Reviews

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Suicide is the answer

Throughout my life, I have endured many trials. Unfortunately, I have found few healthy and effective methods to deal with these traumatic

experiences. Until recently, my primary coping techniques included drugs and self-mutilation, as well as abusive and codependent

relationships. It took several intentional and unintentional near- death experiences, as well as a few psychological suicide attempts

before I could abandon my useless self-sabotaging tendencies.

At the age of eleven, I was molested by my middle school band teacher. After telling, I learned that my older sister had also been

victimized by the same teacher, while she was a student. We were then dragged through a three-year series of criminal and civil court

proceedings. Though, as minors, the newspapers would not release my name or my sister's, my mother was fair game. As the teacher was a

favorite amongst the students, every child at school wanted to know why we "lied." I hated myself, as I felt that I had caused the

teacher to lose his job and life. I hated myself for being a slut. I hated myself, most of all, because every time I thought of myself, I

thought of him… and what he had done to me. I withdrew from my peers, rarely talked to my family, and began to find self-destructive methods

to relieve the constant anguish I felt.

After feeling such extraordinary grief for an extended period of time, I began to feel nothing. I was withdrawn and disconnected from

everything around me. I found it to be worse than the pain. As agony was much more attainable than happiness, I delighted in my pain. The

first manifestation of my self-destructive behavior was self-mutilation. I cut and pierced myself, using razor blades, safety

pins, wire, and pretty much anything nearby that was sharp, if I felt the urge to feel something. It was something I could control. Still,

I was miserable. I didn't know what could make me happy, but I did know what could end my depression; I made several serious suicide

attempts, during my middle and high school years.

Shortly before turning eighteen, I found a group of people just as miserable as me. The "park rats" had found the perfect way to deal

with self-loathing: sex, drugs, fighting, and punk music. After getting kicked out of my parents' home for experimenting with pot, I

joined the "park rats" in their eternal quest for nonexistence. I began drinking heavily, just to attain that most blessed of all

states: sleep. If I was depressed, there was always a blunt or a bowl going around the park table. If I was angry at myself or something

else, I could fight (usually friendly, consensual fights). We sold weed, mushrooms, L.S.D., and stolen liquor to support our habits,

working only when absolutely necessary. Our goals were self-oblivion and survival (although, our actions were directly contrary to our goal

of survival). Still, I was miserable.

My true goal was "accidental" suicide (as I was too cowardly to actively pursue my death). I turned to harder drugs, in order to

better achieve what I sought after, and began shooting coke, meth, and opiates. My shooting mentor warned (as he shot me up, for the first

time): "You will never come back from this. This beast will kill you."

Even as I sought death, I had an insane idea that if I didn't die, addiction could somehow save me. Now that I'm clean, I actually

believe that it did. Shooting drugs brought me to my knees, slapped me in the face, and revealed death to me. After almost dying several

times, due to overdoses and meth-psychosis, I discovered that I really didn't want to die! Death didn't seem so appealing, after I had

overdosed, broken my back in three places, and spent two days completely delusional, while going through post-acute withdrawal

symptoms.

Still, I didn't simply wake up and decide to get turn my life around and clean. I was, after all, addicted to drugs. I just didn't

want to die, anymore. I was still in a very codependent and abusive relationship with another addict. Though, to this day, I love him, he

was toxic to any attempt I made at recovery. It took another six months and many failed attempts at, before I was successfully able to get

clean. I had to leave my boyfriend of over two years, all of my friends, and spend a month in rehab, before I could begin to make

healthy choices.

It may be crazy to think that drugs did anything good for me. I don't think I could have got beyond my self-destructive tendencies had I

not finally reached my "bottom," however. Knowing that I wanted to live gave me the will to strive to better myself. This was something

I had previously lacked. To begin living, I had to kill the part of me that wanted to die.