This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.
TW: Suicidal Thoughts with plan and intent.
This is a rough one friends. One I wasn’t sure I was going to write out because I knew it would get intense and honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to shine light into these dark spaces, but I know it’s better out then in.
And I’ve learned that people actually do care to hear about it.
But seriously, this was one of my darker moments, so take care of yourself and only read on if you are up to that.
I’m going to preface it by saying I am safe now, and feeling much better. I did eventually reach out, my therapist knows what’s going on, there’s a safety plan in place, and I’ll reach out again if I wobble.
Shit got real dark, real fast after my last post.
I talked myself out of the house, got dressed and went for that walk. Grumbled about it but did it because I knew it was good for me and I knew I’d feel better for it. I was listening to great music, dancing and singing along in my head.
And then something flipped, and I was just over it all, over dealing with the depression and the mania and the mixed episodes, and this time of year being so horrible for me again and again no matter how much I try to make it better.
And then I wondered, when they found my body, who would they contact. My sister and Batwoman are still my emergency contact at some of the local hospitals, it hasn’t been switched over to Wonder Woman yet. So I contacted both of them to make sure they had Wonder Woman’s contact info, “Just in case something happened.”
And I started walking for the main road.
I’m not going to type out the full extent of what happened. There’s no need for it. But there’s about an hour of time that I was in a really really dark space. I had a plan, went way too close to it, realized it would possibly leave me hurt and not dead, came up with another plan and went towards that, realized access was blocked off, and headed home for pills that I knew were accessible.
I’m thankful that, pills and drink in hand, I saw something with Wonder Woman’s name on it and I decided to text my therapist instead. The act of typing out what had been happening was enough to make the thoughts quiet down to a dull roar that I could fight.
I don’t actually want to die, but it would be really nice if my brain would stop trying to kill me.
My therapist wasn’t able to get back to me for a few hours and by then I had gotten together with Batwoman so I wasn’t alone for the few hours until Wonder Woman got home.
The pills have been locked up with the rest of the meds now. We discussed the possible need for a babysitter over the next few days. I declined, the fog has cleared and that’s not saying it won’t come back (it always does, eventually) but the honest truth is we have no way of knowing if it’ll get that bad again in the next 24 hours, or if it’ll be another year.
I feel wobbly right now. That was as close as I’ve been in a long while. I wasn’t sure I could fight them and I wasn’t even trying.
I hate that I’m putting myself through this. I hate that the people around me have to deal with me like this. I hate that no matter how far I come, these thoughts can show up and knock it all out from under me and leave me feeling completely powerless.
I want to live and I hate feeling like the only way through is death.