Thank you very much for reaching out to let me know that you care about me and you want to support me. It is incredibly kind. It is thoughtful. It is loving.
I’m not reaching back because I’m still in that place where I would manage to turn the most innocuous statements into proof that you hate me and you think I should die. I don’t really think you believe that so I’m just not getting into that conversation. Because I don’t want to do that to you. I’m holding my breath and waiting for the wave to finish passing by. I don’t want to damage my relationship with you just because my brain is being a complete asshole right now.
I don’t document these kinds of ups and downs because I want to distress you or ruin your day. I can tell you are worried. I’m sorry I’m scaring you. I document these sorts of dips in my psyche partially because someday my children might say, “Remember when I was x years old and you flipped out? What happened?” I will be able to go look in my archive and answer that question.
I asked my kids if they have heard me swear at their father much, this was in context of a conversation on contempt, and they sat there and thought hard and counted on their fingers and said they can remember 7 times. So those are 7 times in their whole life when I have been disrespectful enough in your presence to call him a name. That’s not good. But you notice how I don’t do that casually? We have a fight every so often and I have this incredibly bad habit that there are things I can’t say out loud until I’m screaming them with a curse word. It’s really bad. But I don’t refer to your father that way casually or very often because I don’t want to demonstrate contempt. I don’t want to feel contempt either… but you don’t call people names all the time. It should be rare or never. I mean, it would be best if I could grow the fuck up and fight without yelling swear words…
I’ve come a long way…
With Noah holding the key to all the stuff in the house that is lethal I’m pretty sure you can go back to checking my blog once a day. I made it hard for me to off myself.
It isn’t that I feel better. It’s that I’m thinking long and hard about the impact on my children and I’m not viewing my pain as equally as important. My baby is struggling so hard to become an emotionally regulated person. I can’t do this to them. They are struggling hard with impulse control and they are terrified that having less than perfect impulse control means they are a terrible person who is beyond redemption.
If I went now… they would assume blame forever. And baby it’s not you.
Oh it’s never you.
I can’t make my baby feel like me.
It’s really weird knowing that as much as I feel like I am poisoning everyone around me… my kid will listen to me telling them that they made a mistake and now they need to shake it off and try again because that’s just life. They listen when I tell them that it’s not good to internalize that mistakes make you a failure. Mistakes give you chances to learn. They are valuable. Mistakes are necessary and important and that means they really can’t prove that you are bad. Don’t make some of the truly heinous mistakes more than once… but once… you know…
You have to learn.
My kids believe in me more than folks believe in Moses. My word is law. It’s the weirdest fucking phenomena. I don’t think I ever felt like that about anyone as a child. Even though my kids know I’m wrong sometimes and I make mistakes… they view me as just about perfect.
It’s the fucking weirdest thing.
I may be a shitty wife… but my kids look at me like I’m the best thing ever. I don’t want to hurt them like that.
Even if that means I keep hurting Noah.
Only 4 days this week of leaving town. I’m so fucking tired.
How much pain can I absorb in this life? I don’t know. Are my kids going to keep looking at me while I do it? Because I’m kind of a macho show off. If I think I’m impressing them I can go pretty far.
My wonderful, beloved friends… I do appreciate that you reach out. But the thing about chronic long-term mental illness is… I can’t treat everything as a crisis. I know there is terrible advice out there telling people “Every time you feel suicidal, go to the ER!” No. Don’t do that. Well, if that is what you feel you need to do to get through a night… you do you. I will never do that. Never ever ever ever ever.
I will never risk having an authority figure strap me down because I have the unfortunate tendency towards having emotions they do not want me to have. Not again in this life. I can’t.
I will not risk being shot up with drugs I do not consent to. I have no rights in this country as a mentally ill person. The minute I enter the system they can do any abusive thing they want to me and I have no recourse.
No. That’s not a way to “get better” and if you try to force me through that… you aren’t a good person. I don’t care what you tell yourself. That’s terrifying and abusive and just plain wrong. Even the fucking UN believes I deserve better than I can get in my country.
I got to meet one of the lawyers who helped draft their position. What a beautiful and inspiring person.
I feel less frantic. Frankly I’m in the danger zone. Because this is the kind of mind set where I have enough energy going spare that I could get up out of the house and get it done. I still believe it might be the right decision. Except for my kids.
I know what suicide does to a kid.
I’m not sure my pain is that important. Maybe when they are in their 20’s or 30’s and they can understand chronic conditions… but they won’t ever get over it right now.
That’s a choke chain if ever there was one. Last night my baby wanted to have one of our bed time chats where they ask me about tremendously serious, ethical, philosophical matters. They need me. They need someone to sit there and talk through how to think about boundaries and consent and limits and showing love. They need someone who will compassionately say, “Yeah, we all screw up. This is how we do better.”
They need someone who is invested in seeing them as someone with potential.
That’s supposed to be your mother.
And the waterworks start again on cue.
It just occurred to me that I’ve been friends with my former students for about half of their lives at this point. They come back because I look at them as someone with potential and they want to see that reflection.
I get it.
I see so much in you and you and you and you. I am sorry I am harsh in how I phrase my criticisms. I’m much harsher with myself. You do get the gentled down version of how I look at the world. I see you as so capable and I’m an asshole about how I prod that. I’m sorry. You deserve better.
I don’t know that I have better to give… but you clearly deserve better.
That’s so complicated.
The thing about suicide is… if you prevent me on a given day you will only increase the horrible lethality of the method I will choose on another day. This is not a “temporary mood problem” I have where you just need to lock me in a box until it is over. This is a long term chronic problem that isn’t going to go away until I am dead. I mean… maybe it could… but I’m not holding my breath on that.
*You* can’t panic and give up pieces of your life when I fall to pieces. If I am in a place where I need you to be a physical/emotional/spiritual place to block me from killing myself… I’ll ask. I really appreciate the offers of support, but sometimes I’m not in a place to take the support because I will twist it and turn it into more poison. I’m good at that. When my uncle died and I did not believe I was capable of taking care of myself well enough to survive the week alone… I asked for help. I wasn’t alone for over a week. I do recognize different plateaus of coping…..
Even that week I didn’t want to talk much. I just needed an adult in the house to watch me and the kids.
One week out of the 9 years I’ve been a parent. I don’t need that kind of support much. Mostly I have to put my head down and get to my life.
I have to pull the meaning from where I am standing… or I’m not going to last very long. I have to pull the will to live from what I’m doing or I’m in trouble.
But I love you. And I’m glad you love me.