One of those days

Warning: I am about to get very personal here. You might just want to leave where you came in.

DONT SAY I DIDNT WARN YOU.

When I was younger, I made several suicide attempts. This was 5th grade. I was just about 10 or 11. It was my first time with a new group of people and I was miserable in the class I was in. I was so miserable that I had rather spend my time in the computer lab helping the kids or in the library helping out and reading. I even represented my school in the spelling bee and storytelling contest because I didnt want to be in that demon woman's class. Then on top of that, I felt ugly. I was gaining weight, entering puberty and physically felt uncomfortable. It didnt help that I barely attracted any male attention. I remember the first time I tried, I had a butter knife. HA! A butter knife. If only I had known, that it would scratch me. So I looked in the bathroom for something. Anything. I was considered a pretty intelligent kid so no one ever told me, "Dont touch this or that or drink this or that." So I walked to the bathroom, and saw what now I realize was just soap. I ate it. Gee, what a friggin failed attempt that was. Fifth grade was such a miserable time for me. I can honestly say I felt my worst that year. I lost a lot of weight that summer after graduation and all I would do is sleep and eat. I didnt want to be around anyone. I barely wanted to be near myself. The next attempt was at the end of that summer. I drank what I thought was some clorox. It was just solution of some cleaning stuff with clorox inside the clorox bottle. Yeah, lets just say my poop wasnt a really good poop. (BTW, obviously I didnt drink enough of the solution for it to really affect me.)

The next attempt I was 15 or 16. I was tired of everything. I wasnt sure if I was going tback to my HS and I was having issues with my parents. (Nothing new.) I remember the thought creeped on me when I was shaving my legs. I, instinctively, took the razor and put it to my wrists. One fine cut on the vein. I bled but not enough, even when I played with the cut to get it to bleed more, I wouldnt bleed enough. Now I realize i didnt cut deep enough. I had the concept, just not deep enough. A year later, things escalated in my home with both parent, to the point where I ran away. That night, I went straight to the cabinet, took a half bottle of advil. That was a 500 pill bottle and it was new, just opened. I took just about half of the bottle that night. AGAIN, just took a massive poop! Just my luck. It was red poop too. Amazing. The next attempt was a week later, I took my mom's vicodin and kept popping them in until I felt hazy.

That night I realized there was so much more to life that I wanted. Why bring it to a premature end? With all the unsuccessful attempts I had before that, one would think I wouldve realized earlier that that is not the way the Big Man wants me to go. I also realized I was breaking a promise to someone I care for dearly. He said he wouldnt go to my funeral if autopsy deemed it a suicide. I fought that night. I fought for the first time. Not to die... but to live.

So the reason I bring this up is because recently, Ive had those thoughts again. Those thoughts that conflict each other and tell each other "stop playing this little game, its not fun anymore" "But its not a game, I want to die..." "No you cant die yet. Remember, you promised?" " And I think about my little cousins and how would they deal with me gone. Those kids are crazy for me. And it brings back the memories of how my family was dealing with my godfathers cancer a few years ago. How we were planning to tell the kids then among other stuff. That, my family, was ready for. This. Not so much.

Sometimes I just feel like Ive got nothing. And today is one of those days.