TW: suicidal ideations. Idk, this was gonna be a short rant but it got long and dark real fast >__>;;;
Sometimes I wonder if it's possible to hate and love oneself as much as I do.
I have a lot of talents. I write. I sing. I draw. I'm fairly smart. I'm pretty, or at least I more or less fit with mainstream standards of beauty. I love how dorky I am, and sometimes I laugh at my own jokes and foibles, because frankly I'm ridiculous, and adorkable like no one's business.
I would say I'm a bit of a narcissist.
But at the same time, I have such low self-esteem it's kind of amazing that I could even think the things in the above paragraph.
I am the kind of shy where I will leave stores empty handed because I was too afraid to ask for help. I don't like to draw attention to myself at parties by saying "goodbye," so I tend to quietly sneak out like a creeper. I'm fairly certain all of my friends could do without me, and that I really only annoy people, and nobody wants me around, so I rarely hang out with people. I tend not to speak up much in group conversations because my opinion isn't really important.
I think about killing myself a lot.
The first and only time I really "tried" was when I was 12 years old, and I don't think I really meant to go through with it even though I told myself I did.
I lived in an apartment building, and I often thought about throwing myself out the window. It would be glorious-- the free fall, the wind in my hair, and then nothing. No more pain, and doubt, and misery. No more mother screaming at me every night. No more loneliness. Just nothing. Plus that bitch could really feel awful knowing she drove me to it, and it was her fault.
It was an introverted murder.
Well, I had heard people who attempt suicide often change their minds at the very last minute and desperately want to live, so going out the window was a bad idea, as there would be no way to stop it if I had a last-minute revelation.
I decided on smothering instead.
Yes, 12-year-old me, what a brilliantly effective plan.
I figured if you can feel short of breath with your head under one blanket, then if I piled up all of my blankets and stuck my head under, there would be so little air that I could actually die.
Probably wouldn't have worked anyway.
But the advantage was, I could slowly feel myself getting shorter of breath. I could feel the burning of my lungs, as my body begged for air. I would have to choose to stay under. I would have to will myself to die, the entire time, until I passed out.
That was the idea. It was a test of will.
And I didn't have it. As I fully expected of myself, as soon as my lungs began to ache, and I found myself hyperventilating in the oxygen-deprived blanket cave, I pulled out, gasping.
I was too weak to do it. I was a coward. I was still stuck in my miserable life, with no way out.
Funny enough, I guess it wasn't all my mother driving me to it. I've thought about it a lot since then. Sometimes I'll just idly think, "what if I threw myself in front of this car, right now? How surprised would everyone be? What if I threw myself off this balcony? People who spoke to me minutes before wouldn't have ever seen it coming." Other times, I'll act it out, with a belt around my neck, one end tied to a door handle. I'll lean back just enough that I can feel myself start to get light headed. That feeling of not enough blood getting to your brain. I'll think, "I'm not going to really do it... but what if I slipped? What if I waited too long, and I did pass out, and went limp, letting the belt tighten around me?"
I don't know what to make of it. I wouldn't call myself depressed. I don't have anxiety attacks. I often feel that I'm being selfish. It's almost like I'm making light of something serious. Something that people with serious problems do, and I'm just making sport of it. Because I don't think I ever will go through with it. I've known that since I was 12. No matter how sad, or hopeless, or worthless I feel in the moment, I don't have the strength to go through with it.
Or maybe my self-preservation instinct is just too high.
Or maybe, part of me hopes I'm as good as I think I am when I love myself. When I laugh at my own stupid jokes, and look in the mirror and think, "wow, look how cute I am!" Part of me wants that to be true, and says, "One day you'll really feel good about yourself. You don't want to die, you just want the suffering to end. You just want things to be better, not to be over."
I want that moment, right before death, where you desperately want to live.
I guess I'm lucky I do have so many positives to cling on to, even though I'm not that great of a writer, or a singer. I'm a mediocre artist at best, I'll never do anything with my alleged intelligence, and I'm not all that pretty. But at least I have those things.
I wonder if I'd have gone through with it if I didn't, or if I'd have found some other reason to live?
I guess in the end, what I always tell myself to talk myself out of it is, "You're going to die anyway." It has nothing to do with looks, or talent, or self-love, or self-hate. It's the simple fact that death is coming. It will always be there as a final answer. That final, eternal peace is always waiting. So give it another go. Don't end it this time, just try again for a little while. You'll get to die, eventually.