Here it is, because I can't say it aloud. And when I write it down, it seems smaller, and stupid. Pathetic in my head, but potent, nonetheless.
For the past 2 weeks, I cannot shake the feeling that I want to end my life.
It looks so silly; I'm not deeply depressed or so unhappy with my life. I love living here, the people, the city--but I've been so anxious lately, that social interactions--even normal actions in order to function in society have been very difficult and troublesome for me. It makes me anxious to make small talk or any talk to coworkers, managers, (sadly, even) friends, the grocer at the checkout stand. I just stare at my dried spaghetti and count the change, waiting for the interaction to be over already.
What makes it harder is how nice everyone is, and supportive--but I can't feel that same way in return, or anything, at all. I just count the time until I can be swimming in the pool or spinning on a bike or walking with no eye contact or home in bed, trying not to drink until I fall asleep.
This is some unbearable, interminable drought of feeling and too much feeling. All at once.
On Sunday morning, there were three intense hours where I had to fight to not attempt suicide. I couldn't shake the feeling--I felt miserable for seemingly no reason, and I didn't want to be alive anymore; I didn't want to feel. I wanted to disappear, and not even bother with starting over somewhere else. I wanted nothing. White space.
This is extremely frightening for me. I have never felt this way or considered suicide. The only time in my life I wanted to die was when during my adolescence, but instead, I decided to fight to live, to escape from my mother, to prove her wrong. I have nothing fueling me now.
This is the life that I love, adore--and I feel so anxious that I can't function socially.
It's a struggle to not drink. I'm immediately 40 times happier if I have half a beer, or a glass of wine/champagne--I don't get mean or beat my children when I drink. It's harmless, but I could see a dependency looming, so I try to abstain.
I threw away my bottle of Tylenol because I kept thinking about how many pills it would take to kill or not kill yourself. Like how if you take the whole bottle, you will throw it all up and still be alive--how much is enough? It drove me crazy thinking about it, so I threw it down the chute, so I wouldn't be tempted to pull it near, pop it open, and test out the thoughts.
I know that if I really wanted to kill myself, I would find a way. I'm not resolved. It's more of a slump, trudge in the most anxiety-ridden part of my life ever.
Later, after the scary bout with Tylenol (on Sunday), I kept lying there in bed, a heap--lifeless and staring at the pounding rain. Even the rain bore no sweetness for me. I played music so loud, but I couldn't feel it.
It took about 3 hours, but the feeling eventually went away. It was like a huge weight, putting on clothes and washing up to get ready for brunch with JJC and friends.
I don't want anyone to notice. I want to be left alone, forgotten. Not discarded, because that's dramatic. I want a slow dissipation, fade into the next _____.
I wouldn't want to die painfully--Genevieve told me about her friend Craig who drank liquid plummer for 2 weeks and wrote a handwritten journal of the events as his body slowly and painfully died. I guess they found the journal after his death.
I cannot even imagine the determination it must take. I guess maybe I feel 20% of what he felt--that is, assuming I knew what he felt in order for him to take his life.
This is unbearable. All I do is keep myself so busy that I am worn thin, or lie in bed, not speaking, moving, or doing anything.
I don't want to see anyone, wear any dresses, buy anything. At least I still want to cook. I know that I'm alive. I must want to be alive.
But I keep thinking about how cold my skin would feel if I made neat slits running down the length of my forearm--how the blood would bead then run together in a line, beading in tears to the floor. Blood like paint, like watercolor. How peonies don't blanch their color underwater.
It hurts, very much, this constant bulb of pain inside my chest. It's a phantom; my organs are okay.
I need someone to be very quiet, very gentle, but firm--to just hold me for a very long time, until I fall asleep and feel like myself again.
I can't be shaken back into life. Coddled, slow cooked. A sous vide embrace.
Please help me come back. I can't even say that I miss you because I don't feel anything. Every face every piece of clothing, every motion in my day is a lie to prevent myself from slipping into water.