Abby has been sick for awhile but she seems to be feeling better. She sits on the couch downing an apple juice. The other three are sucked into a video game. My husband, Mike, roughs up our cat who simply rubs up against his leg – asking for more. A calm, gdentle rain comes down. Mike opens the windows and lets the sweet breeze blow through our house. It’s a perfect day.
Even as a breathe in that sweet air, my heart is heavy. I am experiencing a relapse from cutting. When it first started, I didn’t have any idea what it was called or that it was an addiction. I just knew that I was hurting in a big way. A big way.
I knew I had anxiety and depression. I had just been to my initial appointment with my psychiatrist but the antidepressants definately didn’t have time to start working and the anxiety medicine dose was too low at that point. And, my diagnosis’ had not really been solidified and treated. I was also hiding that I was suicidal. In short, I was extremely vulnerable.
And then my Dad went into the hospital. The doctors told us he would not survive the bacterial infection. He did, though. But his body was covered with sores, he couldn’t move on his own, and struggled to talk with a feeding tube down his throat. Even if he had lived, life itself would have been difficult.
As he struggled to recover, his sores got infected and he developed sepsis. I loved my Dad so much. I held onto every ounce of hope that he would get better.
Unfortunately, he didn’t get better. His organs began shutting down. My emotions were skewed and magnified. I could hardly accept the reality that he wouldn’t survive this time.
Just before he died, I hugged him and told him that I loved him. I know he didn’t hear me because he was sleeping on the morphine, but for me, I loved him and needed the closure.
After he left us, all my emotions came spilling out in a big way. All I could think is What is Wrong with Me? Suicide was at the front of my mind.
I began to act out my suicidal plan. It wasn’t just a thought swirling around in my dangerous pain. I decided that I would slit my wrist.With each cut, I came closer and closer to meeting my Father (and father) in heaven.
I wasn’t afraid to die.
It took a couple of years to move from “I want to die and here’s how I’m going to do it” to “I wish I were dead.” Big difference.
However, even with moving in the right direction, trying to kill myself via cutting my wrist had left me with a new problem – cutting.