This was an eighteen minute voice recording I made on my phone. The thoughts are meandering. I wrote verbatim.
I was never meant to be. Had I known this in the womb, would I have miscarried myself? Would I have aborted myself? Would I simply have wished that I cease existing? No one would know any better. No one would care. There would be no me. There would no body, no child, to mourn. No mother – me. No children of mine. To be screwed-up by my disappearance. But I lived. Me. Fetus. Grew – until forty weeks. And my mother gave birth to me. And here I am. Forty-two years later. Still alive. And why is that? If that fetus had died, upon birth, upon implantation as an embryo, a ball of cells. But that organism and adult me are two different things. I would not wish a miscarriage on my mother. I would not wish to give her that pain. I would continue my life in pain. On this Earth.
I am not suicidal. That is too big a jump to make. I do not wish to be dead. I wish to cease existing. Except for my children. And my mother. And those few others who do care.
I was never like the rest. I am not a psychopath. I am not mean, cruel. But I am not like the others. And I don’t say that in a “look at me” kind of way, although I am an attention seeker. I’ve never figured out why. I just look at people and I don’t understand why I think the way I do. Or I guess I don’t understand why they think the way they do. I have no sense of morals. That’s not right. I don’t know what the word is I’m looking for. I don’t feel shame or embarrassment when I speak about certain things. It just is. A fact is a fact. If I want to fuck somebody, I will fuck somebody. It doesn’t matter to anyone else. It shouldn’t matter to anyone else. Except my children of course.
This is strange this new feeling. Yet it’s not a new feeling. It’s just a different ratio of ingredients this time. Things are different, yet things are the same. There is some suicidality there. There is no wish – no plan. But there is that sense again of the fact I shouldn’t be here. One of my last hospitalizations – perhaps my last – 2018. I think it was March. St. Patrick’s Day. And the psych nurse came in. Nurse Practitioner. Tony. He was in charge of making sure there was nothing dangerous in my room. And I had a good few days. They were making sure my overdose was gone out of my system. And it was. And he asked me another day – just before I was released – it was obvious I was down – I had stared out the window most of that day – crying. But I wasn’t as sad as the tears would have you imagine. Would have had him imagine. I just knew I shouldn’t be there. Anywhere.
And he asked me,
“What’s wrong? What’s going on in your head right now?”
And I looked at him, and I said,
“I’m going to be dead within the next six months.”
And he asked me why I felt like that. I said it’s not a feeling. Feeling implies some emotion. Worry about dying. Wanting to die. This was just, I thought reality. I am going to die. It will be within six months. There’s no other life-path for me. It will end soon. And then everyone can get on with their lives. And it will be over for me. But like I said, it wasn’t a will. I wasn’t choosing to leave my children. I wasn’t choosing to take away the gift of life, or whatever you want to call it. It just was. And I wasn’t crying because I didn’t accept it. I accepted it. I said – I’m going to be dead, and it will probably be at my own hand, but it’s not my choice right now. It was a strange feeling. I had it a few other times – mostly around the same time period or year before.
Today, I feel somewhat like that. Except I don’t think I will die. But the ‘somewhat feeling’ is there, even though I said it wasn’t a feeling. It’s a strange, strange feeling. A strange, strange life to go through like this. I don’t know. I would have thought a few days ago that I would never contemplate suicide again. No. That’s not true. That I would never contemplate it in any form that would be a danger. That I would be in danger of doing it. Of course, I have suicidal pangs, like any other depressed person. But – I also have a connection to my children, that I hadn’t two or three years ago. And I think, that connection right now – I feel the connection is strong enough – to live for them – but I don’t know for sure that that’s going to stay there. When I am suicidal, it’s not that I decide to be suicidal despite them. It’s that my brain tells me that – oh no, but yeah, here’s the actual evidence. The actual evidence says that they would be better off without you. And when I’m in that frame of mind – the frame of mind that tells me it’s the best thing to do for everybody. That is what my logic tells me. There is no “I want to die. Screw them all.”
I can’t talk about other people’s suicides, or suicidality – maybe some of them are selfish. I don’t know. But for me, it’s not a matter of choosing to end my misery, over their being miserable. Destroyed. Like I said – now I know my suicide would devastate them. And that’s enough. But when I’m in it, will it be enough?
I don’t need to go to the hospital. I don’t need to go to the hospital because it’s not an imminent thing. It may become imminent. But there is no point in having me in the hospital when I am not suicidal. There’s nothing to learn. I need to watch this very carefully. I need very regular appointments with Dr. D. (psychiatrist) and I need to see M. (therapist) every week, and keep an eye on this shit.
I shouldn’t be here. I know that. I know I shouldn’t be here. But I should be for my children.
I was born with broken wrists. This started way back when… I was born with broken wrists. I think they figured about a month before I was born. Because my mom took me to the emergency department when I was a couple of weeks old. And there was mention of suspected child abuse. They thought a newborn baby had broken wrists so obviously someone did it. When they took x-rays they realized the bones looks like they had been broken six weeks earlier – certainly before my birth. They official listed the breaks as occurring in utero.
That was the start I suppose. I should have known. I should have known. Except what is a brand new, helpless baby, supposed to know. It’s not like I could have done anything. Choked in my crib on purpose. It’s not realistic at all.
I have not got a terrible life. I’m not a Syrian refugee. I’m not a victim of child abuse. I do not have a violent husband. Or ex-husband. I have three kids. One who is special needs. But overall, I’m lucky. Yes – my family are thousands of miles away. That was my choice. Yes – I’m alone. Yes – I have depression and anxiety. But so many have it worse. But that’s not enough. If I’m anxious and my breath is catching in my chest, and my depression is either pulling me down making me… It doesn’t make me cry, it makes my eyes flood with tears, but nothing falls. It’s like it’s behind my eyes. Maybe behind my cornea. I don’t know. Because it doesn’t fall.
I’ve said this before. When we compare our lives to other people’s lives, it is somewhat meaningless. Sometimes it can help to an extent, but mostly it doesn’t. I’ve heard so many people compare Anne Frank’s time – I’m pretty sure it was over a year – hiding in the attic – in a tiny space for a long time – while people are complaining about having to stay in for the pandemic – COVID-19. And yes of course, it seems fickle that we would every complain about that. But just because it isn’t horrendous, doesn’t mean it is not having a negative effect on you. If we took that approach, then the one worst person – the person in this world who has the worst life – would be the only person that gets to complain. That doesn’t make sense. So one child was brutally murdered and raped. Another child had the exact same experience, except it lasted a minute longer. Is that first child not allowed to complain? And I know that’s an extreme example, but it goes back to comparing yourself. Just because your best friend has a child that’s in a wheelchair, and yours only has a painful limp but can walk – you can both be upset. Both are still hard.
I don’t know what I think. I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything. I do feel like I’m messed up, but I don’t know what to have done better. It’s strange. Like I know I’m intelligent. Or I was anyway. I don’t know if that goes. Does that go? But I know I’m intelligent. Yet – I can’t seem to do my job. But then I was lazy. Is lazy the word? Or am I someone who has great trouble concentrating, and that’s the problem? Nature-nurture. Is it my fault I’m lazy? Do I just need to have more ‘get up and go’? Or does person xyz have more ‘get up and go’ because they make themselves? We only have ourselves. We don’t know what other people think and feel. We don’t know… if I watch someone get up at 8 am, and I get up at 10 am, no matter how they describe it to me, it’s not going to make sense to me. I’m not in their head. If they say – I just make myself get up – maybe that is all I have to do. Or maybe that takes me 500 times more of energy to get up. Or whatever. Nobody knows. So yeah. Laziness is laziness. But I think there’s something different behind it. So someone who is an expert soccer player – right? And they do 100 kick-ups or whatever they’re called. They do that every day. And there’s some poor fucker who’s just shite at it. He practices as much as the good one, he just doesn’t have the coordination for it. Is he a lazy bastard for not trying more? Or does he say “no. that bothers me. I’m not doing it.” Once again, a stupid example, but I do wonder about people’s personalities. Nature- nurture. I suppose lots of people do.
I don’t know where this is going. I kind of wish I could cry. You know what I want actually? I do wish I was in hospital, so that I could just cry. And it be okay to cry because I’m depressed. Instead of on my own, in my house, July 4th, not doing anything. I don’t know. It’s kind of crazy. But if I was in hospital, I would want to be in my own bed, or at least a more comfortable bed, with a comforter and everything, without a fucking gown on. Being able to breathe. Not being interrupted at 5 am for a blood draw. All that good stuff. But… that’s not the way it is. I yearn to be able to look out the window and see the buildings downtown. Not because they’re harsh exactly. Some of them are beautiful. But they are made of concrete or steel, windows. My window here – it really doesn’t look out at anything. Except the side of a house. And I need to close it because there are people in the house. It’s not the same. My room is a mess.
It should be different. I should have been different. I was never attractive. I wasn’t ugly. But my body’s always been a weird shape. Fat thighs. Bent leg. Not as cute as my friends. I don’t wear makeup. I wear boys’ clothes. …… [sigh]…… fucked up hair. Yet here I am. Still. Sitting here. Knowing that I’ll never… fall in love and have that person love me back. I’m forty-two and it’s never happened. I’ve three kids, but it’s never happened. And it never will happen. I might fall in love with someone – it’s my duty to run away from them. Because no good can come from me. I would be taking… their potential for a future with someone else. And that’s not mine to take. Nothing is mine to take. I want him – he who I have not met yet – who I may never meet – I want him to meet someone and go for a walk along the lake. Maybe jog together. Cycle together. Go on various adventures. Hawaii. Rock-climbing. Anything. Everything that I can’t do. … [sigh] … Go somewhere without thinking. Just leave. Who am I to take that from him? It’s something you have to say early on. But then if he’s fallen for me at all anyway, then I’m in the wrong. I’ve done something wrong.
Suppose I’ll leave it there for now. Eighteen minutes. I’m sure there’ll be a ton more to talk about later. The End.
Running Half Empty 