Last night I went off into another deep depression. I was fed up of the struggle and the cycle of my constant aches in my head so i decided to attempt to end it. For about a minute, while I was gathering my things my heart started to pound. My adreneline kicked in as my mind came to realize what my body was doing almost mechanically. I searched frantically for something to stick into the exhaust pipe outside of my car that would reach into the window. I found the perfect thing, the detachable tube to a vacumm cleaner. I went to test it in the pipe before I left and it fit absolutely perfectly. I was actually shocked that it fit so snuggley into the pipe, and it felt as if the universe wanted me to kill myself because of this perfect fit. This is when my heart started to pound as the wave of realization of what I was about to do started appearing in my brain. Raymond was so clueless and wanted to be, i assume he was fed up with my behavior and just wanted to sleep to escape me. I didn't want him to be in my way, in fact i wanted him to ignore me so I wouldn't burn him out with my constant drama.
A part of me knew that I wouldn't be able to go through with it, once the realization of what i was doing reached my rational brain. It was like I was on auto-pilot and the information signals about an oncoming attack against myself wasn't being reached to the command center. I knew I could just flow with it, just let time decide, and later i could always change my mind. I was too lazy, too worried that this drive to finally end this pain would leave me so i wrote short suicide letters to Cory and Raymond. I think the DMX was helping me dissociate myself and disconnect from my body and brain in a way, which allowed me to type them with almost no tears. The guilt of act I was attempting to commit was hindered by the cut off of connections to my emotional self. Drugs were aiding me in being unemotional at this time, helping me. Later that same drug would be part of my downfall and lead to the failure of my attempt.
I don't think anyone really wants to die, we just want the horrible pain to end. And boy was I in pain. Not so much of crushing depression, but of deep powerlessness and hopelessness of the constant cycle of misery and anger I felt. Of deep and personal hurt that the smallest joke on television inflicted on me. Of the vision of that air brushed model on Ray's phone that I could never look like. It's as if they make me become a hideous fat creature that no man wants but only tolerates because real beautiful women are out of their grasp and so rare. Thoughts of the many Republicans and religious folks that fought to silence me and being against help and aiding people like me. All of it felt like the world hated me, or at the least didn't give a fuck about me personally. Borderline Personality Disorder fits me like a glove, but it smothers me, I can't breathe with this condition, there is no room for error. And the removal of it takes time and tedious work from an expert surgeon skilled in his trade and dedicated to the art of his work. I don't know if i have the energy or strenth to take on such a ordeal.
Everyone says it's like walking on eggshells with us. I don't blame them for wanting to leave, even though they don't and i keep pushing them away they won't leave. But i live in constant terror that they will someday. The fear is unbearable. For me it's like walking on glass, every single step, every second of the day is filled with pain. Many words spoken have a sharp edge, images, voices, piece my skinless body and tear apart the membrane of my psyche. Every cut stimulates an army of defenses which react and attack to the invading army of words or gestures they find to be threatening. They are like shell shocked soliders, they are vigilant and quick to draw the sword.
I go in Raymond's room, kiss him and tell him how much i love him and how he is not guilty for anything, and that he better not ever feel guilty because he is not. He says that I know he will feel guilty. I disregard this into the back of my mind. We kiss each other and i say goodbye.
As i get in my car i am detached, I am waiting for that adrenaline rush to come again, to aid me in my act and to give me the drive and motivation I need to go through with it. I drive around aimlessly, tyring to think of a place that would be far enough away from the ones i love so they dont' have to see the place where I died on route to wherever. But my car growls and makes sounds of exhaustion to loud to ignore. The last thing I'd want is to be stuck on the road with a flat tire or broken down car at 4:00 in the morning while being out of it and slightly intoxicated on cough medicine. The roads were empty and i imagined being pulled over by a cop and being taken away to the hospital or jail, saving me from carrying out this act yet making everyone see that I really am hurting. I don't want to hurt everyone, but i don't want them to think I'm not in real pain, I don't want them to think that everything is fine and that I'm just a grumpy unsatisfied customer who is bitching over a minor flaw in a product or service.
I'm sober enough to drive and think clearly, but their is this disconnect. I drive to Corporates commons and see trees. I see the air base nearby and think of being seen and caught by someone, although i might want this inside the embarrassment and guarentee in my failure of my attempt stop me from parking near it. How could I defend being in enough pain that I wanted to seriously die if I parked somewhere where I could be found and resued eaisly?
I found a good spot near a parking lot and parked. I turned off the car to avoid being seen. While I was setting up the tube I was thinking about what would happen when I was found. I imagined the newspaper saying, woman found dead in car outside of building. But I thought nothing of my family and Raymond and Cory. My mind was on auto-pilot. After setting up i thought of what i wanted near me if I managed to sit there long enough to let the exhaust kill me. I saw books in my bag, atheist books, Jehovah's Witness story books, psychology books. I picked out How the Mind Works by Steven Pinker so those that found me would know that my mind did not work properly, and that I was aware of that. So that they would know nI didn't kill myself out of ignorance but out of sheer exhaustion and frustration.
I turned on the car after moving over to the passanger side. I didn't want to fail and end up getting arrested for a DUI or something stupid like that. As i sat there, a cheery Michael Jackson song was playing, I wanted it that way, I shouldn't need some depression Fiona Apple playing to aid me, I should have the desire strong enough to do it even when the music was upbeat. I thought of Michael Jackson and how different yet simaliar our lives were. He too was a person in great pain and had a lack of identity from what it seemed. We both were raised as Jehovah's Witnesses and had abusive fathers. We both were talented beautiful yet troubled and strange people, trying to find our place in this world. Feeling alone and yet so part of the world. He felt great empathy for suffering and people, so do I.
I sat there for a while and the smell of dust saturated the car. Then as seconds went by what I was actually doing began to unfold in front of me. The fact that I knew from the beginning that I wouldn't be able to go through with it pissed me off. I turned off the car while cursing my pathetic act of desparation and fortold failure. I didn't want to go home or back to Ray's.
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