For Me, Suicide is Always on the Table

A note to my future self and anyone else that feels the world would be better without them:

Please give yourself at least 24 hours to think about it, because you are wrong, and there's a small part of you that knows your wrong.  Feelings alone will not kill you but they will definitely cloud your judgement.

This post may be triggering.  The suicide hotline is 1.800.273.8255, please call if you want to talk.

I'm sharing my story in case it might help someone feel less alone. 

 

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I remember my first suicide ideation like it happened yesterday.  It was May 1991.  I was about to turn 10 years old and I was more than ready to end it all.  I had had enough of living with my alcoholic parents who hated me.  I loved them more than anything but just couldn't stomach one more insult, one more painful reminder that I wasn't wanted.

There were four bars in our little town and I knew each of their phone numbers by heart.  My parents hated me so much that they were never home.  Instead they'd go out to the bars most nights.  I would wait until I couldn't stand it and then start calling, usually around midnight.  The bartenders would usually put my mom on the phone but sometimes they'd lie for her.  That was the worst.  My heart would be pounding.  Not only was it dark outside but I was home alone with my little sister.

    "Hey JoDee!!" I'd hear the bartender shout over the music, "phone's for ya". "Huh? Ugh, tell her I'm not here" my mom would slur back. "Haven't seen her" they'd casually tell a terrified kid looking for their mom.

When they made it home they'd be completely trashed.  For as poor as we were I have no idea how they afforded their booze.  Not only did they drink at bars but the fridge was perpetually stocked with beer and boxed wine, the cupboard with vodka.  If they didn't pass out they'd end up in a huge, violent fight.  I would try to get them to stop, then I'd call 911.

So when my birthday was nearing I couldn't fathom why I should stick around.  My life was absolute Hell.  I would do chores until the drama started.  Patiently waiting for the alcohol to kick in and hate to emanate from my step-dad, Mike.  He hated my guts and could never control that intense feeling from coming out in every moment I was in his presence.  My mom was a little better, she'd at least make sure I was fed dinner. But she couldn't contain her disdain for me. I ruined her childhood and I was a pain in the ass. I had been colichy, bit her toe once really hard and was too smart for my own good. I constantly had her on her toes which she really didn't appreciate.

My plan had been to shoot myself in the head on my 10th birthday. The pistol I was going to use was kept in the hall closet with ammunition. I wrote my suicide note that morning before school. I said goodbye to my little sister. I loved her to death but knew she, like the rest of the world, would be better off without a bad person like me.

When I arrived home from school Mike was already there. He got off work early that day.  I couldn't believe it, he was never home early. I took it as a sign that I shouldn't kill myself. So I didn't until October 2005.

It's not that I didn't think about suicide after my first botched attempt. I would find myself entertaining the idea often. I felt it every time I was banished to my room for the day. Doesn't sound so bad, and it wouldn't have been, but I could overhear from my room all the nasty comments my parents made about me. It's tough to be criticized. It's excruciating when it comes from those that are supposed to love you. The thought that constantly crossed my mind was "If my mom doesn't love me, who will?". I didn't have an answer but I knew it certainly wasn't me.

Four years later I attended homecoming with my new boyfriend, Jacob. He was a junior that drove his own car and offered me a ride to school.  One morning he brought a dozen roses with him and asked me to the dance. I ecstatically said yes, trying to conceal how lucky I felt to carry roses with me to school that day.

I brought my homecoming pictures with me to visit my family three hours South.  Dad loved them but when I asked if I could take them to my cousin's place my dad said no. He was adamant that I not see him. My cousin had been in a lot of trouble lately and I felt that he needed his family to support him but dad disagreed.

After dad left my grandma gave me a ride to my cousin's house anyway.  I showed my cousin my Homecoming pictures, excited to show him my new boyfriend. I brought my new Alannis Morrisette CD with me as well, not realizing it would be the soundtrack of my rape, my first sexual experience.

I was horribly ashamed.  I didn't speak more than a few words to anyone until I saw Jacob two days later.  Being the upstanding and responsible person he is, Jacob dragged me to the counselor's office.  I was then sent to the police station for a report and the hospital to have my genitals probed with a magnifying glass by a group of nurses.  The shame seemed to never end.

My grandparents were notified and made the decision to never tell my dad what happened. To say I felt horrible would be a huge understatement. Not only did I disobey my dad, but my cousin, who he already had issues with, raped me while I disobeyed him. It was a double whammy.

The only time I ventured South during the next year was for the deposition. My grandparents told everyone they were going to the beach so no one would know I was in town. I felt like a shameful secret.

By the time a year had rolled by, I was feeling pretty suicidal. I missed everyone, especially my Dad. I had a hard time talking to him, the shame was overwhelming. I couldn't tell him he had been right, that I made a huge mistake and that I was sorry. We knew he'd murder my cousin.

Then the unthinkable happened.  On October 26th, 1996, at 10:41pm, my dad was in a drunk driving accident. He had been out with a coworker that had given him a bad deal. This night was supposed to make it up to my Dad. My step mom, 8.5 months pregnant, answered the door to the frantic neighbor. He was looking for my dad to help with the accident that just happened across the street. No one realized it was dad until they saw him lying on the ground. He was ejected from the car and died instantly.  

His viewing is when I realized I couldn't commit suicide.  I not only felt the raw, gut-wrenching pain of losing a parent, but I saw the pain everyone else was experiencing as well. I knew then that I had to stick it out. Even if it still meant living with parents that hate me.

Until October of 2005, suicide had increasingly felt like the only way to end my emotional turmoil and the wreckage that was my life. Unbeknownst to me I had Borderline Personality Disorder. I was overly emotional, impulsive and could switch between love and hate in a heart beat. As relationships fell out around me I felt more and more isolated, alone and ashamed. My behavior was always the cause of my problems. I had usually lost my temper at someone, raising my voice and saying mean things that I didn't mean. Nothing fizzles out friendship more than mean, hurtful comments yelled across a room.

Then an Oprah episode came on. I was huddled in the corner of my closet under blankets, positioned so I could still see the TV. My dog, Abby, was by my side with her face gently pressed into my leg to comfort me. Faith Hill was the topic. She spoke about her life which of course sounded amazing. What happened inside me though was not jealousy or even envy. It was the realization that I could never and would never feel true happiness. Looking at the facts, my history with others and the chaos that surrounded me, I knew that I couldn't be happy and I just gave up.  

I decided I needed to save the world from my horribleness so I looked up the dosage on my fiance's sleep medication. I made sure I took enough and went to bed, thinking how incredibly easy it was to swallow a handful of pills. As I drifted off I felt relieved to escape my feelings.  I had been drowning in sorrow and heart ache knowing that I was not good enough for anything. I hadn't been able to maintain success, everything always ended in shambles. I thought I took care of the problem.

I woke up two hours later because I had to pee. I will never forget the terrible, horrendous feeling. My body was dying and I could feel it happening. Every inch of my skin and my organs were screaming in agony. I fell out of bed and my fiance noticed something was wrong. I told him about the pills and he lost his shit.  All he could keep asking is "Did you really take those pills?!?". Since I couldn't speak it was really annoying that he kept asking the question, over and over.  

When we got to the hospital, I fell out of the car and stumbled into the Emergency Room.  The lady behind the counter looked horrified as she called for a wheel chair as I fell to the ground again.

My next memory is of me on the exam table, with the doctor inserting a catheter and me screaming. I was convulsing and dying.

The next morning I woke up in ICU. I had two plastic chest paddles stuck to my chest, ready to go off in case my heart stopped. Apparently my research had paid off and I took a huge dose of those pills. The college I went to sent a Psychology student to come talk to me and evaluate my mental health. I must have passed with flying colors because the hospital released me that day, with no follow up appointments made.  

There was another attempt in October of 2011 after a year-long addiction to Spice.  Turns out though that antidepressants don't do much when used to OD.

So it's been a few years with no real attempts but a lot of ideation. I just can't seem to pull it off the table, which frightens the Hell out of the part of me that is sane. It might be a small part, but it is definitely alive. When I read the statistic that 10% of Borderlines successfully commit suicide I scream inside. I don't want to die. The problem is that I sometimes know that my loved ones would be better off with out the burden of putting up with me. Of course, I am wrong when that goes through my head but it is right to me at the time.

A note to my future self:  

If you are thinking about suicide, please give yourself at least 24 hours to mull it over.

Even though you might think you're right about this doesn't mean you can't talk it out with someone in the meantime. You're worth that, every single person is worth a conversation.  1.800.273.8255 to talk it out.

  

Cocaine, Oral Sex and How It All Began

My story begins on May 22, 1981.  That's the day my mom delivered me in dramatic fashion via emergency C-section.  She ran off with his best friend after a brief stint with my troubled father.  They left California, with me in tow, and headed back to Vancouver, Washington.  The love between them ran out quickly.  Mom headed to Barrow Alaska, leaving me with my grandparents.  She got a job and met My Mikey, as I used to call him.

My Mikey and mom fell in love over raging coke parties.  This was the 80's and they were living it up, enjoying huge wages from the pipeline deal.  I remember sitting on a lap with my chalkboard, telling my mom's friend about 'my coke', the dust from the chalkboard.  I watched everyone else snort line after line and figured I'd play along.

Inevitably the party would end, guests would leave and huge fights between my parents always seemed to happen.  Dishes thrown against walls and yelling were a part of our daily routine.  The fights would turn violent with hitting and kicking, shoving and strangling.  No one else would be there to stop them and I was only potty training.  Sometimes I was so terrified that my screaming would stop the fight, but usually they'd just wear each other out.

When I was three we moved into an apartment complex.  That's the first time I had sex.  Well, oral sex and with an older girl, not an adult.  But I was hooked.  I couldn't believe how good it felt, and I was so desperate for anyone to love me.  My parents were very neglectful, always either wasted or hungover.  I doubted, even as a toddler, if they even liked me. My love affair went on for the year she lived down the hall.

After two years, we left Barrow for Seattle. I'm not sure when, but My Mikey became Dad in Barrow.  I only saw my real dad once during the 4 years I lived up there and boy, are those some awkward family photos.  I didn't know my father until some years later. Turns out, Dad had a mental illness that would gravely effect our lives: Bipolar Type I.  His symptoms began shortly after the wedding and only progressed.

When he was depressed, he would suck all of the energy out of the room.  One day he grabbed a gun and three bullets. He told mom there was a bullet for each of us, that he couldn't take it anymore.  Obviously she talked him down but scary!  When he was manic, he was even more crazy.  He'd talk really fast and excitedly, his eyes would get larger with a slight bulge and dart around.  One day he drove home with a brand new truck that mom had no idea about.  We were living paycheck to paycheck and he financed $56k.  When mom made him return it to the dealership they refused to cancel the contract, costing my parents $8k.

My parents met new friends in Washington, leaving their coke days in Alaska.  The partying never stopped, and neither did the fighting.  At least once a month I would have to call the police to come break up a fight.  My parents were belligerent and mean, exacerbated when they drank.

One night, while the adults drank themselves into oblivion in the kitchen, I laid on the living room floor watching TV.  Bored and lonely, I ventured into the kitchen.  Mom stumbled over to me, slurring "You're going to try a cigarette."  I was 8 years old and begged her not to put it in my mouth. It stunk so bad, ugh!! I hated their chain smoking in our little house and begged them to stop often.  She didn't hesitate, and over the meek protests of her party buddies, she pushed the lit cigarette between my lips.  I coughed and gagged, repulsed by the hot stench coming from my mouth.  Horrified and sick, I ran to the bathroom to rinse my mouth out, once again feeling the deep void of my mother's love.

When I was about 12 mom reconnected with Dave, my real father's best friend.  She promptly filed for divorce from Dad, moving in with Dave and taking us kids.  That lasted until she tried to OD on pills while home alone with me.  Her friend just happened to call and notice something wrong.  That's the night the paramedics took her to the hospital to have her stomach pumped.

While mom was in the hospital, I lived with Dad. I walked in on him and mom's friend, the same one that called the paramedics, having sex during mom's hospital stay.  They were too busy to notice me (thank you for that).

Dad was incredibly mean and hateful towards me, which was nothing new.  Mom says that's the biggest reason why she left Mike, because he was that evil towards me.  I couldn't do anything right, ever.  One day he decided I didn't clean the tub well enough.  He slammed my face into the bottom of the tub and kicked down my bedroom door.  He told me to grab my things and drove me to mom's new apartment.  I was dumped like a piece of garbage on the sidewalk and felt worth as much.

Another day, while at the lake with Dad and my sister, a strange older man groped my recently developed breasts.  I was in the water up to my chest and he wanted me to help his little girl swim.  I felt his huge hands squeeze my breasts, and not just once.  I was so shocked and confused, thinking I did something wrong.  I quickly told Dad but he didn't do a thing.  The man just yards from us, getting away with molestation.  A few years later, I saw that sick man on Unsolved Mysteries.  He was on the run after raping his daughter.

During middle school, I went to Barrow Alaska to work for the summers.  I lied about my age so I could work in a restaurant.  It was right on the water, so when the ice pack came in I could see wild polar bears hunting.  I watched my sister in an Inupiaq blanket toss in celebration of harpooning a whale.  I rode quads and put up with my crazy grandma.  She loved to yank me around the living room by my hair when she was frustrated.  I masturbated as much as possible to make my time there bearable. By the time high school came, I had a burned-up clit and the excitement of a gold-digger getting the diamond of her dreams.