I thought maybe I wouldn’t be here by this time today.
Because today was the day.
I had a hotel room booked.
I was to leave early and be out all day under the cover of an (actual) psychology appointment and a (actual) work meeting.
I had heels and makeup in my bag because I didn’t want to stand out as scruffy in a business hotel, but didn’t want to look to smart when I left the house.
I chose a hotel in the borough of my psych hospital, just in case I didn’t succeed.
I wrote a Do Not Resuscitate advance directive, although I’m sure they don’t apply in suicide cases. But hey.
I had drafted a list of who to contact, and how, and why.
I had drafted my wishes for my funeral and burial.
I had listed all my passwords to access contacts, email, banking.
I had ranked the meds I was going to OD on by usefulness and toxicity, so I knew which order to take them in.
I was going to take them with alcohol and with other drinks I knew would increase the effect of the prescribed drugs. I would have been quite the mixicologist.
I was going to take them with ice cream, good quality ice cream, rich chocolate ice cream, something to mask the bitterness. And with Coca-cola.
I had packed my daughter’s inheritance jewellery (some items from my great grandmothers and a ring I bought when she was two for her to have when she was 18). I wanted to make sure she got them, that it was clear they were hers.
I didn’t have much to offers my son in material terms. I was going to say that my dad should give him the beautifully preserved stone hand axe that my builder great uncle found when digging foundations.
I was going to take off my wedding ring, leave it to be taken back to Tom; I am not a good wife. He made a bad investment.
I was good to go.
But I told.
I told because I have never gone so far, never made such meticulous plans. I didn’t know in the end if they were what I wanted, or a dream, or a fantasy, but it was all so detailed. I was lonely again. I couldn’t open my mouth to tell Tom. I couldn’t tell friends; they would feel obliged to take action. I have deactivated my Twitter.
Three days ago I sat on the step of a lovely hotel in a lovely part of Germany on a lovely spring day and I thought: I’m done. I’m out. I prayed, again, to a God I don’t believe in to just… take me. Take me while I could feel the sun on my face and hear the birds singing. How much better for me and for my friends and relatives if I did not have to poison or injure myself into oblivion.
I have tried and tried and tried – I was going to write this on good quality paper with my purple fountain pen – but life and I are not cut our for each other. A while back I thought that things were not really worse than in the past, just different. But over recent years it has got worse, needed more input from services. I’m back under Home Treatment and potentially facing hospital again.
I do the same things again and again not because I expect a different result but because I don’t, apparently, know how to do anything different. This is my life now.
I can’t live. But apparently I am too cowardly to die. What does that leave, I wonder?
This life is intermittent hell to the point that I spend a huge amount of time wanting to die. I was shot down on Twitter that saying that saying I would happily swap for the lives of people with ordinary lives. And yes, of course I agree – people with “ordinary lives” have their own demons to battle. But apparently saying that I think the lives of people who don’t constantly despair to the point that they actively plan or try to destroy themselves just might be preferable might be preferable to the lives of us that do was “invalidating” and “minimising” the pain of the people who aren’t… taking active steps to kill themselves.
Still trying to figure out the logic of that one.
Like I said. Go ahead. Trade. See how you like them demons.
(BTW I’m so not prepared to debate the issue on here. Comments about how awful I am in my awful minimisation and awful invalidation will be deleted. It’s my blog. Bite me.)