you are a prime example of a person with real strength and bravery, rather than use a gun in your mouth you thought of actual alternatives,
yes they probably actually required work, but now at least you're alive.
I wish that I could say this is true. I’m not particularly strong with anything but being stubborn, yet.
Seriously, the only thing that kept me from killing myself was the fact that I didn’t REALIZE that I could. It never occurred to me. I didn’t even
know we had knives in the kitchen—I can’t remember Mamma cooking during that time. I was 8 years old and not only was I going through the trauma of a
sexual assault, I was also being moved around a lot. I was in a new school each year—moved from Louisiana (where I had extended family around me
constantly) to Iowa, where both my parents worked to keep food on the table—so I was the oldest and on my own a lot—not for very long periods of
time—that didn’t happen until I was older. We had to move because of the market fell out of the oil field back in the mid 80’s. Other kids didn’t
like me; my friends often sold me out. (I also, to this day believe that I can be diagnosed as clinically depressed—depression is not being SAD all
the time. THEN, it showed.) When my cousin lived with us (7 years), after school, almost every day, lock myself in the bathroom. I would scream at
the top of my lungs, doubled over, tears streaming down my face, “Why God, why did you leave me? Let me die! Oh GOD, just let me die! You let my
sister out of this; why did you leave me?” This is now called the survivors syndrome.
When I was 2 weeks off of being 2, just 2 days after my baby sister’s 1st birthday, there was a freak accident. My mom was at work and Dad had just
gotten us out of the tub. He forgot to unplug the stopper. He left the room to find a towel, and we both climbed back into the tub on our own. She
slipped and hit her head on the faucet. She slipped under the water and her last breaths were bathwater. My only memory of that time were playing
with dad’s canister of Vaseline (to clean off hands from car work-I think we were coated in it) with someone smaller than me—barely able to reach the
sink. I never cried out, I believe, because she had enough time to drown before my dad got back. My psychology teachers say that I should have
gotten psychiatric help back when I was 2, before all these crazy side-effects had time to develop, but I was the first child of a man who thinks
psycs. are quacks—that and he doesn’t understand how much I was screwed up—I wouldn’t let them see me crying. He didn’t really approve of me crying
when he pissed me off in the middle of roughhousing—so I eventually learned to never cry. I didn’t cry when the man I loved slept with my best
friend—at least not until he made me sit down and forced me to cry. (This was some time back and is a crazy story in it’s own rite—but the full extent
is totally unrelated.)
I grew out of that particular bout of depression at about the age of 10, and not long after, my dad told me it was a sin to commit suicide—based on
scriptures. So now it’s kind of ingrained that it is wrong, though sometimes I wised that I had remembered we have knives self-depreciating laugh
inserted here. I won’t ever take my life.
Now, as for my dad: a couple of years ago, I found out that my dad was almost thankful that I had been the one to survive. You see, he’s a father—so
he didn’t have those nine months of pregnancy to get attached like my mother did, and Lorelei was just a baby and didn’t have enough personality to
make her any more than an infant. I was talking as if I was an adult less than a year from that point. I was saying full sentences at 2. I had
quite a colorful personality. I was real; I had form. You more expect babies to die—SIDS—not a little adult. If I had been the one that died, my
dad may never have recovered. He, the whole man that he is, said he didn’t think he would have recovered. Don’t get me wrong; it tears him apart to
this day, but it wasn’t his firstborn. So the way my sick mind looks at it, I went through those years of absolute torture, wishing wistfully even
now that I didn’t have to go through it, just so my dad wouldn’t go through it. I am NOT whole. I am NOT taking anyone with me. I’m stuck here,
trying to convince myself that life, in and of itself is beautiful—which is true; it’s life. As far as syntax goes, life is love is God is
everlasting—hey go look @ scriptures for this one.
My father is a strong man—I can’t ever remember meeting someone more independent, capable of fending for himself, but he had a breaking point. It’s
me; it’s his other grown boys.
Everyone has a breaking point for many things—even suicide. I was lucky; I lived through mine. It gets easier each year, but I’m still coping. The
only thing that stops it is that I don’t see another direction; I have no options. I have to live. As I said earlier, I’m too damn stubborn.
Now, as far as needing this world goes: My life, now, is pretty damn good. I’m 22. I enjoy men—though I can’t think of one of them that I could
stand to BE with for the rest of my life. (I don’t want to give my life over to anyone!) I don’t stay here for me; I stay here for those who think
they need me.
I have never thought this much about this.