So I wrote this last night when I couldn’t sleep and I felt it was important for me to share this:
Tonight I can’t sleep because I am being reminded of my past. The soft, pulsing pain that always lives within me in one form or another. Maybe it would be easier if I didn’t remember what week it was. The night that pulsing pain turned into desperate screams. And you begged me to star. But I don’t like to make promises I know I can’t keep, so instead, I said goodbye. After years of self-torture and skin at mercy to the blade; I decided to bleed for the final time. I could still remember the pool, the feeling of my hands, the glare of the screen, and the silence of my screams. My hand was shaking as I decided to put this all familiar practice to use for the final time. Because hurting myself became my profession. I used it thousands of times. And if I’m being honest, I still do from time to time. As I continue to bleed and my wrist began to scream; I thought of you. While you were blowing up my phone in desperate pleas to keep me from leaving. I wasn’t trying to be selfish, I was just trying to be selfish, I was just trying to end the pain. My heart slowed, I became dizzy, I put down the blade. Subconsciously I think I knew that my seventh attempt at leaving this world had failed. I told you I was still here, but not for long. Looking back at a time where I felt so alone but realized I was surrounded by people who cared. Sometimes I would kill to feel that love again. Even if it meant giving up my sanity. And looking back on a time a time where I felt a certainty that I would never feel at peace; I can now promise myself a future not of happiness; but of stability. Because no matter how many times I go to therapy, no matter how many times I try to convince myself that my memories can’t hurt me anymore; they still do. I have my nights in hell given as a gift from you, my darling Angel. Most mornings I wake up feeling empty. But I guess its better than the mornings I woke up to 365 days before, desperately wishing for it to be my last day. There is no way to describe the pain to someone who hasn’t been where I was. Sitting in the room of a psych ward, after that attempt on my life. And there is no way to describe the way it makes me feel almost one year later, the final cry for peace still etched into my wrist. But I’m alive, so I keep pressing forward. I’m still not sure how long this stability will last. Tonight I can’t sleep with these reminders of my past.
I know this isn’t perfect. I know I have a problem with sentence fragments, but this is kinda important to me. I wrote this because this Saturday it will be the one-year anniversary of my most recent suicide attempt.