willitpass
Don’t try to offer me help, I’ve tried everything
- Mar 10, 2020
- 2,612
As I've neared my date to hopefully CTB once and for all, I've been going through old journals and papers lately. I stumbled across a couple of pieces of paper I must have written soon after getting out of the hospital after nearly succeeding in partial at the age of 13. I recounted the entire process of the day. Here is what I wrote (I've cut out unnecessary info/identifying info, the rest will be verbatim):
"What it feels like to be dying, during a suicide attempt at least, is so complicated. I had spent years being suicidal. I had this plan for nearly a year and had already chickened out once. I'd been actively suicidal for a week at that point, and ready to go through with it for a few days. It wasn't like I was scared to die, like a lot of people are under different circumstances. I did think about what might happen when I died, and the uncertainty did somewhat tantalize me. But I had decided what ever happens in death happens, it is not worth the pain of life.
The actual start of death, metaphorically, started before I had even gone outside. That day I got ready for school, already aware that this might be my last time. Every conversation I had with my friends, there was a soundtrack in the back of my mind questioning if I really need to do this. I mean, this isn't so bad. …(redacted for privacy)… I had put myself in a place where I was able to tell myself "maybe not today"
But as any depressed person knows, all falls down when you're alone at night. I went through the motions, ate good, knowing it was possibly my last meal, watched videos, and tried to talk myself out of it, but I knew it wasn't gonna happen. I could feel it. My mind was ready to let go. I went around trying to find some sort of sign to stay. But nothing was there.
I snuck out of the house, pretending to let the dog out, and sat on the mudroom floor for an hour, in silence, at 9pm in the middle of winter. "If someone finds me out here, that means I shouldn't do it". No one found me.
10pm, my mom had fallen asleep, so I ever so silently went out to the garage and put the noose I had tied earlier around my neck. I was ready. I was not shaking or scared like I had been the last time. I felt happiness, peacefulness. "If this doesn't work, then it wasn't meant to be". And then I went limp. I was out within seconds, but I remember a small smile once I realized it was working.
Then I woke up. I was in the middle of standing up and I let out a barking gasp. My body had went into survival mode. I knew this might happen from what I had read. I didn't give up though. I went back out.
I woke up several times, coughing and gasping, one I woke up to a door on its side. The mental desire to die was still there, my body was still fighting. I also knew the risks of a survived hanging, and everytime I would wake up, I would go over my full name, address, birthday, and my dad's phone number. If I forgot those, I would not let myself live, though I did start to get slower at it, I never forgot. I ended up with a double bloody nose. The time I was trying to go back to sleep before the bloody nose, I could hear a bubble pop in one of my veins. At one point my face went so numb it felt like spiders were all over it.
Never once did my desire to die leave. It only started to dampen because of physical distress. My head was under immense pressure and the rope burns on my throat were killing me. I couldn't feel or move my legs and my heart was starting to get close to failing. I could feel it beating slowly and very hard. I could feel every pulse without doing anything.
I had to make a choice to fall asleep for what would most likely be the last time, or call someone. And I tried my hardest to just let go one last time. I was considering letting myself fall asleep, but I doubted it would work. So the choice changed to call 911 or call (redacted). At one point I considered going inside and covering up the rope marks, but I was too scared I'd done something to myself.
I never saw anything while asleep. It was just nothingness. Unconscious black. Maybe it wasn't true death, maybe that's just what happens."
Part of me feels such pain at reading all of that, knowing how young I was. Still a young child. The amount of determination to succeed was staggering. I still have it, but to think of being so young and so determined. Part of me feels pain at the attempts I made to find hope and reason before ultimately deciding to go through with it. That part of me was lost long ago. I no longer look for reasons to stay. I feel like I was more well spoken back then. I think I've lost my literary touch.
My journal entry from the day of:
"Tonight I am going to try to hang myself. I don't know if I will chicken out or fail it or whatever, but if I survive I will obviously write again. I hope I don't make it out alive. No one wants me here, all I do is fuck up. I hope I die tonight. I'm sure people will laugh when they find out. No one wants me here. All of the shit I've gotten myself into is irreparable. I can't take it anymore. I'm done with life. I already made the noose, once everyone is asleep I'm going out there and I'm going to put a rest to everything. To always fucking up, to putting other people in pain, to depression, to embarrassment, to my selfishness. I'm sure everyone will be glad.
I already know how it all works. …(describing steps to partial)… As long as I do it around midnight, no one will come in soon enough. It will be hours before they're up and by then I will be home. I will be free. I will be home.
I wrote a much shorter note this time. I doubt anyone cares. And I guess I've just not had as much to say anymore. I guess I realized that my words aren't as important as I used to think.
If I mess this up I guess I really suck at everything. Even death. I hope I'm good at at least one thing.
It's only 8. I need time to go by faster. Every hour, minute, second is so fucking painful. I can't stand being alive anymore, no one else can stand me either.
I can just imagine people finding out and just laughing or being so relieved to finally be done faking it with me. And people joking. (my best friend at the time) would probably lean over and tell (someone I don't remember) she was hoping it would happen. And (someone else) saying same. And (someone) and (someone) wouldn't care I bet. And (my teachers) would sigh in relief to not have to put up with my annoying presence.
I'm just so sick of being alive anymore.
I hope what meets me when I die is better than this. But I also know I don't deserve better. If hell is real I'm probably going there. I wish I knew where I was going but at this point I don't really care anymore.
I wonder if anyone will care enough to even bother letting people know. Maybe I'll just go missing and no one will even care.
13 is an okay time to die… Right? Not too old, but young enough to have experienced life."
The last paragraph always gets me. I was so fucking young. Unfortunately for me as time has gone on and I've experienced a bit of life (early 20s is still very young, so I don't even know if I could say that) I've realized experiencing life has always been robbed from me by my ever persisting mental illness.
I don't know if I truly believed that no one cared about me or that people would be glad to see me go, or if I was telling myself that to make it easier to let go. That's something that has not persisted through the years. I know I matter to people. I know people will be heart broken. I know even those who I've hardly interacted with or am mere acquaintances with will feel upset briefly. And while I don't handle my own mistakes well, I don't see myself as a complete fuck up. I'm able to acknowledge my strengths, they just aren't enough to want to keep me here. I had a bit of a laugh at "all of the shit I've gotten myself into is irreparable" as looking back I don't even know what shit I could have been talking about.
The feeling of not deserving peace or good things, however. That one I still feel far too strongly with.
"What it feels like to be dying, during a suicide attempt at least, is so complicated. I had spent years being suicidal. I had this plan for nearly a year and had already chickened out once. I'd been actively suicidal for a week at that point, and ready to go through with it for a few days. It wasn't like I was scared to die, like a lot of people are under different circumstances. I did think about what might happen when I died, and the uncertainty did somewhat tantalize me. But I had decided what ever happens in death happens, it is not worth the pain of life.
The actual start of death, metaphorically, started before I had even gone outside. That day I got ready for school, already aware that this might be my last time. Every conversation I had with my friends, there was a soundtrack in the back of my mind questioning if I really need to do this. I mean, this isn't so bad. …(redacted for privacy)… I had put myself in a place where I was able to tell myself "maybe not today"
But as any depressed person knows, all falls down when you're alone at night. I went through the motions, ate good, knowing it was possibly my last meal, watched videos, and tried to talk myself out of it, but I knew it wasn't gonna happen. I could feel it. My mind was ready to let go. I went around trying to find some sort of sign to stay. But nothing was there.
I snuck out of the house, pretending to let the dog out, and sat on the mudroom floor for an hour, in silence, at 9pm in the middle of winter. "If someone finds me out here, that means I shouldn't do it". No one found me.
10pm, my mom had fallen asleep, so I ever so silently went out to the garage and put the noose I had tied earlier around my neck. I was ready. I was not shaking or scared like I had been the last time. I felt happiness, peacefulness. "If this doesn't work, then it wasn't meant to be". And then I went limp. I was out within seconds, but I remember a small smile once I realized it was working.
Then I woke up. I was in the middle of standing up and I let out a barking gasp. My body had went into survival mode. I knew this might happen from what I had read. I didn't give up though. I went back out.
I woke up several times, coughing and gasping, one I woke up to a door on its side. The mental desire to die was still there, my body was still fighting. I also knew the risks of a survived hanging, and everytime I would wake up, I would go over my full name, address, birthday, and my dad's phone number. If I forgot those, I would not let myself live, though I did start to get slower at it, I never forgot. I ended up with a double bloody nose. The time I was trying to go back to sleep before the bloody nose, I could hear a bubble pop in one of my veins. At one point my face went so numb it felt like spiders were all over it.
Never once did my desire to die leave. It only started to dampen because of physical distress. My head was under immense pressure and the rope burns on my throat were killing me. I couldn't feel or move my legs and my heart was starting to get close to failing. I could feel it beating slowly and very hard. I could feel every pulse without doing anything.
I had to make a choice to fall asleep for what would most likely be the last time, or call someone. And I tried my hardest to just let go one last time. I was considering letting myself fall asleep, but I doubted it would work. So the choice changed to call 911 or call (redacted). At one point I considered going inside and covering up the rope marks, but I was too scared I'd done something to myself.
I never saw anything while asleep. It was just nothingness. Unconscious black. Maybe it wasn't true death, maybe that's just what happens."
Part of me feels such pain at reading all of that, knowing how young I was. Still a young child. The amount of determination to succeed was staggering. I still have it, but to think of being so young and so determined. Part of me feels pain at the attempts I made to find hope and reason before ultimately deciding to go through with it. That part of me was lost long ago. I no longer look for reasons to stay. I feel like I was more well spoken back then. I think I've lost my literary touch.
My journal entry from the day of:
"Tonight I am going to try to hang myself. I don't know if I will chicken out or fail it or whatever, but if I survive I will obviously write again. I hope I don't make it out alive. No one wants me here, all I do is fuck up. I hope I die tonight. I'm sure people will laugh when they find out. No one wants me here. All of the shit I've gotten myself into is irreparable. I can't take it anymore. I'm done with life. I already made the noose, once everyone is asleep I'm going out there and I'm going to put a rest to everything. To always fucking up, to putting other people in pain, to depression, to embarrassment, to my selfishness. I'm sure everyone will be glad.
I already know how it all works. …(describing steps to partial)… As long as I do it around midnight, no one will come in soon enough. It will be hours before they're up and by then I will be home. I will be free. I will be home.
I wrote a much shorter note this time. I doubt anyone cares. And I guess I've just not had as much to say anymore. I guess I realized that my words aren't as important as I used to think.
If I mess this up I guess I really suck at everything. Even death. I hope I'm good at at least one thing.
It's only 8. I need time to go by faster. Every hour, minute, second is so fucking painful. I can't stand being alive anymore, no one else can stand me either.
I can just imagine people finding out and just laughing or being so relieved to finally be done faking it with me. And people joking. (my best friend at the time) would probably lean over and tell (someone I don't remember) she was hoping it would happen. And (someone else) saying same. And (someone) and (someone) wouldn't care I bet. And (my teachers) would sigh in relief to not have to put up with my annoying presence.
I'm just so sick of being alive anymore.
I hope what meets me when I die is better than this. But I also know I don't deserve better. If hell is real I'm probably going there. I wish I knew where I was going but at this point I don't really care anymore.
I wonder if anyone will care enough to even bother letting people know. Maybe I'll just go missing and no one will even care.
13 is an okay time to die… Right? Not too old, but young enough to have experienced life."
The last paragraph always gets me. I was so fucking young. Unfortunately for me as time has gone on and I've experienced a bit of life (early 20s is still very young, so I don't even know if I could say that) I've realized experiencing life has always been robbed from me by my ever persisting mental illness.
I don't know if I truly believed that no one cared about me or that people would be glad to see me go, or if I was telling myself that to make it easier to let go. That's something that has not persisted through the years. I know I matter to people. I know people will be heart broken. I know even those who I've hardly interacted with or am mere acquaintances with will feel upset briefly. And while I don't handle my own mistakes well, I don't see myself as a complete fuck up. I'm able to acknowledge my strengths, they just aren't enough to want to keep me here. I had a bit of a laugh at "all of the shit I've gotten myself into is irreparable" as looking back I don't even know what shit I could have been talking about.
The feeling of not deserving peace or good things, however. That one I still feel far too strongly with.
Last edited:
