If you are contemplating suicide, please seek help. You are worth life and you are not alone.
August 2014, lost inside
What is a life gone wrong?
When you feel this low, it’s hard to not wonder how peaceful death might be. I just…there is a part of me that feels so disjointed and out of place in this plane of existence that I don’t want to keep on existing. If I didn’t know the pain that someone’s death can cause others, maybe I would dwell more in that thought. I know how death can rip apart the living even though I can’t help but wonder how many people would actually notice. Most other people don’t even remember or know that I exist.
The suicidal thoughts are back. The balcony beckons me. Telling me that dropping off would be so easy, last mere seconds, and then it’d all be over.
I want to go buy booze and just get wasted, but I can't leave to do anything. I can't leave this house. Being here is making me think about killing myself...or at least vanishing. But vanishing leaves the pain, dying would erase everything for me. But not for them, they'd be left with a stain they couldn't wash out. Although perhaps it wouldn't be too hard, when I'm away it's easy enough for most of my family to forget I exist and care little what happens to me or what I do. I wish the Internet didn't exist and I could easier just slip off into the far reaches of the planet, avoid connecting to anyone. I don't want to tell anyone about these feelings.
My thought process has been beaten down, I've lost my will and my self-confidence. I don't know, it feels like so much of what I worked on has just been erased. Like that work and that self-belief and happiness was the illusion and this is the truth. This pain is the truth, this loneliness is the truth, this shit.
I feel utterly alone. I wish I could disappear and stop existing.
Probably my fault. That’s why death beckons me. I’m fighting that thought. The only person I’ve ever told is my therapist. No one else knows. I hope I don’t lose that fight. The journals left behind would paint a twisted picture of a self-depreciating tortured soul. Sometimes I wonder if our family is cursed. All the men are dying. Maybe I could offer myself and break the curse.
I called a suicide hotline. I cried into the phone, telling the stranger on the line that I didn’t want to do it but I was afraid that I would.
One week later...
What does it mean to have nothing to live for? Is being famous for making people laugh a good enough reason to live? Robin Williams was one of the world’s most loved performers. When the news broke the other day that this lovable comedian committed suicide, the world went into in shock. The reactions on social media varied from sorrow to anger. One of the most common questions asked was, “How could such a funny man who was so wildly successful be so sad?”
Robin Williams is firmly fixed in my memories as an iconic part of my childhood. I grew up watching his movies and being inspired by the varied roles he took on. I was always comforted by his thin close-mouthed smile and the way his nose turned downwards, it reminded me of my dad. The reminder was so close that since my dad died, I have been unable to bring myself to watch one of my all-time favorite movies, What Dreams May Come.
What Dreams May Come explores the fear and beauty in both life and death. The intersectionalities between different people’s personal realities. Even in death, every individual paints their own truth. Robin Williams’s character must travel from heaven to hell to save his wife who is trapped in a dark suicide version of death. Or as Cuba Gooding Jr’s character puts it, “The real hell is your life gone wrong.”
Robin Williams said it best in that movie, What Dreams May Come, “It’s not about not understanding. It’s about not giving up.”
In an emergency call 911
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29 December 2017
By Kristance Harlow
Journal Journeys is not published in real time, unless otherwise noted. The purpose is to open a dialogue on topics too few are willing to talk about: mental illness, addiction, domestic violence. If we fear we cannot speak about it, then the shame will keep us from seeking help when we need it most. It can get better.