you were waiting in my sullen dream- my reality.

TW: suicide

This was my suicide note I wrote in 2014.

I don’t know why it entered my mind tonight.

I don’t know why I’m sharing it. But I was standing in the kitchen, eating a snack and I froze and that night washed over me.

Nobody knew. I never told anyone until much later, and even then, I only told a few people. I don’t think there was much of a reaction. I don’t know anything anymore. There’s too many holes in my memory. I’d give anything to see those parts of my life so I could know just why they’ve been removed from my brain. Even if it hurts seeing them. One last time to view them is all I need. I don’t think anyone really remembers this incident. I don’t think anyone knows what truly drove me to this point.

It was him. It was always him. He ruined me. I wanted to die so badly because I felt like there was no escape.

But then the other part of me wonders if I deserved every ounce of pain I felt. Maybe it was my fault after all. My lack of communication angered him. I wanted to speak up, and when I did, he didn’t like it. It angered him. He broke a door once, knocking me down with it as I tried to hide in our bedroom. There were marks on my arms from him grabbing me and forcing me to listen to him scream in my face. He was so angry. Why did I cause that? Why was I so stupid to speak out of line. Maybe if I was better, it wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if I wasn’t unstable or depressed… maybe everything would’ve been normal and he would’ve loved me and never called me useless.

All I wanted was love. I wanted warmth. I craved a home in someone else’s arms, a safe place inside their heart. But in the end, I was thrown into a cold cellar with hardly a drop of water to survive. Sure, he’d throw me a few crumbs here and there, and I lived for those. Then he would turn away and lock the cellar and leave me there in the silence of my mind. I existed, I was there, but I wasn’t really there. I would lie down and stare at the ceiling, wishing to be anywhere else. He saw straight through me, I was nothing. He would remind me of that when he was angry.

But then the darkness would lift, and he would apologize and promise it would never happen again. Deep down I knew it would happen again, but I held out hope that maybe, just maybe this time, it truly was different. But not too long after, he’d shatter me again.

Here I am now, almost 5 years away from that life… and I’m still frozen in time. Not from just the 4 years I endured, but from moments before I ever knew he existed. The holes that litter the timeline that is my life. All the secrets I kept because I couldn’t speak. My words didn’t matter. My thoughts and opinions didn’t matter. Nobody asked. Why didn’t I feel loved? What did I do to make them not want to make me feel safe? Why do I feel this absence in my core? Have I imagined the whole thing? Why do I remember asking my mom I felt unloved at age 8? Why am I 31 and still regress into different ages from my life? I have so many questions about this existence of mine… and yet no answers are ever completely answered. I’m left to pick up the pieces and attempt to fill in those holes myself.

I still keep a lot of it to myself. I have found safety and solace in a couple people who I can trust. But even then… I still feel like my thoughts, opinions, feelings, words… I feel like they take up too much space, too much energy, they consume too many spoons. I feel the impending doom wash over me, reminding me I’m a burden and to not waste their time and their own precious energy on me.

My story doesn’t matter. My life has little value. I exist but I don’t know why. I breathe and I bleed, but why. I am suffocated by these emotions. I am eternally drowning in the darkness that has resided inside me for my whole life. I am the moon, I push and pull these waves and there’s no stopping it. In this moment, I am unable to feel anything other than pain. I long to sleep and forget about this. I’m hoping writing it out will help drain it out of me, even for a little while, until it revisits me again.

I sound pathetic, and I sound dark and dreary. This feeling won’t stop spilling out of me. I have so much to say, and yet my mind is draining my inspiration. I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t want this. It’s too much. I try to remind myself that I’m not alone… but what if I really am?

The home inside myself is rickety. The foundation is cracked and loose. The wallpaper is peeling. The roof is exposed and rain trickles in. I’m able to patch things up, but they end up falling apart again. I try to upkeep it. I try to lay down pretty rugs to hide the cracking foundation. I hang pictures on the wall to prevent the wallpaper from peeling. I hammer on new roof tiles that will inevitably fall off, over and over. I sit alone inside there, longing for a better home. A warm home where I’m not alone so much. A home with a fireplace and windows that aren’t broken. A roof over my head that doesn’t let in the rain. I want to look at the walls and not see tear and blood stains that refuse to be hidden.

But if I find that home, will the homeowner even allow me inside? What if they see my home in shambles across the street, and then look at me and turn me away because I may ruin their home? What if they tell me to go back home and to make the repairs because one day I’ll finally learn to perfect the art of renovation? What if I tell them I’ve been doing the best I can, but I can’t always do it alone? What if they don’t care. What if I frighten them.

What if, again, I’m too much?

I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. My mind went to that night and spiraled. I wish I could appear before that 24 year old Amy and grab all those pill bottles and run away with them. I wish I could’ve saved her from years of misery. Because now that Amy still lives in me and is still wishing to die and keeps reliving it, over and over. She keeps reminding me of how he left that day and didn’t come back until later, then went to bed even thought I was unconscious. She keeps telling me that he didn’t care enough if I lived or died. And I’m fighting her because she thinks nobody will love me enough to care if I live or die. If I died, nobody would know until it was too late.

I don’t want to die right now… but god, I just wish the pain would subside. I wish these repairs in my little house would stay put. I wish the electricity did’t flicker so much. I wish the draft in the windows would go away.

It’s dark and cold in here.

But I’m still breathing, despite it all.

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These are the musings of a 32 y/o dreamer, wisher and doer. All my posts are authentic; I write what's in my heart.

One thought on “you were waiting in my sullen dream- my reality.

  1. You are never alone, that is a fallacy. You are strong, you’re a survivor, and you never deserved that kind of treatment. Thank you for being here. You light so many candles by being here. Your story matters. It took a lot of guts to share that note, and I don’t think I’d have them.


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