Regarding Suicide

I read a blog the other day about suicide that really struck a deep chord with me, as I feel like I could have written it on countless different occasions and with so many varied outcomes depending on the day.  For a few days I have kept the thoughts in the back of my


mind trying to ignore what I was thinking and not write about it, letting the fact that I “reblogged” the article and that I commented on the original blog be the only acknowledgement that I thought about it ever in my life.  However, it has been gnawing at me every time I have a few minutes alone; like a flashing neon sign, blinking “S-U-I-C-I-D-E”… it just keeps popping into my mind like pink and green lights.  I feel compelled to write something, to dedicate at least a little space, a mere 500 words to the subject.

Suicide, or at least the attempt at suicide, is an old friend to me, and has been for almost as long as I can remember.  My first attempt was when I had stolen some codeine laced pills from my mother’s friend at 13 and had downed all of them at school and had collapsed in the hallway.  When I was taken to the counselor’s office and slept it off all afternoon, I was able to talk my way out of the situation as being exhausted from going to modeling school at night and being out late as well as eating next to nothing; both true statements, but I simply omitted the part about taking the overdose of pills along with the rest.

The next legitimate attempt that I recall was when I was 18 and I was at home and took as many sleeping pills as I could swallow without throwing them up.  I then drove to a friend’s house, although I do not remember the drive, but I showed up there.  She spent the rest of the night forcing me to throw up and making me drink coffee, all the time threatening to call the police if I were to go to sleep.  I remember that we were not really friends after that night, not that we were very good friends before that, and I cannot even remember why I would have gone to her house in the first place other than I had nowhere else to go that evening and I remember not wanting to die alone.

For years after that, there were so many attempts with both over the counter and prescription drugs that I could not even begin to identify each time; sometimes I was alone, in fact, most times I was alone.

I noticed that things took a dangerous turn for me when I started to have a difficult time sleeping if I was not fantasizing about committing suicide.  I would think about overdosing, hanging myself, sitting in a car in the garage with the car running, parking on the railroad tracks, driving off of a cliff, walking into the ocean… there were more fantasies than I can remember.

As I would get deeper and deeper into my fantasy life about suicide, I would not live during my waking moments.  I thought I had nothing to live for, and in a way, I was living a self-fulfilling prophecy.  I lived with a man who had always been the love of my life, but I did not treat him that way. He would come home from work and I would barely acknowledge him, often barely even getting off of the couch or out of bed to greet him.

Several times he came home from work to find me unconscious from an overdose of pills, rope wrapped around my neck, sometimes with a plastic bag barely covering my face.  Eventually, he tired of my behavior and left me.  I had finally broken him, exactly what I had feared all along that I would do from the day I had met him… I knew I was never good enough for him and I had finally proven myself right.  My first thoughts were, I wish he had let me die one of those times instead of revived me every time.

Well, it has been at least two years since my last attempt, and while I still struggle with the depression at times, I no longer soothe myself to sleep with fantasies of suicide.  I now have fantasies of how perfect my life is going to be when I get to return to him, as he has opted to give me a second chance… I feel like the luckiest girl alive.  I want to live.  I choose to live.  I choose life.

My Sister and Me

My sister and brother-in-law came back to their house this weekend to finish packing


everything and to take me back with them to Phoenix until I return home to my significant other in December.  I needed a place to stay, and they needed somebody to house-sit for the last few months so it has worked out nicely all the way around.

I have been almost completely alone for months, except for the weekly to bi-weekly visits from my mother when she would come up to take me shopping for supplies and to do laundry.  The house is in an incredibly isolated area with the only nearby houses being abandoned or vacant for years, no traffic, and the only noise is the sound of the wind rustling through the canyon.  One friend of mine recently opined via email that he likened my situation to that of the caretakers in The Shining, as I am highly sensitive to anything scary, it did not exactly give me the warm fuzzies.

So, I thought I would feel a great sense of relief, even happiness, knowing that she was coming and that I would no longer be alone.  I should be thrilled to have company, I am outgoing and love to talk, should be thrilled to be going to a city, I have long been a city girl… so, what is wrong with this picture?

I have spent the past few days thinking about my relationship with my sister; she is 10 years younger than I am, we also have an older sister who is 3 years older than me, and a brother who is 5 years younger than me.  This sister and I did not grow up particularly close, but then again, I could not say that anybody in my family was very close to any one family member, we all kind of just had to survive and then each just had to get the “heck out of Dodge” in our own way when we got the chance.
As we became adults, we have had bouts of going years without speaking, but that was mostly just me, being the black sheep of the family.  So, I have been in and out with this sister; and most recently, until I came up here to stay with her, I had not seen or talked to her regularly for several years.  However, once I came to stay with her, we were together every day for a month until she left to join her husband, and we had a great time, I imagine as normal sisters do; we laughed, we talked, we reminisced.

Then, Sunday afternoon as I was spending the day with her and her husband it struck me why I am not overjoyed at this reunion and at the prospect of spending the next month and a half with her and her family; I do not know how to just be a normal sister with her.  I was feeling incredibly melancholy that day, missing my significant other, at one point I felt like crying, but I had nobody to talk to, nobody to tell.  I could not tell her, I could not talk to her; we had never done that, we do not share in that way, we are not close in that manner.  I think that is what a sister does, what a sister is, what it feels like to be a sister, but I have no idea how to even open my mouth and say those words to her, nor she to me.

While we are blood of the same parents, we do not have that bond of sisterhood, we cannot communicate, we cannot share, we cannot love in that way.  We are each separate, in our own bubble.  I do not know her, but I know me, I am flat.

Once Upon a Time… I had a Friend


Whenever I talk to people about my past, I have a tendency to describe myself as having never had friends before.  I always say that “women and I just never seem to get along very well”.  Mostly, that is a true statement; as I verbalize this, the movie playing through my mind is high school and how I had a tendency to date boys who had girlfriends and how I developed a reputation for being “easy” as a result.


I was always different from most girls in that regard, when they would confront me and were incredulous at the fact that I was a cheater, I would become doubly incredulous at their stupidity that they had no idea at the definition.  The fact that I was unattached and could date whomever I wanted and that their significant other was the one who was being unseemly had clearly slipped past their tiny little high school minds.  As a result, I had no friends, and since most women appeared to buy into the same mindset, it did not look like I would find one anytime soon.


But, somehow, it always slips my mind, that for a few years I had a very good friend, even best friend if you will.  We were practically inseparable.  We were opposite in so many ways, but that was probably one of the attractions of the friendships and what allowed us to remain close for several years.


Even though she came from a broken home in the classic sense that her parents were divorced and she lived with her father and brother, she was so much more stable and together than I could have ever been.  She was confident, self-assured, and was easy to be around.  She was more of a friend to boys, but when she got a boyfriend, she was in a relationship for a very long period of time; unlike me who flitted from boy to boy and had relationships that overlapped, sometimes three at a time.


By the time high school ended, our lives were so different and we had gone so far beyond our separate ways that it was ten years before we saw each other again.  It was an exciting reunion as we made plans to see each other for the first time.  I was beyond exciting, as I really considered her to be the only friend I had ever really had in my life.  We spent the weekend meeting halfway between our two homes, we talked about our lives since we had seen each other, we reminisced about high school, and we talked about our future together now that we were back in each other’s lives.


We still could not have been more different, but it was an easy and seamless reunion, I could not have been happier.  I had no idea how much I had missed having a friend.  As an adult woman I did not realize how important a friendship like that was, so different from a mother or a sister, especially when you come from such a dysfunctional family with so many secrets.


We remained friends for a few months, when tragedy struck.


I went to her house for a visit, I was thrilled to have a weekend away from my husband and kids, I needed a break from life.  A year before I had been diagnosed with bi-polar manic depression, borderline personality disorder, and OCD.  I felt like my life was spinning out of control.  The weekend promised to be one of fun and freedom.


The first night I arrived, we went to a party at her friend’s house where there was alcohol, marijuana, and lots of people, everything I needed to make me feel like I was the life of the party.  The next morning I awoke to find my things packed and sitting by her front door, she was sitting in the living room drinking tea and invited me to leave.  I found out very curtly from her husband that I “got out of control” and embarrassed her and she never wanted to see me again.


That was it, that was the end of my friendship.  I have never seen or heard from her again.


So, when I say that I have never really had a friend before, I suppose it is just a mental block because of the damage that I did myself, or I did not deserve a friend.  Either way, the result is the same, I do not know how to be a friend anymore.