Tag Archives: suicide

Suicide: An Examination

(TW- pretty obvious I’d say. Don’t read if you can’t handle frank suicide talk.)

The past month I have tried to kill myself twice. Overdosing on pills and slicing my wrists open.

I failed twice.

Due to interventions by people who contacted EMS and police to force me to the hospital.

I’m sure those more optimistic sorts of people would say it’s that I was “rescued” or “saved” from that whole “permanent solution to a temporary problem”.

It isn’t feeling much temporary to me. It’s been over a year now. I am an utter shell of a person. Can’t get a job. Can barely keep my head together for longer than a couple days. Time ebbs and flows and dribbles and spurts.

The only constant is pain and despair.

I find little joy in anything. I’ve been through so many different anti-depressants and such that I can’t even remember all their names. None of them help. Many of them made things worse (fuck you Prozac). I am trying very hard to remain here due to promises I’ve made to family and friends who at times I feel are being selfish in their demands of me. But perhaps I am the selfish one. It’s hard to know.

What I want to do though is record all that happened. So this entry is obviously after all the ODs and psych ward and hospitalizations and pills-pills-pills. I write this while sitting in my own bed with Zoe nearby. But the next series of entries are copied from a composition journal I used to write both my “goodbye letters” to various people and my entries during the psych ward stay.

Eventually the idea is that I will not be in this suicidal mindset anymore and looking back on this entries might be informative to me. I suppose. I just need to get it out anyway. I’m sure it will not strike many people on here as that fascinating of a read and god knows none of you are required to read any of the following posts. They are mostly for me.

For me and the universe.

I would like to dissect and examine the mindset behind the desire for suicide.

Oct 6th

October 6th.

It’s coming.

10 days.

10 days seems like a flash.  I wish I could just gloss over it.  Don’t think about it.  Don’t acknowledge it.  Don’t remember it.

Unfortunately, it combines with my father’s birthday.  Isn’t that fantastic?

I remember he was in Las Vegas when it happened.  Of course, that afforded me the opportunity to stay at his house.

Away from people.
Away from Army; furious I hadn’t told him what hospital I was at.  Suddenly he cares?  Out of nowhere he actually gives a shit?  No.  You do not get to magically start giving a shit about something so precious.  Especially when it’s being lost.

I’m being unfair. He’s being so wonderful lately. Trying so hard. Making me smile.

But back then…

That horrible day.

6 hours in the hospital.  A box of pills intended for a new arthritis treatment because my body doesn’t know how to just let things go.

Over a week of excruciating pain due to those pills.  Barely get out of bed pain.

The night I get back from the hospital, I dig out the cans of 4 Loko I’ve hidden under my childhood bed and find frozen fruit in Dad’s freezer.

His blender is a nice one and chops the ice perfectly.  Dad doesn’t buy milk or juice, so I use only the 4 Loko as the liquid for the smoothie.

It is strong.

My texts to Army become so bad that he calls me.  I slur.  He changes from angry to extreme concern.  I let slip that I’m alone at Dad’s.  He says he’ll be there in 20.

I fail to mention the messages I’ve been exchanging with Katherine.  Because I am still an idiot at this point.  My fractured self desperately clings to the past.

And her father saw me in the ER, so of course she is curious.  She is concerned.

She sees the fracture, the pain, the scars.  She claws them open further with her sharp nails.

And I let her.  I relish in the tearing flesh, the prickling heat of blood, the teeth, the tears.  I offer myself up and beg for more.  It’s a dance we’re both familiar with.  The steps are well-worn, not forgotten at all.

Until Army shows up.

He fumbles with being the white knight.  It isn’t a role he does, except with guns and medicine.  But I am not in physical danger.  For now.
He checks my vitals anyway.  My blood oxygen is low.  He is angry I want to be alone, despite the doctors expressly forbidding otherwise.

He’s found my discharge paperwork from the hospital.  Not that I hid it.

He takes the smoothie, tastes it, and glares.  I laugh.  His eyes go from irritated to anxious so quickly.  I idly wonder how I can affect him like this now; when for months he’s been like a robot.

He says he will be taking me home with him.  Tonight.  Whether I walk or am carried to his car is up to me.

I reach for the smoothie.  He goes to the kitchen and dumps it down the garbage disposal.  I sigh.  I cannot summon anger.  I was so angry just 24 hours ago.  I was blaming him for all my discomfort, my depression, my lack of friends.

But now.  Now I’m just tired.  I just want to sleep.  Forever.

Distantly, I hear Army talk about me needing to eat.  I chuckle at this.  I will never eat again.  I couldn’t manage to keep a small, flickering life lit inside me.  Why the hell would I bother with myself?  It’s all pointless anyway.  The doctors say there is a good chance I am broken now.


If my body would just learn to let things go.

Just let it go.  Please.  That’s all I want right now.  I just want to stop dwelling.
I want to not hear the ghostly whispers of Audrey begging for suicide.  Screaming our faults.  Trying to tear at the scars.

I just want to lie down and wake up to October 10th.  Or Halloween.

Can we just skip it all?

Let it go.

Be At Peace

I don’t want to take away from the grieving that is going on for Sara.  It’s not my place.  I just have to get my thoughts down about my friend I knew outside of these blogging walls that is also gone now.

But before I logged on here and saw about Sara, I was notified that a friend of mine committed suicide.  By hanging himself.  His poor girlfriend found him yesterday evening.

I can’t imagine that.  It’s just….I’m having a hard time just dealing with his death and he and I were never romantically involved.  In fact, he drove me nuts 90% of the time.  I have no alias for you readers as I didn’t really write about him.  I didn’t see him much lately.  I’m sad about that now.

He was only bipolar as far as I knew, but I know a lot of us keep our mental-health demons well hidden, especially with persons we know in real life, as opposed to the internet.

It isn’t officially known that he passed away yet.  I was only told because I’m close friends with his best friend.  I just don’t even know how to react.  I don’t know how to feel.

I intended to write about how I’ve been losing a lot of time and how a part of me is attempting to severe some relationship ties that I think they consider “unhealthy”.

But that all seems so petty and stupid now.

I’m here.

Despite some self-harm and minor health issues, I’m safe and sound.

The self-hatred hasn’t dragged me all the way down yet.

I bow my head for my friends who weren’t able to keep their heads above the water.  I know that water is dark and deep and it’s hard to keep treading.  You will find no judgment here, my friends.

Only love.

You are greatly missed.

Be well and at peace, wherever you are.

Edit/Note:  When I said “only bipolar” I did not mean that it is any lesser than any other mental-health diagnosis.  I only meant that his bipolar diagnosis was the only thing I was aware of.  I’m sure that in itself was a hard struggle for him daily.  I have no personal experience with being bipolar.  It was not my intention to offend anyone.  I apologize if I did.


Tonight is hard.

Today was hard.

The past couple days have been hard.

My mask has been tightly in place until I am behind closed doors.

Thank goodness that skill was learned well.

I just feel like giving up so much right now. It’s so hard to stay postive with these crushing thoughts and constant insomnia.

I tried opening up a bit to Army about feeling down Friday. Via text, because texting is so magical in it’s security to allow deeper confessions without face-to-face or even verbal interaction.  Army used the phrase “we’ll figure it out”, which has just completely thrown my whole system for a loop. 

Somehow that simple phrase triggered a whole codependency fear I have. My issues should be solved by me alone (well…alone-ish, har har).

And now he hasn’t said a word to me since Friday night. He’s been active on Facebook, so it isn’t his job getting in the way. I’m sure I’m reading too much into it but I can’t stop.

I can’t stop.

Even when I unwrap a fresh blade, I notice how it says “made in USA” and my insides twist because I want to joke with him about of course the US still manages to make their own razor blades.

But I can’t.

I won’t seem needy. Or clingy. Or crazy.

So instead I break a promise.

Over and over I break that promise, the red lines multiplying.

My word isn’t worth shit.

I’m not worth shit.

I should just finish the bottle or bring the blade somewhere higher than my knee.

This is so hard.

My life is worthless.

Religion and Mental Health

I’m not atheist.

Those of you who follow me and have read a lot of my posts (and the various about me sections) know this.

I choose the label “Pagan” because it’s the easiest one to explain my unlabeled belief.  And my mother is Pagan.  But I don’t really like labels.  I believe in a higher power.   I don’t exactly know what it is.

But moving on.  My issue today lies mostly with the way some Christianity, particularly Catholicism, feels about mental health, particularly depression and suicide.

This is not to say I have an issue with Christians or Catholics.  I do not.  I have family, friends, coworkers- many persons I care for greatly that are active Christians and I respect them wholeheartedly.

When I first saw the movie “Constantine” I was drawn in by the idea of angels and demons walking among us.  But then I became horrified and disturbed by the idea of someone being condemned to hell for taking their own life.  Being raised by a Pagan mother and atheist father, I’d never heard of this belief before.
(Note: I’m actually unaware of a lot of common Christian-based beliefs.  I wasn’t ever taught those things.  Not even basic bible stories.  The only one I really know is the flood, but that’s because there’s a Pagan equivalent.  Someone tried to explain the whole J-dude and the whale to me a couple months ago and I just didn’t get it.  They were like “He was swallowed by a whale” and I was like “You mean like Pinocchio?”  and they were like “Well, that’s the reference Pinocchio is making.”  to which I replied “Huh. Weird.”
I make an ass of myself frequently.)

Suicide happens when the pain is greater than one’s coping abilities.  Simply put, the person is struggling, reaching and reaching, and no one is grasping that hand and pulling them out from the hell they’re already in.

And then you want to say that they have to continue that suffering (that was not their choice in the first place) forever???  That is not a religion I can get behind.  At all.  I wish this narrow minded idea that mental illness is not “as real” as physical illness didn’t exist.
And to have religion, a powerful force in itself, perpetrate this belief that persons suffering from mental illnesses can just shake themselves free of it by simple faith and reading of a religious book…is just incomprehensible to me.

My spiritual beliefs are dear to me.  They’ve gotten me through some rough patches.  But they were not enough when I miscarried last year and decided I wasn’t worth the life I had been given.  I lost my faith.  A lot of persons I’ve known to have depression and suicidal thoughts have followed this pattern.  Faith is swept under the rug.  Not because we don’t believe or don’t want assistance from the Great Divine.  It is merely that our mental illness makes it impossible to care about and grasp those greater ideals.  We consider ourselves worthless- why would we want to draw attention from a higher being to that?

But to be punished eternally for that self-hatred?

I cannot believe the Great Divine, in their loving kindness, in the beauty they’ve handed to us, would truly punish like that.  How can some who hates only themselves, harms no others, be on the same level of hell as a mass murderer?

But there is a flip side to this.

I heard this beautiful story this morning and it opened my eyes to acceptance.  That everything has two sides.

Here is the story (I’ve paraphrased it a bit):

Two soldiers were stationed together for many years.  They became good friends, brothers-in-arms.  When they were sent into battle, one of them didn’t make it out alive.

The soldier left living found out that his friend had no relatives or other friends to handle the funeral arrangements.  So he took his fallen friend to his own family Catholic church and requested the priest handle the arrangements and eulogy of his friend.  The priest first asked,

“Was your friend Catholic?”

“He was not.” Answered the soldier, meeting the eyes of the priest bravely. The priest nodded.

“I will take care of your friend.”

The soldier then had to go back to his base.  Years later, he returned to the church to look for his friend.  He scoured the graves outside the fence, since he knew that since his friend was not Catholic, he wouldn’t be permitted within the fence’s boundaries.  He couldn’t find his friend’s grave and went to ask the priest.  The priest nodded and led the soldier to the correct grave, securely within the bounds of the fence.

The soldier looked at the priest in confusion.

“But I told you my friend was not Catholic.”

“I know.” said the priest, “And by the rules of the church, he is not to be buried within the boundaries of our fence.  But I searched the bible many times over for the answer.  No where did I find a passage that forbade the moving of the fence afterwards.”


trigger warning:  lots of dark thoughts and self-harm talk

I’m not really sure how dreams work for other systems, but they are very strange in ours.

Sometimes there is a dream specifically had by a single alter who sort of “inhabits” the body while sleeping.

But usually our dreams are a slideshow of various things and memories intended for multiple alters.  It can be very triggering, especially when Charlotte’s dreams are broadcasted where the littles can see.

Last night we had an extremely triggering smattering of dreams…

A dirty back alley and sandy colored garage door. It is storming. We hate storms.  He takes his time, knowing the crash of thunder will cover any noise- not from us though- we are mute. Always mute.

The sharp dig of male fingernails scratching into our tailbone as we stare at his jean jacket. That damn jean jacket.  He had the sharpest fingernails of any boy we’ve ever dated in high school.

Daddy’s cool, controlled voice.  He never yells when he’s really really angry.  He only threatens.  We are limited to our bedroom and nothing but a small shelf of books.  He boxes away everything else in our room, including the notebooks. He knows the writing soothes.  Why did we get a “B” in that class? Everyone knows ladies are supposed to only get “A”s.

We write in the margin of those tattered books. We read them over and over. We are a failure.

A slick black revolver being spun, cowboy style. He’s such a show off. We are wearing thigh high stockings, a garter belt, and nothing else. He likes to leave early in the morning way before we have to get up for work. That’s fine with us.

Being woken up with a soft kiss and the smell of asiago bagels from Panera.  We miss her when she works third shift, but she always made up for it.

Hiding in the basement of our huge house, all alone, rocking back and forth, sure that every siren we hear in the distance is meant for us.  The pills sit heavy in our stomach and our arms and chest run red with blood. They can’t find us.


The triggering taste of absinthe that slides down our throat and immediately ruins the night with him.  We talk too much about our pain.  There is an awkward breakfast in the morning.  We run.  He is way too good for the likes of us.

Sitting in the cafeteria of the psych ward.  We are not the craziest one here. We are not the dangerous one. What if he follows us back to our room? The attendants’ eyes slide past as he comes to sit next to us.  He asks why we aren’t eating anything, then proceeds to devour everything off our tray. When the nurse asks, we say we ate it.

The sound of the ice machine at the psych ward. Those perfect little pellets it spits out. They crunch so nicely and soothe our throat and tummy. We ate nothing else.

Dancing at the club, some anonymous male behind us grabbing at our hips and grinding into us. We grind back, making eye contact with her.  She glares.  It was her choice to leave us, but we still savor that jealous look she tosses our way.  Later she calls us a slut. We are a slut. We aren’t good enough.

Riding through the hills of Kentucky on a four-wheeler, wind in our face, laughing and laughing, knowing there is no feeling in the world like this.  And it is the happiest we will ever be…


When I get up this morning, I am nauseous and there is the tickling sensation of pain at the back of my throat and eyes of holding back feelings, tears, anger, fear.  They all are pushing at the window to see out.  To check if it was all a dream.

I get in the shower, making sure it is scalding.  I automatically reach for the razor to shave my legs.
Victoria is out in a flash, savagely pushing the razor into the flesh of our thigh.  I have a moment of wrestling with her, but then we both watch in silent fascination as the red goes down our leg and turns pink in the swirl of the drain.

This is the real world.

We aren’t sure if that’s good or bad.


(I’ve having a couple seemingly non-connected thoughts, but they will make sense at the end.  I hope Bourbon doesn’t mind if I snag her wonderfully understandable “heading” type flow.  We give credit where it’s due!)

Normally we don’t like being touched.

We have intimacy issues (big surprise there). Yes, Charlotte manages to have “relations”, but I can’t even describe the sort of things she requires of her partner in order to turn her fully on. It’s disgusting.  I’m flat-out disturbed the body requires such things in order to react to another partner.  She’s handled 90% of every sexual encounter of the body’s life (post abuse, that is).  The rest of us just…don’t like being touched.

It’s why, despite Claire’s attraction to Jeff, we’re all getting edgy with his advances.  I’m sure it’s the sort of physical things that are the norm for normal people.  Cuddling, kissing, head/hair stroking.  It just eeks us all.  Even Claire, though she tries hard not to get triggered.  It happens regardless a lot of the time.

We get crippling migraines

We’ve gotten them since we became more aware of being multiple and started the whole “switching frenzy” thing that led to a lot more blackouts and a period of just being complete dumbasses.  They’re bad- they involve crippling head, neck, and back pain, uncontrollable (and constant) vomiting (sorry Bourbon…), and swelling of our face (mostly around the eye area).

We were at a loss for treatment for a long time.  Most pills don’t work. The ones that do are hardcore narcotics and not something we can take and still function throughout the day.

Then Daddy insisted we try his massage therapist.  He got us a gift treatment. We balked.  We hate being touched, especially by strangers.  And this was a gift from Daddy.

But we were also told by our GP (an angel) that it would be an excellent idea, as she’d noticed that our migraines seem to have a lot tied to stress (HA!) and when we’d seen her during an actual migraine, our whole neck and back were wound tighter than a top.  She thought regular massage would be a perfect solution.  And it didn’t involve medications with terrible side effects.

However…it did involve touching.  Our GP is aware of that phobia.  She’s our Gyno too- we’d never had that kind of exam before and at the first (and last) one, the rest of the doctor’s office was aware they had someone with mental issues.  They’d never had a patient start screaming, crying, then black out when given that kind of exam.

She insisted we go.

Kit, Charlotte, Rika, and myself all love horror movies

The rest don’t, but since it’s a genre that has the most “supporters” in our system (and the host being one of them has a lot of pull), we watch a lot of horror movies.

We go to horror related events.  We used to assist a local Horror Host, Dr. Creep, with a charity Halloween Horror-moviethon every year.  And one year we were asked to help run a booth for Dr. Creep at nearby convention called Horror Hound.

We fell in love.

We go every year now.  This past year, it was in March.  We mentioned it to everyone we knew.

Including our new massage therapist.  Flippantly, of course.  Some of that nervous talking in the waiting area before she politely asks us to remove all our clothing except panties.  She suddenly grins and Roms detects sincere interest with her “reading ability”.

“I love all things horror!” She says.  Kit grins.  “I’m planning on going to Horror Hound myself! Did you hear Norman Reedus from “Walking Dead” is supposed to be there???”

Suddenly, she isn’t a stranger.
She’s married and has a daughter.  She talks about her daughter’s addiction to pickles with a grin. Anyone who is a sincere mother makes our system melt.

Sincere mothers are our weakness. We love our mother so very much.  It broke her heart to find out what happened back in that dirty alley behind our tiny two bedroom house.  She beat herself up for refusing Daddy’s handouts after divorcing him and trying to be a “strong independent woman”.  She tried to save us from one kind of abuse only to deliver us into the hands of a more insidious kind.

Ack. Tangent. Back to the massage therapist (MT).

The First Massage

We like her. But that doesn’t mean she can touch us.

She politely leads us to the private room, shows us the table and the function of every single thing in the room (the oil bottles, the heater, the stereo playing soft music).  She then calmly explains about removing everything except our panties. Shows us the thick blanket that will cover us the whole time.  She promises to only start out touching our head, neck, and upper back.  That is it. Unless we’re comfortable to allow lower back and legs.

We take a leap of faith that we haven’t done in a long time.

We crawl under the thick blanket in our panties, our chest down and back up, firmly cocooned in the blanket.  MT knocks on the door and does not open it, even a crack, until she gets verbal permission from us.

She is made for people like us.

She explains and asks before she does anything.  She starts by softly working on our scalp and hair.  We are floored by a momentary appearance of Armes, who loves her hair being played with but is terrified of people.  Except she loves Mommy-types.  She croons happily and MT remains quiet, doesn’t comment.

MT is smart.

The first massage passes with a bit of switching, but not in the scared/upset disassociating way.  It is the first time that has happened in a very long time.  We all get to share in her gentle, soothing touch.

It is healing.

For the first time since high school, we go a week without any migraines.

Financial and Medical Problems

We start trying to make regular appointments.  She gives us a discount when we’re able to produce a prescription from our understanding GP saying the massages are beneficial for a medical condition.

Then the bottom falls out.

We are hospitalized for hypertension crisis twice within a single month.  Our finances disappear as doctors struggle to find a cause.
We are no where near obese.  High blood pressure does not run in either side of our family.  We tend to eat rather healthy-ish (when we do eat).
Must be stress.

They throw pills at us.  The pills are insanely expensive. None seem to work, except to give us awful side effects.  But the specialists will not let us stop taking them, saying the pills “need time”.
The blackouts start, the depression, the self-harm.  It’s a string of events we’re familiar with.

We can’t see our MT.  We don’t have the money and we don’t even have the energy or drive to get ourselves there.  MT expresses concern.

Then Daddy does a surprising thing.  He is being surprising in general, having actually visited us the hospital (without criticism).  Daddy doesn’t believe in “psychology bullshit” but he does believe in our migraines and high blood pressure.  And he reads articles about massage helping those things.  He knows we spend all our money on medical bills and prescriptions to try and keep us from being hospitalized again.

He gifts us a string of treatments.

We know they are gifts of apologies that he doesn’t have the vocabulary to say.  After he does anything a parent shouldn’t do and he realizes it, he showers us with gifts.  We’ve gotten laptops, a car, cash, vacations, etc…

In this case, we suspect his gift has to do with his suspicion the sudden inexplicable high blood pressure is caused by the stress of our recent miscarriage.  And the bastard was relieved that the miscarriage happened.


We have a massage tomorrow afternoon.  It is much needed after this crazy week.

Though we do not have an actual therapist, or any sort of mental treatment, we are always grateful for people like our GP and MT for keeping us from that suicidal edge.


Horrific situation- a chat between Claire and Rika

(Trigger warning for the subject of miscarriage again and a warning for Rika’s awful potty mouth. Sorry.)

C: We just got a text from a long-time friend.  I don’t know what to do about this cataclysmic result.  I’m holding a semblence of control by “chatting” with you over the text in this post.  There’s no “inside room” to talk like we normally have. It’s just disappeared.

R: Obviously the fucking universe thinks it’s goddamn hilarious to do something like this to us after your last entry about the miscarriage and how we’ve been feeling today in general.

C: The text is a simple question of asking us how “pregnancy nausea” felt because “well, you’ve been pregnant”.  Yes. I suppose we have.

R: There’s a goddamn understanding with the fucking people who know us to limit their talk about pregnancy with us.  And definitely don’t goddamn talk to us about OUR goddamn pregnancy.  Why the fuck would you do that??? Something that had us almost commit suicide??? Are they just fucking dumber than a box of rocks???

C: I typed a brief response as best I could before the triggering overpowered us.  Now we can’t stop switching and we’re at work and it’s just…a mess. How are we supposed to work if Serefina can’t even stay out?  She’s always been able to override a “switch-off” in the past during a business day.  Her “powers” are career and work related.  That’s her area.

R: I’ll tell you goddamn why.  It’s because even us protectors can’t handle switching related to that goddamn miscarriage.  Fucking Charlotte and her fucking casual sex.

C:  Don’t talk like that.  That baby was loved by all of us and you know it.

R: No goddamn comment on what feelings I had during the pregnancy.  My point is Charlotte deserved a lesson on fucking protection and birth-control.

C: I’m wondering if we should make this entry private.  Especially with your mouth.

R:  Fucking whatever.  I never get to talk in this damn blog obviously.

C: All right. That is true.  This is supposed to be healing and cathartic.  You need it too.

R: Ugh.  You sound like fucking Roms.  Go back to writing and daydreaming about a white knight.

Switching Frenzy

There’s so much going on.  It’s a lot, lot, lot.
I’m going to try and remain control but I’m not sure if I can.
The loss of Kit, our host, has devastated our system more that initially thought. At least in my opinion.
I know Roms and Claire are trying to be self-appointed leaders, but I don’t understand why they get to. I’m even mostly forgotten entirely. That isn’t fair at all. I know I’ve done some damage and some of the crueler alters like to refer to me as “The Cutter” (not a lie…).  But that’s for a good reason. If I didn’t do what I did then it would overwhelm us and we’d drown.

Sometimes drowning is awfully tempting though…


They’re all godd*mn f*cking idiots. All these stupid f*cking dependencies on pills, liquor, cutting, sex, starving themselves…it’s just so damn childish. Sometimes I think I need to just toss everyone in the f*cking backseat and hijack this body far away. Alaska or some sh*t like that. Where no one can truly know us and it can remain that way.