Tried drowning in some water
One near where I was raised
Hoping that the bottom
Would take my life
But partway through the mercy
The pain was far too great
And I thought of all
The finer ways to die
Kicked and clawed at the abyss
Desperate for the surface
Begging for the heavens
For air to breathe
At some point all I wanted
Was to ******* end this
Yet after all this time
Death hasn't come for me
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
For the crisis hotline: 1–800–273–8255 ; they are also available for online chat
When one tries to take their life enough times, suicide becomes part of one's identity.
It is an odd reality for those who have attempted more than once (with some circumstantial exceptions). It's a reality that is very hard to relate to others.
It makes talking about suicide easier, yet reaching out for help so much harder. When it's a common theme in your thoughts, discussing it, beyond the black-and-white ideals and lack of humour normal people are used to, isn't as heart-wrenching.
Yet, when we're at our lowest, it's not a shock to us. We're used to it, far too used to it. We're not just thinking "I don't want this pain anymore", or "I don't deserve to live". What's also ingrained in us is a more violent "I ought to die", and "Someone needs to **** me". Our thoughts have escalated beyond a moment of extreme self-pity or grief and has become a perpetual affair of severe self-hatred and shame, a thought proccess that feels instinctual and automatic. And when that's where one's at, when one's death seems like something that should happen, reaching out for help seems unlikely.
I'm likely not going to make waves in suicide prevention. But I can at least make some of you aware that multiple suicide attempters are not in the same mindset as others. They may need help that's different than the norm.
I am sharing this because I know what it's like. I have four attempts under my belt. I know what it's like to feel you shouldn't be alive, like you're already dead but still somehow walking around. Like you started drowning a long time ago and just haven't stopped. And I rarely reach out. This last Tuesday I didn't reach out, and I was right on the edge, ready to step off. I instead wrote this poem, and then this small essay. The vulnerability I needed to be this honest fueled whatever resiliance I had. And, I guess I just beared it until the agony of my triggering, trauma filled thoughts passed.
I'm still alive, obviously, for the hundredth time, but some others aren't. And that's why I'm sharing this.
