I called C in the middle of the night last night. (I think it was last night; I’m not doing well keeping track of time.) It was that or kill myself. I had the letter all written out, down to the phone numbers of who they should contact once I was dead. I had the pills.
Talking to her didn’t make me feel better. I wanted it to, desperately. Her heart is pure gold, but she said a lot of stupid things you shouldn’t say to someone who’s profoundly suicidal. I don’t remember all of it, but guilt came into it. She said she’d been suicidal before and how would I feel if she’d done it? I said I wouldn’t know her if she had, and you don’t miss someone you never knew. Someone else would’ve filled her role. Harsh but true. I told her I’ve had friends commit suicide, and it sucked–but no more than when I lost a friend in a car accident. With suicide, at least it was their choice. At least I could believe that they’re no longer hurting.
She took issue with that, too. Religious issue. Nothing specific or dogmatic, more just that “Well, how do you know it wouldn’t lead to more suffering after death?” I told her I don’t believe that because there’s no rational proof of existence beyond death. And if there is a god, I cannot believe that he would punish us for taking the only way out we had left. She tried the “You can’t prove there’s not life beyond death” argument, and I tried to tell her that’s not where the burden of proof lies. She didn’t listen. I stopped arguing because it was making me too angry and I wasn’t with it enough to argue coherently.
I still want to die. I still feel like I have to. Like there’s no other way. Like things are only going to get worse and there’s no one who can help me.
C wanted me to go see A today, but we’re having a snowstorm with another foot of snow. Even if it weren’t for that, I don’t have the physical or emotional energy to get there. I did talk to her on the phone. I don’t really remember any of the conversation, but I do remember at least she didn’t say anything stupid that pissed me off. We talked twice. I remember her voice but not any of the words.
She and C both mentioned me going back to Sheppard Pratt. Asked me if I thought I should. I don’t know. I probably should, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to have to deal with any of this shit. I don’t want to do the work. I want somebody to just fix me because everything else hurts too much. At this point, even uncurling my body from the tense ball it wants to be in feels excruciatingly painful. If I can’t even tolerate the physical act of opening up, how could I survive the emotional act?
I want somebody to save me. I don’t have the strength to do it for myself. So where does that leave me?