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Tag Archives: suicide

Screams

10 Wednesday May 2017

Posted by Graceinspades in Complex Post Traumatic Disorder, Narcissists suck, Parental Alienation Syndrome, suicidal

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

depression, help, suicide

I could scream for help. I suppose someone, somewhere, some paid professional or crisis volunteer would respond, would listen to my screams.. I’ve been depressed before, recognized it, and reachedbout for help. I’m aware of the symptoms and the darkness of that and usually I just call for help. I talk about the stuff, I take medicine to lighten up th heaviness,. I do any number of self-care tasks I know have worked when I’ve had bouts of depression in my life… 

but what difference would that make to the knives sticking in my back or the clenches on my heart that cause my screams? 

They might subside for a moment in the relief of feeling like my screams matter at all.. until that moment passed and then what is, would still be exactly what is. Nothing would change the circumstances which cause these incessant inner screams.

Antidepressants can’t change my circumstances or my future.. or my past. Friends can’t fix it. Well meaning strangers can’t yank the knives out. 

I didn’t want to seek help. I’ve accepted what is, just is. The only times I even bother screaming anymore are those sad pathetic moments when I’m fighting what I know is and I desperately think if I just tell someone what’s happened, what is happening, then somehow they’ll see a solution I’ve not thought of yet or they’ll see a possibility of hope  I just can’t see anymore.

They don’t. The truth is I’ve told 3 people (who know the specific and gory details of my situation) about this and not one of them could give me even one single argument toward hope. 2 didn’t really care anyway, and one might care, but even she still has no genuine solution or suggestion to change my circumstances. 

Even she doesn’t want to hear my screams.. knowing there is no solution.  And I only bother screaming and writhing irrationally anymore when I’m desperate for survival. Those moments come fewer and fewer … and sadly, at this point, when I let my screams out, even those who know there are knives sticking in me still seem to act like maybe I’m just crazy. 

I sound crazy when I let myself scream. I sound disoriented. I sound wild. I think anyone who’s had proverbial knives sticking in them for 5 straight years with no  options of removing the knives, would be sounding pretty crazy when they acknowledge their pain.

I can usually suck it up. I’ve gotten accustomed to the pain, the frustration of impossibility.  The only screams I render now are the last battle cries of my deep wish to find a solution. And my utter lack of understanding how any of this has been possible, much less actual reality. 

My screams now only seem to serve as proof that I probably AM crazy or as awful as my accusations would indicate.. so why scream if it only serves to possibly add credible evidence that the lies are true? Why scream when every cry for help is seen merely as a delusional unwillingness to accept what is? 
I’ve joined parental alienation support groups. I’ve listened to other suffering these same persecutions and outrageous circumstances that most people would struggle to believe are real. I’ve tried to lift people up by offering understanding that I know is difficult to get at best under such unbelievable occurrences. 

I know that many (maybe even most!?) parental alienation targets feel this hopelessness and start to question reality. I know suicide is rather common among successfully targeted parents over time. 

I thought that might give me a purpose. All my life, I’ve thought the things I’ve suffered and overcome were to help others heal from or protect themselves from such things. 

Parental alienation is the one thing I’ve endured that sucks every last bit of hope and worth and  will to live. The pain is so infinite that it’s difficult for those suffering from it to have enough strength to help others through theirs. And the hopelessness is so bleak and valid, there are no beacons of light to dig into their hearts to find and shine for them. 

Narcissistic abuse ruined me, but parental alienation destroyed me. 

Truth and Suicide

10 Wednesday May 2017

Posted by Graceinspades in Lexi and Savannah, Parental Alienation Syndrome, suicidal

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

#erased mother, Narcissistic Abuse, parental alienation, suicide

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.

Death is a Liar’s Smorgasbord

02 Tuesday May 2017

Posted by Graceinspades in abandonment, Complex Post Traumatic Disorder, LIES/False Accusations, Parental Alienation Syndrome

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Tags

Lies, murder, parental alienation, suicide

coffin

Does everyone wonder and ponder what will be said after they’re gone?

Does it really matter?  I don’t think so as you’re gone, right?  If you don’t have to witness or hear the fake cries for sympathy of the narcissists who killed you, but you know will jump at the golden opportunity for a little validating sympathy for themselves?

Oh Chloe, she always was so sensitive.

Oh, I did all I could for Chloe…it was just never enough.  I so wish I could have done more (insert sympathy seeking sob).

I hate to say I told you so, but I’ve told you for years Chloe was un-reachably, un-helpably, fucked up… She was a lost cause from her first breath.  Do you see now?

I tried so hard to date Chloe; she just wouldn’t let me.

I tried so hard to befriend Chloe; she just wouldn’t let me.

I tried so hard to love Chloe; she just wouldn’t let me.

Don’t cry over Chloe.  She was her own worst enemy.  She made her own bed. 

So, NOW do you understand what a horrible mother she must have been?  Can you even imagine being so selfish as this?  Those poor girls…

Now, can you finally understand how impossible Chloe really was?  How hard it was on me to try to love her?  …to help her?  …to save her?

Just try to imagine how hard this is on ME…  Chloe was my friend.

…my neighbor.

…my sister.

…my daughter.

…my ex-wife.

…my ex-lover.

…my employee.

…my momma.

Oh well, I couldn’t stop the liars by living nor could I stop them with truth – they were too skilled at lies and/or I was too hysterical about the truth.  I’m certain it will be a free-for-all smorgasbord of lies when I’m gone. The only people who could stop them are either drunk on the kool-aid themselves or apathetically don’t-want-to-get-involved and the only person who possibly would stop them is dead already.

Once upon a time, I believed the loneliest a person could ever be is sitting right next to a person who says the words I love you but is utterly emotionally absent – while taking up space right next to you.  That is definitely the second most lonely of all and is horribly more empty than literally being alone.

I was wrong though.  The absolute loneliest a person can be is to be alive without life and have so many truths bursting from their heart and not a single solitary person in the world wants or cares to hear that truth.  All those truths silently drowning the mind while noisily contradicting the lies that have wrapped their claws in a death clench around one’s throat.

There is no antidote to vile lies spoken with the sole purpose to destroy, conquer, and ultimately kill the truth.  No antidote whatsoever.

You can live with the lies or choke and die on the truth.  And the saddest, loneliest part of all is if you choke and die on the truth, they’ll go right ahead and joyfully bury you in more lies.

Literally.

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