the time, I was proud of this.

I guess I was thinking of a lot of stereotypical teenage stuff, that all kids my age angst and things. But at 13? Wondering about killing myself?

I still think about it. Killing myself. But I know I wouldn't do it. It's tricky, the fine line between "thinking" of suicide and "considering" suicide. But it's one I cling to.

Another memory. This one I KNOW happened. I think it was my last year of high school, so I'd been on Prosac for about two years (The exact dates are still fuzzy). For various reasons, I got locked out of my house. This was kinda typical of me, forever forgetting my keys, so there was a spare set hidden. UNFORTUNATELY, I'd already USED that one the day before, and could SEE it on the table inside our back door. It was October, my father was at work, and I was getting COLD.

We didn't really talk with our neighbors. We kept pretty isolated, which I've gradually realized was my father's fault and one of the ways he controlled us. So I was sitting under the porch, shivering, unsure what time it was, and not knowing when my father would get back anyway. Finally, frustrated and wanting to DO something (Because going next door and asking to stay had never occured to me), I picked up a nice rock and threw it at the back door window. NICE and HARD.

As soon as it happened, I regretted it, of course. My father was HIGHLY concerned about money, and I knew the window would be expensive to replace. And, of course, before I'd gotten much more than STARTED cleaning up, my father shows up.

He took it a lot better than I was expecting, no yelling, nothing. He thought it had been stupid, but I guess he (for once) saw my reasoning. But still, I had the all consuming guilt that has defined most of my depression.

I was there, picking up pieces of glass, and the thought that I could cut myself with one occured. Purely rationally, just the idea that the option was there. And above all else, I DIDN'T WANT TO. I'd messed up, big time in my mind, and killing myself wasn't even a reasuring though. It just was a option that I wouldn't consider. That was SUCH a good feeling.

I never actually TRIED to commit suicide, but it wasn't because I didn't want to. It wasn't even that I was scared, not really. The thoughts that kept happening to me every time I got close what how this would effect my mother, who had pretty much raised me and my brother by herself while my father was away with the Military. After the divorce, however, she had to get a job in the States, and couldn't take my brother and me on her work visa. I knew how hard that was on her, and I also could imagine how hard it would have been for me to KILL myself, when she was so far away, and could do nothing but blame herself for it. She'd have NEVER forgiven herself.

I just couldn't do that to her. And the few times it was so bad even THAT wasn't enough, the fear of the afterlife did it. Because if there WAS a Heaven and Hell, I'd go to Hell for killing myself, not even for the Bible reasons, but for doing THAT to my mother. And the Hell I'd have to experience for eternity was the KNOWLEDGE I'd done that to her.

I still sometimes think about shoving something sharp into my wrists, right between the bones and tendons, making a nice empty hole where there's only soft flesh. Sometimes, that's what it still feels like there, like it's just empty. But I don't do more than imagine it, because in my head, it's bloodless, just making a nice hole. The real-life side effects of BLOOD and DYING don't tie into that thought. I guess it's more wanting to amputate the pain, and imagining it there.

MAN, that was rambling. But it feels GOOD to get it out in type. I can't talk to my family or friends about this stuff; it freaks them out, and I can't stand doing that to them. But these thoughts are still there, in the back of my head, and sometimes I need to pull them out into the light before they take any deeper root.

To anyone that's read this: Thank you. Even if you don't reply, just having my thoughts KNOWN helps. But if you want to reply, please do. I still need to know I'm not allow, especially when I'm feeling like I have been this past week....

 

 

 

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You are lucky you never actually got the point where you tried to actually kill yourself. I did when I was 12, and this year around the end of April. I am slowly getting better with help from my psycologist.

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NigaiAmaiYume: That was a very well-written post in the sense that it was vivid and expressive - and besides, I know exactly where that class of emotions is coming from. Strangely enough, even though I've had the kind of life (luckily enough) which gives you nothing to complain about, I have been through similar tempraments many times before.

As for why I am not dead yet - my reasoning is very similar to yours - I know at least a couple of people (not hard to guess who, *amused grin*) who will be saddened to some extent when they find out I'm not around anymore - or at least I hope this is the case As a matter of general principle, I would like to avoid being the cause of somebody else's sadness as much as possible, which is why I haven't tried jumping off a very convenient window in my room which would be so easy.

The day I am reasonably certain that no one would be seriously bothered after I'm gone, I'll be dying like it's the most natural "next step".

For a better collection of thoughts on what drives suicide, I strongly recommend your going through Albert Camus' the The Myth of Sisyphus even if it means your having to walk down a couple of lanes to a bookstore and spending some cash It's a book well worth reading, especially given your thoughts above

 

 

 

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Wow! Is that still in print?

A good read, yes.

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Thank you very much for sharing such a personal side of yourself. Growing up in the world in this day and age is hard, especially for girls. I remember sitting in the lunch room with all my friends, discussing all the different ways to commit suicide, and our obsession with death.
I recently read Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls by Mary Pipher, which I encourage everyone to read, not just women. Though I'm in my late 20s now, I can still remember my 'tween and teen years as vividly as if they were yesterday. This book made me realize that I wasn't alone in my suffering, that there are people out there who understand me and my pain, and, most of all, it helped me heal. I know that those things are hard to believe right now while you are in the middle of the experience, but as someone who made it through to the other side of that dark, lonely place, I can tell you that there is a light at the end of the tunnel and you can make it through.
If Reviving Ophelia seems to dry, though I honestly couldn't put it down even to cry, there's another book called Ophelia Speaks by Sara Shandler. She read Pipher's book while she was in high school and realized that while Pipher understood adolescent girls, she was still an outsider speaking for them. So Shandler went around compiling essays, poems, stories, commentaries and interviews with other girls her age, so that Ophelia could speak for herself and share her experiences with others who might be feeling the same way.

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