January 27, 2006
The 27th.
Important for any number of reasons, unimportant for any other number of reasons, but to me, the 27th rings of a memory to me. A big one, a life-changing one.
It's three years today that I sat in my upstairs bathroom, the one with the yellow wallpaper patterned with white roses, and tried to kill myself.
It seems a lifetime ago, and I guess it was. I look back on that event and watch it as though seeing a movie, a plastic Baskin-Robbins spoon in my mouth as I scoop chocolate chocolate-chip out of a paper cup, watching the scene of my breakdown unfold in front of my eyes like a movie. I don't remember much of my movie, I remember more the feel of a plastic spoon in my mouth, the edge of the doorway pressing into the curve of my shoulder, one leg folded over the other in my casual stance of watching myself break down.
Disassociation is a blessing and a curse.
I don't remember much of that event, but I do remember the hospital afterwards. I remember the feel of the hard linoleum floor, the bars on the windows, the cries from the rooms. Institutions make the crazy even crazier. I was there too long, and inside myself too much.
It all started off the longest road yet. It was time I stopped running and hiding inside of myself and started to accept the fact that I was seriously fucked up, that I had to finally deal with things that were buried deep inside of me, things I was pretending were gone but never really left. So I opened my mouth and started talking. I went to a counselor while I waited to be allocated to a psychotherapist.
When I got my psychotherapist I started to breathe.
I started to talk, and I could no longer pretend I wasn't so fundamentally fucked up that giving up wasn't a choice.
Because giving up isn't a choice.
When I moved to England I lost that psychotherapist, but in many ways I think I gained a better one.
Three years after taking a bottle of pills and playing Fun Bob with a razor, I am more alive than I have ever been in my entire life. Work isn't my world, my family foundations have radically changed, I love a million tiny things in my life and a few great big ones, and I have a man who, although he maybe doesn't always handle some of my more painful issues very well, handles the rest of the package of schizoids and worries, quirks and traits better than anyone in the world. The chick that I am today is not the same chick that tried to kill herself.
The years of trying to kill myself are overwith. I am so far from perfect it makes me cringe, but I am worth more than that. Everyone is worth more than that. We are all worth more than a bottle of pills and a razor on a cold winter's night.
I may still have some issues, and I am definitely a bit bizarre (after returning from yoga I spent Thursday night talking with a poor Spanish accent and carrying Mumin around, pointing her in Angus' direction and saying (badly) "Say hello to my little friend!". I'm pretty sure normal people don't do that.) But my crazy has a base, it has a root. My crazy has an end. My crazy may never go away, but at least I can talk about it now.
I'm sticking it out. Life now on the thin wedge is way more alive than it has ever been, hard times and all (infertility! My One Person's up the duff! I have a job I hate! I still can't fucking do natarajasana (the cosmic dancer pose)! But life? She is more amazing than it has ever been, suck parts, great parts, hard parts.
So I survived trying to top myself.
In the big game of life I got the cookie.
Here's to three years of life, babes.
Same time next year, yeah?
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
08:47 AM
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