I have always thought that I was impervious to silly antics like suicide or shaving my head or.. I don’t know… all that “crazy” shit that only insane, weak people do. I always thought that people who committed suicide were selfish. I could not have been more wrong. They are in pain and out of touch, I barely recognized what I was doing. There is no such thing as insane, and I have never met stronger people than those that I met in the pysch ward where I went after my attempt.
I took a pair of scissors to my wrist Friday… in the deadly direction. Luckily the scissors were dull and I only managed to barely open the skin. It was simply luck that the scissors were dull, if they wouldn’t have been, I would have been in real trouble. As it was I scared myself enough to go to the hospital right away.
I certainly didn’t wake up and decide that I had lost all sense of myself and it was time to die. It was a months long process of losing touch with myself. Months of trying to come to terms with devastating information about fibromyalgia (My brain is aging 3.5 faster than healthy humans). Months of feeling out of touch and like I was drowning. Knowing you are going to lose your mind is a special kind of torture.
See, it is not abnormal to fantasize about killing yourself. When I was depressed and I was first afflicted with fibro I fantasized constantly about how I would do it. I never meant to do it. At that time I never would have tried.. This time I tried. Maybe I didn’t try very hard, but I tried and that was enough.
I couldn’t see a way past the excruciating nervous pain. I resigned myself to feeling like shit because I do have fibromyalgia. I thought I was doing the right thing by accepting the cards dealt to me by fibromyalgia; accepting that this was it.
I have fibro and that will never go away and I will never feel human again because I have this condition. That said, I am damn sure not letting this bitch win. I am not always stronger but dammit I will fight as hard as I can every single day.
I realized on Sunday morning when I woke up in the psych ward that I could do better; that I could be better. It is up to me. I know that there will be days that I feel like total shit. That doesn’t matter nearly as much as I thought it did.
Every single day is a chance to try harder. Every single day is a chance to practice skills that are complicated (plans, appointments. lunches with friends). Every single damn day is a chance to make something beautiful happen. I have to force myself sometimes but I have never once regretted keeping my plans or forcing myself to go out.
The people that want to see me don’t care that I cannot do anything physical. They want to hang out with me. So I have to sit or try to participate and look like a special kind of Broken Scarecrow Clumsy McFalldown. Point is, the game has changed, you just need to learn the new rules.
The fight is what matters. The harder I fall, the bigger the comeback.. I broke, I was done.. However, look out.. I found her and I am ready to live. I hate that I wasted so much time.
The things that do matter? Well, those are easy. I have an amazing husband who would do anything in the world to keep me happy and healthy. I have two amazing sons who are both so successful and amazing human beings that I can barely believe I was the one that raised them. If I accomplish nothing else, I will have accomplished them, and that is enough.
The things that matter to me alone? Well, those things I need back. I need to create, I need to write. I need to love myself.. big belly and all… It is vital that I wake and give thanks for another day in this beautiful universe; connecting with amazing humans and loving every fucking second.
I am telling my story because it is important to note that you cannot always tell when someone is going to try to kill themselves. You cannot always tell when you are going to try it.
When I cut myself I watched it form a line of blood on my arm and it was like I was watching someone else. I was so far away that if it had been a better pair of scissors I may not be here to tell this story at all.
I bare my soul and I write this post because every day people are taking their own life. No one can or should ever judge them, or think they have them figured out. No one can judge those that need help in a psychiatric hospital. They aren’t weak. They aren’t selfish. They aren’t at all what most people (even myself before) think. They are fucking brave and scared and they simply need a hand.
Be a friend. Love one another. It was hard to love everyone in the hospital with me, but once I tried I came back to myself and I was able to come home. Love is vital.. love is life.. breathing and love, and many beautiful hugs… also music. the important stuff.