For Colored Girls Who Still Consider Suicide
In October of 2016, I checked myself into the ER because that's what my psychiatrist told me to do when I'm feeling suicidal. But it was more than a feeling. It was an idea that I was finally going to make a reality. I was going to end it all that night.
I don't know why I followed the instructions of my doctors. Perhaps there was some will to live. Not sure why though considering I didn't want to do life anymore.
And over a year later, I still don't.
I've battled with suicide ideation since I was 13 years old. Wrote my first suicide note when I was 14. I also started cutting myself around that time to release the pain on the inside. The cutting was a temporary phase I thought. I didn't stop until I was 21 years old for the simple fact that I felt that I should find another outlet to deal with pain. No one in their 20s should still slitting their wrist. That's childish. I was legal now. I can release through alcohol.
I made an actual attempt at 22. Late night, in tears, praying to God for some resolve. No luck. Grabbed a few aspirins because that's all I had in my cabinet. Nothing happened though and I still woke up the next morning. At least the headache I was having during that time went away.
But I knew I would wake up though. I wasn't bold enough to take the whole bottle. I took just enough so I could end up in the hospital. To actually die? Why, yes. That was the initial intent. But death scares me and I didn't know what would happen once I got to heaven. Wasn't sure of the aftermath and the judgement that would pursue from God for not following through with his plan. That's if, I made it there though. Still, the thoughts of ending it all lingered. And I felt like I was coward for not being a woman of my word and courageous enough to do what I said I would do. For not following through like the plan was for almost 10 years.
At 25, I had a mental breakdown. Suicide was looming. It was definitely going to happen time. No punking out. I called my friend in hysteria. Wrong move. She tried to talk me out of it. Tried to talk me through it. My emotionally instability couldn't comprehend her aid. So she called the cops. She saved my life. But I ain't wanna be saved though.
After that, I promised I would see a professional. Again, A woman of my word, I did. I knew she would ask me about it constantly. She wouldn't let it go. How long could I keep up a lie about going to therapy? So I went and started my session off telling him I'm here because I wanted to kill myself.
Then I got diagnosed. Then I got a prescription. Then I was told to come back. I was told this was a symptom of both illnesses. This WILL always be a thought, he said. Now every session there's always the question: any suicidal thought lately? All the time I want to say. But I lie. I still haven't mastered honesty in my sessions.
I don't want the questions because I don't have the answers. I will never have the answers.