I didn’t kill myself, but I wanted to, and I tried to, many times.
Maybe I didn’t research suicide enough to make it work, but maybe I didn’t want to make it work because somewhere in my suffering there was a tiny spark, a hidden feeling of hope. I can only recall the hopelessness, but that I am here to recall it means there must have been some vitality and drive toward life in me.
Starting at the age of nine, I was hospitalized many times for overdosing on pills and cutting my wrists. The cutting usually didn’t go deep enough to let me fully bleed out, but I did it mostly for the relief I felt: making my emotional pain into a physical pain. From the matches, I put out on my skin, and the cuts from the knives, sharpened sticks, whatever sharp objects I could find, I was able to momentarily, let go. Eventually, I learned to wear things to cover my wrists and cut other parts of my body so people couldn’t see. (To give off the impression that I was getting better)
From the matches, I put out on my skin, and the cuts from the knives, sharpened sticks, whatever sharp objects I could find, I was able to momentarily, let go. Eventually, I learned to wear things to cover my wrists and cut other parts of my body so people couldn’t see. (To give off the impression that I was getting better)
Years later I still wear the scars of my own making and for a while, they remind me of hurt that I had never healed. I buried it. I let that pain eat away at me and drive a decade’s worth of self-destruction, so I didn’t have to face it. Whatever it, is.
Avoidance becomes a habit, and the self-loathing travelled from the surface into every decision I made, whether I knew it or not, I was letting trauma lead the way.
I internalized the most important things and made issues of minor complaints, all because I was ashamed and I didn’t know how to express my emotions, have healthy relationships or tell others about my experiences.
I learned that the consequences of unacknowledged shame and guilt get worse and more invisible over time. Eventually, I didn’t know that I still hated myself; I just knew that I was acting like I hated myself.
When I think of the people I hurt, the people closest to me, I can see that I was trying to release some of that pain, but it wasn’t healthy and it only made the isolation worse.
13 Reasons Why and Catharsis
This series is an account of the catharsis I experienced through watching Netflix’s 13 Reasons Why a story of a girl Hannah who commits suicide at 17. I can identify with her character, even if the details are different, I can see myself at 17, and work through my own traumatic high school experiences by empathizing with her character.
“No one will ever hurt me again,” Hannah says this, it’s one of her reasons, and very quickly I identified her character as the Scapegoat. That’s why the seemingly random group of 13 reasons comes into contact through her. (More on Scapegoats in another post) Each one of the 13 reasons had projected or placed some element of themselves on her and she felt it more intensely than they knew. They didn’t know because she didn’t know.
She didn’t get to grow up and find out that she was dumped on because she was strong and smart, and beautiful. No one can tell her that it wasn’t that she is weak, or bad, or should feel ashamed for her mistakes.
She doesn’t get to grow up and see her life transform from tragic to inspiring. But I did…
And yet, I have carried that sadly confused girl around with me for years, and the others too. The resonate voices of my family and peers, usually negative and discouraging are still informing my view of myself.
That is why this particular show and a few others (again, another post) has led me to believe that binge watching the right TV show at the right time can be healing.