TRIGGER WARNING: What I’m about to write may include suicide ideation, depression, anxiety issues and something about my mental illness. So if you want to read this story or piece of my mind, I warned you. xx
One thing I knew about having anxiety is that “my brain will never be able to shut up” even if I wanted to.
I’ve been on the brink of suicide but I wasn’t that deep on the depression and anxiety scale but I thought about it, I thought about it constantly that I was able to make marks on my right wrist trying to cut my arm vertically (because I saw it in the movie The Craft) and I ended up having some sort of claw mark on my wrist and I just used my thumbnail.
I dreamt about killing myself hundreds of times. It was crazy. Exploding buildings, falling teeth, jumping off a building, jumping of my terrace or just trying to crash my dad’s car (P.S. I don’t know how to drive). Dreaming about it and actually wanting to try and do it makes me laugh now, it’s like that person was a whole other person than the girl writing this post.
This is the sole purpose of this blog, to convey the hurt and the worry and the want to kill myself. But looking back in the past four years of my life where I’ve beaten myself up over something that happened a million and a half hours ago, I decided to write.
To write the story that made me stronger.
To write about how deep the knife that was stabbed behind my back buried inside me, and actually still is.
To write the story about my obsession for wanting to disappear.
To write about how I wanted to die.
You see, now I can make a joke about leaning on the wall in my school hallway crying because I couldn’t go to class, because really it’s funny but when you’re in that position everything shuts down, everything goes out the fucking window and just flies away.
All you have worked for, my recovery down the drain.
But in truth it was just starting.