To Whoever Will Listen
To Whoever Will Listen:
They say that writing is therapeutic, and therapy is what I need. To put it simply, on the night of March 22, 2010, I tried to kill myself; Tuesday will be the three month anniversary. In some ways, I have come extremely far. ‘Suicide’ comes easily to my lips and to my pen, something that even a month ago would have seemed impossible. There are days where I smile, where I don’t shed even one tear, days where I believe I am doing to be okay. There are days when I can talk about ‘That One Day’ without feeling like my entire world is going to come crashing down all around me. Those are the days I love. Those are the days I cherish.
The thing is, whoever you are, there are days where I feel the exact opposite. There are days when I cry for hours, and not the silent, soft tears, but bone-wracking sobs. There are days when I find it difficult to eat, that I’m far to upset that I fear I will only throw it up. There are days when my best friend is my worst enemy, when his normally comforting comments sound like sarcastic jeers. There are days when there isn’t a light at the end of the tunnel. Those are the days I am afraid of.
I’m scared there is going to be a day where Nathan won’t be able to save me. He used to be the cure to my problems; the hours I spent crying would be soothed by him. Now, everything just seems so volatile. Not last semester volatile, but different. I get angrier with him now, and my anger is harder to temper than it used to be. I really don’t know why. I can theorize something, of course. Maybe it is because I can finally pin blame on him. I used to not be able to, but lay the blame entirely on myself, but the ‘if onlys’ are less, as far as I am concerned. Now, they focus on him. If only he had listened to me, if only he hadn’t left every weekend. Is it selfish to think that? I do not know. What I do know is that he hurt me worse than anyone else in my life has, including my father. And that is hard to reconcile. Nathan is right - it is all cyclical - but I don’t know what else to do about it.
For awhile, I thought about giving us breathing space. Me time away from him, him time away from me. Not in that same way that I would have left had That One Day not been That One Day, just a break. One night, we talked about it, and it was intense and full of pain and tears. I had seriously considered walking away then, until June 20, when Katherine left. I would no longer have felt guilty about taking his time from someone he deemed me ‘no important’ for, and he wouldn’t have had to feel guilty about lying and ignoring me. Sometimes, I wonder if that is what I should have done. I guess I will never know. I do know that I would feel guilty if I left now, leaving him without anyone here. Too guilty.
Don’t get me wrong, Nathan is my best friend. I love him dearly, and there’s no way I would have gotten as far as I have the last three months without him standing by side and mostly supporting me. He’s why I’m still here; he’s why I never cut myself. So kudos to him. I don’t know. I wish I had someone else to talk to. He wishes I had someone else to talk to. Someone besides him. Someone besides my therapist. But I don’t. I never talk to Emily. Scott doesn’t quite know how to handle my situation, especially when I am upset. Maggie doesn’t talk to me anymore, and Brooke’s advice rarely helps. And Sarah doesn’t know.
Sarah. For someone so instrumental in That One Day, she doesn’t know. Sarah was the only one who made me feel completely loved, and who I thought of as a friend. I thought of her (and my family) as I was taking the pills. I couldn’t do that to her or my family. So I stopped. So why doesn’t she know? Because I needed someone to know, someone to be with where my suicide attempt didn’t weight heavily on my mind. I want her to know now, but I never see her. Isn’t life cruel like that?
So, that’s my story. Not all of it, there is, of course, more. And ore writing will come, because writing is therapeutic, and writing helps me get everything in order. And that's what I need. To write. And talk.
They say that writing is therapeutic, and therapy is what I need. To put it simply, on the night of March 22, 2010, I tried to kill myself; Tuesday will be the three month anniversary. In some ways, I have come extremely far. ‘Suicide’ comes easily to my lips and to my pen, something that even a month ago would have seemed impossible. There are days where I smile, where I don’t shed even one tear, days where I believe I am doing to be okay. There are days when I can talk about ‘That One Day’ without feeling like my entire world is going to come crashing down all around me. Those are the days I love. Those are the days I cherish.
The thing is, whoever you are, there are days where I feel the exact opposite. There are days when I cry for hours, and not the silent, soft tears, but bone-wracking sobs. There are days when I find it difficult to eat, that I’m far to upset that I fear I will only throw it up. There are days when my best friend is my worst enemy, when his normally comforting comments sound like sarcastic jeers. There are days when there isn’t a light at the end of the tunnel. Those are the days I am afraid of.
I’m scared there is going to be a day where Nathan won’t be able to save me. He used to be the cure to my problems; the hours I spent crying would be soothed by him. Now, everything just seems so volatile. Not last semester volatile, but different. I get angrier with him now, and my anger is harder to temper than it used to be. I really don’t know why. I can theorize something, of course. Maybe it is because I can finally pin blame on him. I used to not be able to, but lay the blame entirely on myself, but the ‘if onlys’ are less, as far as I am concerned. Now, they focus on him. If only he had listened to me, if only he hadn’t left every weekend. Is it selfish to think that? I do not know. What I do know is that he hurt me worse than anyone else in my life has, including my father. And that is hard to reconcile. Nathan is right - it is all cyclical - but I don’t know what else to do about it.
For awhile, I thought about giving us breathing space. Me time away from him, him time away from me. Not in that same way that I would have left had That One Day not been That One Day, just a break. One night, we talked about it, and it was intense and full of pain and tears. I had seriously considered walking away then, until June 20, when Katherine left. I would no longer have felt guilty about taking his time from someone he deemed me ‘no important’ for, and he wouldn’t have had to feel guilty about lying and ignoring me. Sometimes, I wonder if that is what I should have done. I guess I will never know. I do know that I would feel guilty if I left now, leaving him without anyone here. Too guilty.
Don’t get me wrong, Nathan is my best friend. I love him dearly, and there’s no way I would have gotten as far as I have the last three months without him standing by side and mostly supporting me. He’s why I’m still here; he’s why I never cut myself. So kudos to him. I don’t know. I wish I had someone else to talk to. He wishes I had someone else to talk to. Someone besides him. Someone besides my therapist. But I don’t. I never talk to Emily. Scott doesn’t quite know how to handle my situation, especially when I am upset. Maggie doesn’t talk to me anymore, and Brooke’s advice rarely helps. And Sarah doesn’t know.
Sarah. For someone so instrumental in That One Day, she doesn’t know. Sarah was the only one who made me feel completely loved, and who I thought of as a friend. I thought of her (and my family) as I was taking the pills. I couldn’t do that to her or my family. So I stopped. So why doesn’t she know? Because I needed someone to know, someone to be with where my suicide attempt didn’t weight heavily on my mind. I want her to know now, but I never see her. Isn’t life cruel like that?
So, that’s my story. Not all of it, there is, of course, more. And ore writing will come, because writing is therapeutic, and writing helps me get everything in order. And that's what I need. To write. And talk.