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Suicide and a Life of Abuse
Suicide. A word that nobody wants to hear. An event that nobody wants to witness or go through. Suicide. A word that evokes so many thoughts, emotions, and opinions. Many people who comment really have no idea what suicide is about and perpetuate myths and misunderstandings about it. Suicide, for me; has never been about dying, but about stopping the pain. For just a moment. For just one moment to have a mind and a body that feels and thinks like normal people.
I started to attempt ways to harm and or end my life when I was quite young. Many were amateurish and didn’t stand a hope in hell in succeeding. The point is, it shows my mindset from an early age. From as early as I can remember, I didn’t want to be conscious. That’s right. Not dead, just unconscious. I wanted to be unaware of my life and the terror and the never ending brutality of the punishments exacted on my young body. I just wanted it to stop. For a moment. Not ever forever, but if that was the only way; I would take it.
I was 4 when I purposely ran through a thistle patch. I had heard my mom talking about someone who had got a thorn in his finger, which had gotten so infected; this gentleman nearly lost his finger and apparently could have died. So, in my four year old brain; I thought perhaps I could get this infection too and just maybe, I could die. Instead, I had about a bazillion thistle thorns that my daddy pulled from the bottoms of my tiny little feet. I was about 6 or 7 when I went and layed down in the road waiting for a car to run over me. We lived in a little prairie town of about 100 people and the odds of someone coming down the road and doing just that were about .001%. In fact, I could still be waiting. Then I was about 12 when I drove a nail through my hand. It was rusty and rusty nails could kill you. I guess I have strong antibodies in my body. It didn’t even turn red. I stepped on nails too. Too many to count. No infection. Nothing.
When I was thirteen, the thoughts became stronger. I prayed and I cried for God to change my life. To change my MNPD mother. I asked him to put me in a coma from which I would never wake up. I asked him to put my mother in coma, from which she would never wake up. I pleaded and I bargained. My prayers all seemed to fall on deaf ears. Yes, thirteen. If I thought I had it bad before, I had no idea just how bad it could really get. I fell asleep and the nightmare entered my life. The nightmare that plays over and over and over in my mind. The nightmare that wakes me from the deepest sleep with bloodcurdling screams that the neighbors must surely hear. The nightmare that makes me want to run and run and run. But to where? The nightmare that makes me want to be unconscious. To not be present. To be absent from this life. It walks with me everywhere I go, it’s there with every word I speak, every thought I think, everywhere. All the time.
At thirteen my mother became even more violent and murder and threats of murder were an every day event. One particular occasion, she grabbed me and was about to plunge the butcher knife into me and I screamed and screamed and screamed. I don’t remember her letting me go, but she did. She didn’t gain control of any of her senses. Instead she said, “Fine. I’ll start with your sister and save you for last. You can watch me kill your sister and brothers.” What kind of person does that? Who in their right mind does that? I cannot describe the terror, the horror, the fear, the desperation. There are not words for it. I screamed from the bottom of my toes, and my screams rose up from the depths of hell where I had been placed. I don’t remember what happened or why she stopped but I remember her telling us to think of a reason why she shouldn’t kill us, and it had better be a good one. Then she announced, that if we couldn’t come up with a good reason, then it would be better if we killed ourselves rather than have her do it. In fact, she said “It would be better if you kill yourself, because if I have to do it, you’ll wish you had.”
There I was. 13 years old and in a bedroom with five of my siblings. The youngest was only 6 weeks old. And we were analyzing the possibility of dying in the morning. Unless we came up with a really good reason why we should live, or we end our own lives overnight. How does a child process that? I still have no way to describe that.
I went to the kitchen to start the dinner preparations. In our house, whether or not you just had to fight and beg for your life; the daily things proceed as normal. I peeled potatoes, made the salad. Mom did the meat. We sat down and ate. Just like a normal family. While doing the after dinner dishes and putting things away, I had to move the gallon jug of vinegar. I happened to notice on the back that there was alcohol in it. Very small amount, but that didn’t mean anything to me at the time. I recall mom telling my stepfather about someone who drank so much alchohl that they died of alcohol poisoning. I knew that I could never come up with a reason good enough for my mother to let me live, so I chose taking my own life. I knew that her way would be brutal, slow, and painful. I drank just about all the vinegar hoping to die of alcohol poisoning. Hours later my abdomen started to hurt. It hurt so bad I could only roll in a fetal ball. I wretched and wretched. My narcissistic mother thought I was trying to play on her pity and smacked me around and told me to stop faking. I wasn’t. I ended up in the hospital for 2 weeks on IV’s. I had pancreatitis. I never told anyone what I did, but the doctors were quite puzzled as to how a 13 year old got pancreatitis. I know.
Day after day, the beatings, the terror, the bargaining, the pleading, the crying, the abuse, the shame, humiliation, mortification. I just didn’t want to exist. I tried hanging myself, strangling myself. I took my mother’s pills. Nothing was successful. I wasn’t very good at this dying thing. Until 17. I almost succeeded. I did not have a plan to die that day. In fact, I never had a plan to die on any given moment. The moment would arrive, or happen; and then I would attempt something. I did not plan to die that day. I just wanted the hell to stop. Please God, just make it stop! I took every pill my mother had and took a trail in the bush and sat down to die. So, how in the hell did someone find me? Ambulances, hospital, stomach pumped. I didn’t die. It didn’t end. I’m still in hell.
In my life now, whenever I am afraid, uncertain, uncomfortable, sad, unhappy, or angry; the first thought that comes to mind, is I just want it to stop. Just stop! Now! Along with the just stop is the feeling of unease. My mother’s words come unbidden into my head, “Just do it. Do it now before I do”, “You’re a waste of space.”, “Nobody wants you.” “You’re nothing, do you hear me? Nothing. Why don’t you fucking do us a favour and end it for us.” They tumble and fall over each other. It becomes impossible to distinguish her voice from what I am feelings and the fear gets so intense that I do something to make it stop. To make it end. So my adult life has also been marred by suicide attempts. Even though I try to live.
It has progressed to self-harming. I will slash at my body until my skin is shreds. I want to rip it all off, like removing it will removed all the dirt that has been piled on me. All the shame, humiliation, and pain. Maybe it will all come off with the shredding of my flesh. Of course it doesn’t. My pastor explained this to me in a way that really makes sense for me. He said if someone is hurt, or sick; you can watch them get better, or watch the wound heal. With emotional pain you can’t, and by creating a wound, you can then watch it heal. Makes sense to me. What I HAVE noticed it that when I harm myself, the voices stop. Just for a while, but they stop. I know that if I didn’t harm myself, I would be attempting suicide and likely would succeed. What it feels like to me is like a bottle of soda that has been shaken up. The pressure builds and builds and if something doesn’t happen, it is going to explode. I will explode with a sharp object in my hand, or a bottle of pills, or something else. Self-harming keeps me alive.
Suicide is NOT a permanent solution to a temporary problem. If my problem was only temporary I would not have had it for 62 years. Just try living in my head for just one hour. I bet you couldn’t do it. The panic that wells up at least a dozen times a day that send me spiraling in to a miasma of fear and dying. It’s like a quicksand and it keeps pulling me down, deeper and deeper and deeper and some days I just want to sink fully into that blackness. So I fight to stay alive. Poorly. But I am alive.
Do not tell a person who struggles with suicide that they are selfish. Oh my God, if you had any idea. If you had any bloody clue at all, you would not say that. It’s just a word that gets added to the head noise of loser, worthless, fuck up, waste of space, don’t deserve to live, hopeless, ugly, stupid, not worthy anything, and now selfish. Like I need to carry around more dirt. To me I am selfless. I am staying alive for you, despite my pain. And I hate it. Almost every moment of it. I do not experience life like you. I am seldom happy but can fake it. I don’t look forward to things. Things always came with a price tag that I was never able to pay, or they were taken away. Sometimes they were used against me in a way that I ended up hating them. A dress comes to mind. I got this dress that I absolutely loved. I was in heaven. My mother made me wear it to school everyday for months. Without washing it. Without letting me have a bath. Punishment for not washing the floor perfect. Her reasoning was I must like being dirty, otherwise I wouldn’t have left that mark, that spot, that flaw, that only she could see. I hated that dress. I hated me with the greasy hair and smelly body. I hated the shame and the humiliation. I hated being me. So I don’t look forward to things. I don’t get excited. I don’t like crowds. I like some people but don’t like being with people. I’m afraid they will see what my mother saw. Some fault or flaw in me. And if they do, the battle over life and death begins anew.
I haven’t sat on my laurels and done nothing in these 62 years. I have had more couselling and therapy than I can remember. I have worked very hard to appear normal and do the normal things that everyone else does. My psychiatrist told me that the fact I was married, had 3 children, kept them, stayed married for 17 years, held a jobs for just as long, shows the strength of my character. He said people with my history often die in their early 20’s from suicide, alcohol, overdoses, prostitution, and other unhealthy life choices. I made healthy choices and did them poorly. But I made it. To 62. Today I wonder if I will make 63 because the noise in my head is strongly pulling me to that dark abyss. And people say I’m selfish. Selfish that I overcame the odds? Right. Walk in my shoes. See if you could fight as hard.
I came home from school one day. I was so excited because I had done something really well or got a really good mark or something like that. What is was is completely gone from my mind. I was so happy and thought, “My mom and stepdad are going to be so proud of me. Finally.” I ran all the way home. My stepfather hears my news and looks at what I had achieved and said, “You think your shit doesn’t stink, don’t you? Well, let me tell you why your shit doesn’t stink. You are Queen Shit of Turd Island. Your shit does stink, but you can’t smell it because you wallow in it. So what do you think of that Queen Shit?” That was the last time I was excited. I still hear those words, “So what you going to do now Queen Shit?” No one can stand the stink of Queen Shit, with her one outfit, greasy hair, and smelly body.” “No one can stand the sight of Queen Shit in her nakedness while being beaten.” “Hey there, Queen Shit, no one gives a fuck about what you feel, or think.” “What a waste of space you are Queen Shit.” “Why don’t you do us a favour and kill yourself Queen Shit”.
So, please, I beg you to think twice before you call someone a coward for attempting or committing suicide. Think before you tell them it’s a permanent solution to a temporary problem. 62 years is a long time for a temporary problem. My psychiatrists have told me, that with the level and degree of abuse that is often impossible to recover from it. I have learned tools along the way that help and keep me among the living, but sometimes they don’t work. Sometimes the noise in my head is greater than they are. Sometimes it just doesn’t work. Maybe you have the answer for me.
I remember being 4 and being tied to a chair while my mother built a fire on the floor in the kitchen. She was going to burn the house down. I could see those flames getting higher. I could feel the warmth from the flames. I could visualize my body catching on fire and I imagined how much it would hurt. I wondered how long it would hurt. I willed myself to die before the flames got to me. I screamed and pulled at the cords holding me to the chair. Then, at what seems the last moment, my captor sets me free. Not really free, but just from this one moment for now. She tells me to think of a reason why she should let me live. If I can’t think of a good reason by morning, she will finish what she started.
Suicide. A word that nobody wants to hear. An event that nobody wants to witness or go through. Suicide. A word that evokes so many thoughts, emotions, and opinions. Many people who comment really have no idea what suicide is about and perpetuate myths and misunderstandings about it. Suicide, for me; has never been about dying, but about stopping the pain. For just a moment. For just one moment to have a mind and a body that feels and thinks like normal people.
I started to attempt ways to harm and or end my life when I was quite young. Many were amateurish and didn’t stand a hope in hell in succeeding. The point is, it shows my mindset from an early age. From as early as I can remember, I didn’t want to be conscious. That’s right. Not dead, just unconscious. I wanted to be unaware of my life and the terror and the never ending brutality of the punishments exacted on my young body. I just wanted it to stop. For a moment. Not ever forever, but if that was the only way; I would take it.
I was 4 when I purposely ran through a thistle patch. I had heard my mom talking about someone who had got a thorn in his finger, which had gotten so infected; this gentleman nearly lost his finger and apparently could have died. So, in my four year old brain; I thought perhaps I could get this infection too and just maybe, I could die. Instead, I had about a bazillion thistle thorns that my daddy pulled from the bottoms of my tiny little feet. I was about 6 or 7 when I went and layed down in the road waiting for a car to run over me. We lived in a little prairie town of about 100 people and the odds of someone coming down the road and doing just that were about .001%. In fact, I could still be waiting. Then I was about 12 when I drove a nail through my hand. It was rusty and rusty nails could kill you. I guess I have strong antibodies in my body. It didn’t even turn red. I stepped on nails too. Too many to count. No infection. Nothing.
When I was thirteen, the thoughts became stronger. I prayed and I cried for God to change my life. To change my MNPD mother. I asked him to put me in a coma from which I would never wake up. I asked him to put my mother in coma, from which she would never wake up. I pleaded and I bargained. My prayers all seemed to fall on deaf ears. Yes, thirteen. If I thought I had it bad before, I had no idea just how bad it could really get. I fell asleep and the nightmare entered my life. The nightmare that plays over and over and over in my mind. The nightmare that wakes me from the deepest sleep with bloodcurdling screams that the neighbors must surely hear. The nightmare that makes me want to run and run and run. But to where? The nightmare that makes me want to be unconscious. To not be present. To be absent from this life. It walks with me everywhere I go, it’s there with every word I speak, every thought I think, everywhere. All the time.
At thirteen my mother became even more violent and murder and threats of murder were an every day event. One particular occasion, she grabbed me and was about to plunge the butcher knife into me and I screamed and screamed and screamed. I don’t remember her letting me go, but she did. She didn’t gain control of any of her senses. Instead she said, “Fine. I’ll start with your sister and save you for last. You can watch me kill your sister and brothers.” What kind of person does that? Who in their right mind does that? I cannot describe the terror, the horror, the fear, the desperation. There are not words for it. I screamed from the bottom of my toes, and my screams rose up from the depths of hell where I had been placed. I don’t remember what happened or why she stopped but I remember her telling us to think of a reason why she shouldn’t kill us, and it had better be a good one. Then she announced, that if we couldn’t come up with a good reason, then it would be better if we killed ourselves rather than have her do it. In fact, she said “It would be better if you kill yourself, because if I have to do it, you’ll wish you had.”
There I was. 13 years old and in a bedroom with five of my siblings. The youngest was only 6 weeks old. And we were analyzing the possibility of dying in the morning. Unless we came up with a really good reason why we should live, or we end our own lives overnight. How does a child process that? I still have no way to describe that.
I went to the kitchen to start the dinner preparations. In our house, whether or not you just had to fight and beg for your life; the daily things proceed as normal. I peeled potatoes, made the salad. Mom did the meat. We sat down and ate. Just like a normal family. While doing the after dinner dishes and putting things away, I had to move the gallon jug of vinegar. I happened to notice on the back that there was alcohol in it. Very small amount, but that didn’t mean anything to me at the time. I recall mom telling my stepfather about someone who drank so much alchohl that they died of alcohol poisoning. I knew that I could never come up with a reason good enough for my mother to let me live, so I chose taking my own life. I knew that her way would be brutal, slow, and painful. I drank just about all the vinegar hoping to die of alcohol poisoning. Hours later my abdomen started to hurt. It hurt so bad I could only roll in a fetal ball. I wretched and wretched. My narcissistic mother thought I was trying to play on her pity and smacked me around and told me to stop faking. I wasn’t. I ended up in the hospital for 2 weeks on IV’s. I had pancreatitis. I never told anyone what I did, but the doctors were quite puzzled as to how a 13 year old got pancreatitis. I know.
Day after day, the beatings, the terror, the bargaining, the pleading, the crying, the abuse, the shame, humiliation, mortification. I just didn’t want to exist. I tried hanging myself, strangling myself. I took my mother’s pills. Nothing was successful. I wasn’t very good at this dying thing. Until 17. I almost succeeded. I did not have a plan to die that day. In fact, I never had a plan to die on any given moment. The moment would arrive, or happen; and then I would attempt something. I did not plan to die that day. I just wanted the hell to stop. Please God, just make it stop! I took every pill my mother had and took a trail in the bush and sat down to die. So, how in the hell did someone find me? Ambulances, hospital, stomach pumped. I didn’t die. It didn’t end. I’m still in hell.
In my life now, whenever I am afraid, uncertain, uncomfortable, sad, unhappy, or angry; the first thought that comes to mind, is I just want it to stop. Just stop! Now! Along with the just stop is the feeling of unease. My mother’s words come unbidden into my head, “Just do it. Do it now before I do”, “You’re a waste of space.”, “Nobody wants you.” “You’re nothing, do you hear me? Nothing. Why don’t you fucking do us a favour and end it for us.” They tumble and fall over each other. It becomes impossible to distinguish her voice from what I am feelings and the fear gets so intense that I do something to make it stop. To make it end. So my adult life has also been marred by suicide attempts. Even though I try to live.
It has progressed to self-harming. I will slash at my body until my skin is shreds. I want to rip it all off, like removing it will removed all the dirt that has been piled on me. All the shame, humiliation, and pain. Maybe it will all come off with the shredding of my flesh. Of course it doesn’t. My pastor explained this to me in a way that really makes sense for me. He said if someone is hurt, or sick; you can watch them get better, or watch the wound heal. With emotional pain you can’t, and by creating a wound, you can then watch it heal. Makes sense to me. What I HAVE noticed it that when I harm myself, the voices stop. Just for a while, but they stop. I know that if I didn’t harm myself, I would be attempting suicide and likely would succeed. What it feels like to me is like a bottle of soda that has been shaken up. The pressure builds and builds and if something doesn’t happen, it is going to explode. I will explode with a sharp object in my hand, or a bottle of pills, or something else. Self-harming keeps me alive.
Suicide is NOT a permanent solution to a temporary problem. If my problem was only temporary I would not have had it for 62 years. Just try living in my head for just one hour. I bet you couldn’t do it. The panic that wells up at least a dozen times a day that send me spiraling in to a miasma of fear and dying. It’s like a quicksand and it keeps pulling me down, deeper and deeper and deeper and some days I just want to sink fully into that blackness. So I fight to stay alive. Poorly. But I am alive.
Do not tell a person who struggles with suicide that they are selfish. Oh my God, if you had any idea. If you had any bloody clue at all, you would not say that. It’s just a word that gets added to the head noise of loser, worthless, fuck up, waste of space, don’t deserve to live, hopeless, ugly, stupid, not worthy anything, and now selfish. Like I need to carry around more dirt. To me I am selfless. I am staying alive for you, despite my pain. And I hate it. Almost every moment of it. I do not experience life like you. I am seldom happy but can fake it. I don’t look forward to things. Things always came with a price tag that I was never able to pay, or they were taken away. Sometimes they were used against me in a way that I ended up hating them. A dress comes to mind. I got this dress that I absolutely loved. I was in heaven. My mother made me wear it to school everyday for months. Without washing it. Without letting me have a bath. Punishment for not washing the floor perfect. Her reasoning was I must like being dirty, otherwise I wouldn’t have left that mark, that spot, that flaw, that only she could see. I hated that dress. I hated me with the greasy hair and smelly body. I hated the shame and the humiliation. I hated being me. So I don’t look forward to things. I don’t get excited. I don’t like crowds. I like some people but don’t like being with people. I’m afraid they will see what my mother saw. Some fault or flaw in me. And if they do, the battle over life and death begins anew.
I haven’t sat on my laurels and done nothing in these 62 years. I have had more couselling and therapy than I can remember. I have worked very hard to appear normal and do the normal things that everyone else does. My psychiatrist told me that the fact I was married, had 3 children, kept them, stayed married for 17 years, held a jobs for just as long, shows the strength of my character. He said people with my history often die in their early 20’s from suicide, alcohol, overdoses, prostitution, and other unhealthy life choices. I made healthy choices and did them poorly. But I made it. To 62. Today I wonder if I will make 63 because the noise in my head is strongly pulling me to that dark abyss. And people say I’m selfish. Selfish that I overcame the odds? Right. Walk in my shoes. See if you could fight as hard.
I came home from school one day. I was so excited because I had done something really well or got a really good mark or something like that. What is was is completely gone from my mind. I was so happy and thought, “My mom and stepdad are going to be so proud of me. Finally.” I ran all the way home. My stepfather hears my news and looks at what I had achieved and said, “You think your shit doesn’t stink, don’t you? Well, let me tell you why your shit doesn’t stink. You are Queen Shit of Turd Island. Your shit does stink, but you can’t smell it because you wallow in it. So what do you think of that Queen Shit?” That was the last time I was excited. I still hear those words, “So what you going to do now Queen Shit?” No one can stand the stink of Queen Shit, with her one outfit, greasy hair, and smelly body.” “No one can stand the sight of Queen Shit in her nakedness while being beaten.” “Hey there, Queen Shit, no one gives a fuck about what you feel, or think.” “What a waste of space you are Queen Shit.” “Why don’t you do us a favour and kill yourself Queen Shit”.
So, please, I beg you to think twice before you call someone a coward for attempting or committing suicide. Think before you tell them it’s a permanent solution to a temporary problem. 62 years is a long time for a temporary problem. My psychiatrists have told me, that with the level and degree of abuse that is often impossible to recover from it. I have learned tools along the way that help and keep me among the living, but sometimes they don’t work. Sometimes the noise in my head is greater than they are. Sometimes it just doesn’t work. Maybe you have the answer for me.
I remember being 4 and being tied to a chair while my mother built a fire on the floor in the kitchen. She was going to burn the house down. I could see those flames getting higher. I could feel the warmth from the flames. I could visualize my body catching on fire and I imagined how much it would hurt. I wondered how long it would hurt. I willed myself to die before the flames got to me. I screamed and pulled at the cords holding me to the chair. Then, at what seems the last moment, my captor sets me free. Not really free, but just from this one moment for now. She tells me to think of a reason why she should let me live. If I can’t think of a good reason by morning, she will finish what she started.
I have insomnia. Bad insomnia. I can go for days without
sleep. I am awake thinking of a reason why I deserve to live. I can’t turn it
off. Then after a few days of no sleep; your thinking gets more skewed. I just want
to close my eyes and sleep. I want the noise to stop. I want the fear to stop.
I want to be adequate. To just be okay. Normal. Just stop. Now. Three or four
days without sleep usually culminates in an episode of self-harm or a suicide
attempt. What do I do? How do I stop it? How do I get to sleep? Do you know
that sleeping pills don’t work on me? Guess my adrenaline is flowing all the
time, according to the docs. It’s damaging my body, my internal organs and I
will likely die from the effects of it. Tell me again how I am a coward and
selfish. Perhaps it is you who is selfish asking me to hang on to a life that
is no life at all.
I am suicidal. Very suicidal. I am giving things away. I am putting things in order. This is a new departure for me and it is scary. I am facing the winter of my life and must get my affairs in order in any event. So, I am going through the junk I have accumulated over my lifetime and getting rid of it. Rid of memories. They are only sad and hurtful. Rid of anything that says I existed. I never wanted to just exist, I just wanted to live life like a normal child. A normal adult. A normal senior citizen. There is more sand in the bottom of the hourglass and I for one will welcome when time runs out. I will be free.
I wait for the Lord to restore that which was stolen from me.
I am suicidal. Very suicidal. I am giving things away. I am putting things in order. This is a new departure for me and it is scary. I am facing the winter of my life and must get my affairs in order in any event. So, I am going through the junk I have accumulated over my lifetime and getting rid of it. Rid of memories. They are only sad and hurtful. Rid of anything that says I existed. I never wanted to just exist, I just wanted to live life like a normal child. A normal adult. A normal senior citizen. There is more sand in the bottom of the hourglass and I for one will welcome when time runs out. I will be free.
I wait for the Lord to restore that which was stolen from me.
Joel
2:25 ESV
I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has
eaten, the hopper, the destroyer, and the cutter, my great army, which I sent
among you.
