We grow stronger as we grow older. Had I felt this bad ten years ago, the temptation to suicide would have been overwhelming.
Today, the pain inside my head is so bad as to be almost unbearable … but it’s in that “almost”, that hair-breadth of a word, that my life hangs.
I have everything I need within these four walls to ‘do it’, and to do it properly – because, as those of us who seriously consider ending our lives well know, to botch the job is true failure: if you cry with the hurt of living now, how much worse would it be with an acquired brain injury? Quadriplegia, paraplegia? To observe the suffering of your beloved?
Because, for me, that is why I cannot end this torment by ending my life: I refuse to burden my loved ones with the questions and the suffering that are the legacy of suicide.*
So what can I do? After all, I do everything else “right”: I take my medication when I am supposed to; I punctually attend each and every medical and therapeutic appointment; I exercise, when injury does not prohibit it; I ‘follow the rules’ when I must be admitted to hospital; I don’t drink, smoke, or ingest any illicit drugs. I should be “better”. I shouldn’t be feeling so heartrendingly bad that ending my life seems a logical, reasonable thing to do.
I just have to wait. I have to have faith that things will get better. Right now, I have taken a hefty dost of sedatives (hefty, but within the safe range as prescribed by my doctor … because I am a compliant patient).
I hope to be asleep within the next quarter hour; I timed my medications thus. Who knows? Perhaps I will be fortunate and something will happen: that I may wake up ‘healed’, or not wake up at all, through no fault of my own.
Either way, I hope to be unconscious, and as I slide out of wakefulness, It would be really lovely to think that someone, somewhere, in the world, is thinking of me.