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Suicide – that dirty seven letter word… I once thought of suicide as a by-product and side effect of mental illness.   I had experienced hard suicidal thoughts while a child with no means or hope to escape abuse and cruelty.  Still, I assumed that meant I was severely mentally ill.

But, is suicide always from mental illness only?  What if it’s not?  What about people with no history or indications of mental illness who are suffering terminal illness and just don’t want to suffer anymore?  Is that mental illness? Or possibly a justified desperation to simply not be in chronic pain anymore?  Isn’t is some form of masochism to want to continue in pain forever?  Wouldn’t that seem to be a mental illness in itself?  Like people who experience pleasure or joy from pain and anguish?

If you knew you would suffer indefinitely with no hope for that to change, what would make you not want to make the pain stop?  Your family?  Your children?  Your job?  YOur hobbies? What if you could no longer do or enjoy your hobbies or your job? What if your loved ones treated you like a burden?  Or ignored your existence altogether?  Then, would anyone want to continue suffering indefinitely… with no hope for change?

I’ve had some heavy thoughts weighing my mind down the last week or so.  And today, I happened upon several posts regarding various mental illness issues as well as a few related to various opinions of suicide.

I feel ashamed that a few kind subscribers here have questioned in concern as to whether I’m suicidal.  I never cease to be amazed when strangers actually care enough to, well… to care.  I’ve not been exposed much to genuine selfless kindness or concern in my life other than from my dad before he died and my children before they left and threw me to the ravenous wolves on their way out.  My shame, however, is that I am suicidal and I’ve addressed the concerns of a few here by acting as though I’m not.  I offer no excuse, but an explanation perhaps?  I don’t want help.  I’m not even entirely certain this is a mental health issue at this point, although I suppose that, in itself, makes me question if my mental health has deteriorated to the point that I can’t see it clearly or if I’m just being brutally honest and with myself regarding my past, present, and future circumstances and finally accepting it all just for exactly what it is.

I value every kindness and concern granted to me – every single one. I would never want someone offering concern to me to feel any obligation nor to burden them with the long, sordid details of my futile circumstances.  I’m also not a liar by nature.  I feel terrible guilt when I mislead anyone and particularly anyone who has kindness in their heart for me.

I feel like a person who’s been diagnosed with terminal cancer, but one whom is not fortunate enough to pass away relatively soon from it nor whom has any hope of suffering through it and eventually overcoming it.  I’ve always adamantly believed in euthanasia for people who will do nothing but suffer endlessly until they finally are graced with death to subside the pain.  I’ve always told the people in my life (when I had people in my life) that if I’m ever suffering endlessly or in a position that I’d be nothing but a pain in the ass burden on those who love me, to please just help me end it.  Please, do not ever allow me to be a constant source of burden and responsibility to the people I love and who are gracious enough to care about me in return.  In addition, if I’m in chronic agony and unable to experience joy of any kind or bring any joy to others, please just help me go…

I’ve even pondered my many accusations and unforgivable offenses which have deemed me unworthy of the love, affection, compassion, and time of my own children.

If I were an alcoholic, I could look forward to my next drink.  I feel deep shame if I even just ponder having a glass of wine.  Thus, I very rarely drink alcohol now.  Selfishly, I think, maybe if I were an alcoholic, I could try to get in a program and perhaps I could connect to other people at least from the mutual point of struggling with alcoholism and battling it.  Maybe I could help someone, maybe someone would want to help me (even just a paid addiction specialist?).  I’ve gone so far as to go to addiction counseling and hope that I’ll be diagnosed as an addict and qualify for help fighting that, just to have a point of connection with others and a ray of hope that if I fight the alcoholism and win, maybe the level of pain I’m in would cease and my suffering would subside?  After all, if that’s my problem, then resolving that problem should ease my “issues” and problems at least somewhat, right?  Unfortunately, I don’t qualify for addiction treatment and even when I focus on the times I’ve severely abused alcohol as a coping mechanism throughout my life, I still do not qualify as an alcoholic or addict of any kind.

I’ll be brutally honest here, show the depth of my crazy, my desperation, whatever it is and admit I’ve actually gone so far as to try to become an alcoholic, hoping if I can make that the problem, then I can go look for the solution.  Plus, I can numb my pain along the way as an added bonus.  I’ve purchased lots of alcohol and tried to drink enough to numb out, get past the shame I feel for drinking anything at all, and give myself a few moments not to hurt.  I can’t do it though.  After I force myself to have a few drinks, I just don’t want anymore – not physically and not emotionally. I don’t want it.   The only time I can overcome not wanting alcohol is when my PTSD is severe and my anxiety is through the roof.  Then, I can appreciate the little bit of relief the first two or three drinks bring, but even after that relief comes, I can’t force myself to drink more.

If I were a slut, I could look forward to having sex. I don’t totally understand it, but apparently a few people here and there still find me attractive enough to want me sexually.  However, the depth of my sexual shame has reached such proportions as to have completely eradicated any sex drive of any kind, toward any person.  I’ve shoved this down a few times over the past five years and tried really hard to feel even slightly sexual or to enjoy sex or shut my mind off long enough to see if even my body can maybe enjoy sexual activity on a sheerly physical level, if not any other way.  I despise sex.  I feel zero sexual excitement or desire.  Utterly zero.   After being a touchy-feely hugger person my entire life, I now can’t stand being touched, not even touched platonically. The last few times a friend has hugged me, I cringed inside. I felt unbearably, vulnerable and painfully panicked. Yet, I also desperately wanted to cry with relief at being hugged and believe even if just falsely or momentarily, in the hope that someone cared enough to hug me and not want sex.  No tears would come, though.  Thus, I can’t and don’t look forward to having an intimate relationship again someday, neither sexual nor friendly.

If I were a selfish monster, I could live my life totally for myself, no longer worrying about others’ happiness or wishes.  I could do whatever I pleased, come what may, knowing I no longer owe anyone in this world anything.  Or I could have ended my pain years ago, committed suicide, and neither been a burden to anyone anymore nor a miserable human being, spending my last years writing in agony and trying to be quiet about it understanding that no one in this world wants to hear of pain they can’t help or miserable circumstances which can’t be changed.  If I could be totally selfish, I would have committed suicide when I most wanted to, about a year after my children left and threw me to the wolves.  The pain of my persecution was severe, as was the chronic self-doubt that made me constantly tell myself I must deserve this; I must just be in denial about the truth of what a disgusting, worthless pile of flesh I truly am.  I don’t deserve it though.  I am not guilty of what I’m accused of and being infinitely punished for. I’m guilty of many flaws and mistakes, but I’m not guilty of what I’ve been accused.

I wanted the pain to stop, yet I also held onto hope – the very thing which was causing my pain to turn into agony.  Like clutching the blade edge of a knife and squeezing it harder hoping the pain would stop.  I held onto the glorious happy memories life has given me in spite of the trials, the memories my children have erased or deemed insignificant…  I told myself with those memories, no one can permanently erase them nor dismiss their value.  Someday, they’ll remember….just hold on another day, another hour, another 60 second…  But memories are impossible to hold onto when those whom you’ve shared them with seem to have forgotten them as easily as if they never really happened at all.  Well, maybe not so much impossible, as impossibly painful to have those memories all alone, questioning your own reality and fighting within yourself to try to say, that couldn’t have happened that way, if those memories were true, you couldn’t possibly be where you are now, hated and deemed worthless by the very people you shared all those years of giggles and joy, heart-to-heart talks, and holding each other’s hands during struggles…

I wish I were guilty of what I’m hated and judged so harshly for because then I might have the possibility of relief from the hellish agony of total impossibility.

What is  the meaning of existence?  What is our purpose for life? Isn’t the biggest purpose and pleasure in life from connecting with others?  From knowing your presence in this world matters to someone?  That your life makes a positive difference in some regard?  To someone?  To anyone?

What if you faced a life where there was no hope for joy anymore?  A life where you could no longer laugh?  Forgot how to smile?  Where anything that once made you feel happiness suddenly only brought you shame and pain?

My “hobby” was loving people and helping others.  I can no longer do that or feel enough confidence to think anyone would even want me to.  My interests were being silly and laughing and bringing joy and smiles to others.  I was once well known for being a very sunny place in this world – for shining light on the darkest of situations and people.  I also loved to dance.  Dancing is no longer an option. I hoped to be loved someday and find a partner, that is no longer a possibility or even a desire.  I’ve no desire to love anyone nor to be loved by anyone except my children, whom have turned into the new, updated version of my lifelong abusers.  I could walk away from abuse no matter how desperate for “love” I was.  I’ve eventually walked away from every person who abused me, no matter my fears.  But I can’t imagine a day I won’t love my children and now, that’s become exactly the same as loving an abuser.  Only this love is the one love I simply can’t bring myself to release.  So, I no longer can imagine a day when loving them won’t feel like hopeless agony.  I can’t imagine a day when I won’t care that they hate me for all the wrong reasons or that they’ve blatantly lied, or feel helplessly distraught that they criticize everything I say, do, or feel no matter how carefully I say, do, or feel.

What if you knew you would never get it right? Like, ever?  What if you knew you would never be given the chance to speak the truth because just doing so made them hate you more?  And not doing so, you were forced to quietly accept everything you’ve never once been in your life?

After my light was snuffed out in 2012, hope kept me going and now, and when hope dwindled, faith jumped in to give me a boost.  Now, hope has turned into my greatest enemy.  I can’t afford to hope any longer and faith is nowhere to be found.

I don’t believe suicidal thoughts only come from mental illness.  I think for some people they come from mental health.  Healthy people do not want to suffer indefinitely.  Healthy people do not choose indefinite pain and endless suffering.

I no longer want this pain.  I wish to not love my children.  I wish to erase or negate every happy memory that clings in my brain because those are the ones that hurt the worst of all.  I don’t want my children to ” wake up” one day, remember, and possibly feel the brunt of my suicide either.    Fortunately, my children have made it abundantly clear that my existence alone is insulting to them, so I don’t feel they’ll ever wake up.  Either their lies are truths I can’t accept or they believe them so fully that they’ll never wake up anyway.  In which case, my death (via suicide or any regard) would simply be an easing of the burdens they claim my very existence is for them.