Suicide and Me
“Suicide doesn’t end the chances of life getting worse, it eliminates the possibility of it ever getting any better.” – Unknown
This is a hard topic to talk about, mainly because one day my dad might stumble across this blog post. There are five people that know about this my husband, my mentor and close friend, my best friend, my little cousin/sister, my counsellor and one of my closest friends.
I don’t talk about this, ever. Why? Because why draw attention to yourself N? What’s the sense in that? You hate attention…(me talking to myself, apparently, that’s a sign of intelligence or is it insanity *shrug*).
My childhood wasn’t what it should have been, by age 7 I had to grow up and be a parent. My dad and mum had separated at this point (I can touch on this if it’s requested) and I was left in the care of my mum who was an alcoholic. I won’t go into detail in this blog about what I dealt with in childhood because it’s still too hard, but one day I promise I’ll share my story with you.
I was born with a harelip/cleft palate this is important because it affected me massively in later life. I also suffered from extremely bad ear infections, I had grommets (or vents for you young, hip, cool kids) put in when I was young and they blew a hole in my eardrum. My parents should have sued, they didn’t, but they should have. I know dad would have wanted to, but mum, no, money wasn’t going to her, so why bother.
I grew up very quickly, I don’t remember having a normal childhood, but I do remember that the only time I was able to be a proper child was when I was around my friends at school or with my cousins. I was an only child until the age of 10. I’m giving you a brief backstory because it links to my suicide attempt story.
When I was 16 I had enough, I hated school because I was an ugly duckling that would get the piss taken out of her on a regular basis, but laughed it off as I was one of the gang. Inside though, inside I wished I could be beautiful like the girls in the year above me, to have perfectly straight teeth, good hearing, no glasses and just be normal. I wasn’t normal, I was a freak (in my eyes).
My mum’s alcoholism was close to reaching its peak at this point, she didn’t hide the bottles of empty vodka anymore. The house had food, but I couldn’t touch it as it was there for “show”. I didn’t see a future for myself, I didn’t think I’d do well in my GCSE’s, I used to beg my dead relatives to get me through things like my GCSE’s or after my attempt, get me to a certain age like 18 or 21 that sort of thing. I digress…
Anyways, I was 16 I was a quiet, moody teenager who spent a lot of time online chatting with friends I’d met online and my actual schoolfriends. I’d never let people see a picture of me because I felt like I was so ugly that they wouldn’t want to be my friend, anymore.
I remember one night after a particularly bad fight with my mum I thought “fuck it, why am I still here, I have nothing going for me, I hate my life, I hate my mum, I never see my dad, I have nothing to live for.” So I took what I thought was a sharp knife from the drawer and began to saw at my wrists with it, I look back now and number one know I was doing it the wrong way and number two know my guardian angel was preventing me from doing it because no matter how much I sawed at my wrists nothing was happening. I mean it was getting red, but no blood, more like…you know when you lean on your leg too hard and there’s a red mark where you’ve leaned on it? A bit like that…
I remember mum saying “You can’t even do that fucking right”. I can’t remember if she took the knife from me or I threw the knife, either way, it ended up in the kitchen sink and I ended up in a clump on the floor crying and asking why, why couldn’t someone just kill me. I couldn’t understand my point in being here, I couldn’t understand why it hadn’t worked.
She didn’t come back in the kitchen until I picked myself up and took myself to my room. I don’t remember the rest of the night other than I remember crying more and listening to music that reminded me of dead family members, morbid, I know. I guess that was my way of coping, was to listen and cry. Something you should know about me, I don’t cry, EVER. Or I didn’t cry, EVER. Crying was a sign of weakness, she knew she had won if I cried and I never let her know she had won and she’d gotten to me, ever. When she was drunk she got some sort of sadistic joy out of it.
Fast forward to 2016, I’m 29 at this point, it’s October and I’m working in a town an hour away from Belfast in my day career (is that the way to put it?) Something had happened with me and a colleague, we’d had a disagreement and she had spoken to me like my mum used to when I was a kid, my mum was dead at this point (again another blog post for you). I don’t know why, but this triggered the biggest fucking flashback I have ever had in my entire life. I drove home crying and the next day I called in sick, that was me until December 2016. I snapped, that’s how I put it when I am asked. I just snapped.
I was overweight at this point, probably by a good 5 – 6 stone and because I’m so short I looked HUGE, in some pictures I even looked pregnant, because I’m unfortunate enough to carry my beer belly like a baby belly. I’m telling you this because this was something I feel also contributed to how low I felt.
My other half sometimes works away, he was working away at this point in another country. I spent the first week I want to say in bed, well I spent a lot of weeks in bed, but I slept most of that week. The second week the suicidal thoughts were back, they kicked in like a kick in the vagina (or balls, both are equally painful or so I’ve heard).
I don’t know how far into my illness that I managed to get my other half home, I just remember the huge panic attacks, the huge waves of sadness and low mood. Not even having the energy to feed me and barely having the energy to get up and let my dogs out. One thing I do is block things out, so when I have a bad experience it’s blocked out and I only remember bits and pieces, a bit like I’ll close my eyes for half of the memory then open them again at a certain point, I hope that makes sense.
The suicidal thoughts were horrendous, the feelings of not being good enough at my job, of being overweight, of being a terrible wife, of not being able to birth a child (I’ll talk about my miscarriage, soon), of being a horrible dog mum, a terrible daughter, friend, cousin, sister and so on. The panic attacks were constant, the feeling of anxiety was constant and it’s something that to this day has still not left me.
For anyone who has felt the feeling of anxiety you’ll know what I mean when I say the thought of leaving my house or getting out of bed filled me with this absolute dread, I feel this huge knot in the pit of my stomach, I feel like I can’t breathe and I get so shaky and fearful.
My husband would try and get me out of bed, it made me worse. Again, for anyone who has been depressed they’ll know how I was feeling, that it made me worse. I couldn’t even get out of bed, what type of loser was I? The thoughts of suicide were constant, my husband’s work was kind enough to give him a few months off, he had a good EAP (Employee Assistance Program) with his work which is where I met my counsellor, to protect her privacy and mine, let’s call her Katie. I know this blog post is sort of all over the show in terms of memories etc. but that’s how I’m remembering it, bear with me.
I tried to commit suicide before my husband came home, I’d swallowed enough tablets that it should have done the job. This might seem completely stupid to some people, but I remember lying in bed waiting for it all to kick in and I turned and looked at my 14-year-old dog who had been by my side since I was 15 and my other 7-year-old dog both staring at me, both looked so sad that I burst into tears and ran to the toilet and shoved my hands down my throat until I vomited. I kept going until there was nothing but bile coming out. I still felt really sick and nauseous but I didn’t go to A&E.
The next few days I felt so unwell, which is completely my own fault. I’m not in any way saying suicide is a good idea. If you have read my blog from 29/03/18 you will know the impact that the suicide of my cousin has had on my life. I’m telling you this because there is a light at the end of the tunnel.
After my suicide attempt, the husband got home, I met my counsellor, Katie and Katie helped me to realise that what happened to me as a child wasn’t my fault and it wasn’t right. I wasn’t just a child stuck with a strict parent, I was a child of abuse. There’s a picture online of the signs of abuse I remember seeing it on Linkedin and circling the picture with everything I’d suffered, it was then that it truly hit me. I’ve included the picture here.
Scary, right? Yeah…
I got better, in December 2016 after sharing what had happened with my amazing boss, who cried, I’m still so sorry for that if you’re reading this. I returned to work where I remained until I took a leap of faith and decided to move on in May 2017.
Fast forward again to December 2017, the Depression and Anxiety was back this time it was worse than ever. I had lost the majority of the weight during my previous bout of Depression and the months thereafter so at this point I was 3 stone under my “BMI” weight (BMI = Bullshit Measurement Indicator, please never, ever, ever follow your BMI any good GP will tell you it’s bullshit). I stopped eating in this bout of Depression, I survived on tea, diet coke and water. Did I have an eating disorder? No, I don’t think I can say I did. I think I was struggling having no control over my life and this was something I could control, if it does sound like an eating disorder then forgive me for my ignorance.
I didn’t attempt suicide this time, but my God was the feeling STRONG. I mean OVERWHELMING STRONG. Again, my two dogs stopped me, it’s like they knew. They stuck to me like glue. I was going through a tough time in my new job, I’d been accused of stuff I should never have been accused of by an absolute sociopath (I hope she reads this and figures out I’m talking about her, if you are reading this, FUCK YOU). I’d taken a massive panic attack and ended up off sick, AGAIN. I had never been sick in my whole career and this was now the second time in the space of a year I’d been off.
I won’t go into detail about the work thing, but I didn’t get the support I needed, I was so low, I still felt so ugly even after all the surgery I had. I still do and I still hope for the day I’m debt free and able to go to a surgeon and say “I want the face I should have been born with, I want the scar free, normal lips, normal nose face I should have had”. That’s a story for another time. I was still having night terrors, flashbacks, memories and just having a horrible, horrible time. I just wanted to die.
I’d lost my baby, my then 15-year-old dog who had been my rock, the love of my life. I’m crying as I write this as I’ll never get over this, she was old, she was in pain and she looked at me one day and I just knew it was time. I think that’s what started it all, to be honest, I didn’t get time to grieve, I scream cry a lot even now because I miss her. I wouldn’t wish my pain on anyone, she was the first living thing that I ever truly loved with all my heart. Mummy loves you, my baby.
Since this has happened and upon talking to my GP and my Counsellor we have came to the conclusion that I am suffering from PTSD. It took me so many chats, so much working on myself, so many Podcasts, music, reading and trying to fight for a normal life to beat it this time, but I didn’t give in. I still have really bad days, I still struggle. I’ve since left the job, the sociopath left first after being outed for the liar they were. I have started a new job which is so boring, but stable and brings money in. It’s giving me more time to think, but also more time to heal. I, unfortunately, can’t give you a magic wand to take your pain away, but I can be there for you.
I’m not going to recommend the Samaritan’s to you because, to be honest, I’ve been there and they can’t do anything, but continue to ask you to keep talking to them. I know from my personal experience that’s not what you need, you need someone to tell you that you mean something, that you are worth it, that no matter what happens or what has happened, you are beautiful, amazing, you are worth being here and life is sent to try us, trust and believe it’s fucking sent to try us, but it makes us stronger.
At present, I’m doing okay, I’m not 100% and I don’t know if I will ever be, but I’m me, I’m here and I’m taking each day as it comes. I still don’t know what my future holds and I still don’t have full control over the anxiety and Depression, but I’m eating properly again, I’m healthy and have kept the weight off and despite losing my baby dog, my would be now 15-year-old dog who I’d had since she was 2 weeks old, I’m still here.
I hope you read my story and realise it’s not worth it, don’t put your family through it. Come to me if you need help, let me talk you through, please just talk to someone. I truly believe if I hadn’t met Katie I don’t think I’d be here. You are never alone, there is always someone going through something similar or has gone through something similar and gotten through it.
If you are feeling suicidal please contact the following charities:
MindInfoline: 0300 123 3393
Campaign Against Living Miserably
Helpline: 0800 58 58 58
Papyrus HOPElineUK – 0800 068 41 41
YoungMinds (ages 13 – 25)
Helpline: 0808 802 5544
The Mix (ages 13 – 25)
Helpline: 0808 808 4994
Helpline: 0808 11 11
Lifeline Suicide Prevention
USA Suicide Prevention Helplines Please go to this site and you will find a list of organisations to help you.
Or please, please message me. I can’t do much, but I can be the person at the other end of the computer or the phone to talk to you, to make you realise you are stronger than what you are feeling. Don’t let the Depression demon win.
I love you all.
Be safe and think before you act.
“Place your hand over your heart, can you feel it? That is called purpose. You’re alive for a reason so don’t ever give up.” – Unknown