Warning: This post discusses suicide + therefore might be triggering.
Another note: Please understand that I am NOT suicidal anymore. I’m fine. It’s something that hits me, out of the blue (because I have Borderline Personality Disorder). I am NOT talking about this to scare you, nor because I want attention, but because someone, anyone needs to step up and be open about their struggles with mental illness. One of these brave people is going to be me.
I wanted to die.
I spent all day secretly planning my suicide.
In the evening, I started panicking.
I was being torn apart from the inside.
Sobbing. Clawing at my skin, wanting to cut, desperately.
Finally, I called him. It was almost 2 am and I said, “I need you. I want to die. Except I really don’t want to die!”.
He talked to me. He said, “I believe in us. And Becca, I do love you”.
I thought: a life without meaning isn’t a life at all.
I can listen to music. I can write. If my Love believes in me, I can believe that I have a future (and a future with him).
That is meaning enough for me.
One step at a time, I come away from the water’s edge. The pills and liquor remain in their bottles. The razor is far from my skin; there is barely a mark on my flesh, no crimson to be seen.
I’ll be okay.