It has been around a year and a half since I’ve written something. To post, that is. I’ve written quite a few things over that span of time, yet I’ve shied away from posting my feelings or left them unfinished, collecting e-dust in my email. I wrote about love and hate and pain and all things in between. But I don’t have any desire to go back and finish them. I’ll just get frustrated all over again. But I will say this…
I think I’m destined to be alone and unhappy.
I’m not saying this for attention. I’m not saying this to be funny. I’m saying this because I honestly feel that way. It feels as if I’m cursed in life. the moment I feel a semblance of happiness, it gets taken away. My excitement is constantly replaced by disappointment.
In a way, I feel like I’m being “left out” of life. Does that make sense? Who knows.
Every relationship I’ve tried to had ends up dying faster than I want them to. And I can’t understand why. It’s not me ending things. I’m not trying to destroy them myself anymore. I’m trying to get somewhere. But the moment I get excited or feel happy about anything, it gets taken away by fate. If I talk about the person, it’s like I’m jinxing the whole thing. If I find myself talking about them a lot, SOMETHING happens and it all gets taken away. If I’m happy, life seems to find a way to change me back to being miserable. It’s fucking draining.
I just shouldn’t feel excitement. I shouldn’t be happy. Because it leads to heartache. And that all builds up until I crack. And I did.
About a month ago, I was extremely close to killing myself. Wow. Thinking about that and rereading it written on my laptop just brought back all those feelings. That’s actually kind of hard to admit in writing. I haven’t told anyone. So the first to know are a bunch of strangers who don’t even know me. Or nobody, depending on whether this is actually seen. I feel two ways about that… Sad that I feel I can’t confide in people actually around me. And glad that I can finally write that it happened.
I had (have?) been feeling so incredibly worthless. Like I wasn’t worth anything to anyone. That my parents would be better off not having to deal with their daughter living at home anymore. That they wouldn’t need to be searching for a place to live with me being a factor.
Well fuck… looks like I still feel that way.
I’ve felt many times that people wouldn’t care if I was gone. That’s pretty clear, since bailing on plans is something people constantly do to me. I feel slighted all the time. Yes, people have things that come up. But when it’s a regular thing, then you find yourself wondering if you’re just a piece of shit.
You’re not worth anything, Steffanie. You’re better off gone.
That little nagging voice in the back of my head got so fucking loud that day. It was deafening. After a fight with my parents about how fucking pathetic my financial situation was and how I couldn’t afford to renew my licence or my stickers for my car, to which I asked for those as my ‘birthday’ gift, that voice came in strong. I knew they wouldn’t talk to me the rest of the night. I knew they wouldn’t really check on me after a certain point. I knew that they wouldn’t find me until I was already gone. And in my brain, I glamourized the fuck out of that idea. I was happy that they wouldn’t be able to save me. But then I thought… if I did it closer to when I knew they’d check on me, that they would have time to potentially save me… or just be seconds too late. And I honestly debated which I wanted more. Overdosing was possible with all the medication I had. Anything with blood would be putting people out too much, which was what I was trying to get away from in the first place.
That first night, a Sunday, was really hard to get through. I think I just forced myself to sleep. Pushed everything back just so I could wait until the next day to maybe deal with it. And deal with it, I did not. I worked that Monday. I can’t even count how many times I went into the bathroom the cry. And then all the thoughts would come rushing back.
Steffanie, you’re worthless. It would be better if you were just gone. Work would probably appreciate it too.
So I thought about the medication I had in my purse. The needles on the walls of my work room. All the things I could use in that very bathroom I stood in, trying to get myself to stop crying, while making the tears worse in the process. I thought of how often people come into the bathroom. Not everyone was in yet. The office wasn’t full enough yet to have a lot of bathroom users through the day. I could do it and doubted anyone would notice or even find me, if I did it right. But somehow, the day ended with me not doing the scenarios I had running through my head. I made it home without crashing my car, another thing I had contemplated on the way to work and back home. That night I don’t even know what I did. But clearly I’m still here.
So… what was it that saved me? What helped me push back the thoughts I had of no longer being alive?
My niece and nephew. Kinda weird, coming from a person who doesn’t usually like kids.
Every time I needed to push away that dirty, nagging voice in my brain, I thought of them. I thought of my family. I thought of my sister having to tell her daughter why I wasn’t here anymore. Having to explain why her Auntie Steff was no longer in family photos. I thought of my brother telling his son that he actually had another aunt, but she’s gone now. I thought of my sisters unborn child… telling him why he never got to meet his aunt. Having my sister-in-law and brother tell their future children that the person no longer in family photos is gone because she’s dead.
That killed me. And it still does. How selfish I would be to put them in that position. Maybe someone WOULD care. Maybe putting that kind of thing on someone else’s shoulders was worse than my feelings of being a burden. Maybe it was a worse burden. I wouldn’t want someone else to have to explain how I felt to someone else. Because nobody knows. Because I don’t tell people what is going on in my head. Because I don’t want to put my problems and feelings on someone else’s shoulders more than I already have. I’d want to be the one to explain why Auntie Steffanie was no longer around. But I can’t do that unless I AM around. Kind of a dilemma, in a way.
So here I am. Thoughts pushed back. The nagging voice pushed back into a dark closet where I can’t hear him. For now. Of course there’s days when I can hear his whispers through the cracks. But I’m continuing on. I’m pushing through the days.
I need a fucking break.
I need a fucking miracle.