A Knife So Sharp

When I lived with my abusive parents, I got these suicidal urges. I’d forgotten about them until very recently, of course, because denial is kind of a thing with me.

Suicidal urges are not surprising in abusive households. Sometimes it seems to be the only way out—and if you’re a kid, sometimes it really is the only way out. Once I tried to stand in front of an oncoming bus, for instance.

So it’s also not a surprise that, with the triggers that are the holidays, it’s getting worse and worse overall before I hit the big 25th, I’ve started to have suicidal urges again. They’re sudden, strong, and the kind that strike so quickly that I would never write a suicide note to begin with. The pain, or the memory of pain, or possibly even the chemistry that results from long years spent under my parents’ reign of terror, just becomes too much to bear.

I feel bad about going out to drive, because my suicidal urges strike there as well.

I’ve never followed through on them, though. The humiliation would be too much, especially if I didn’t succeed.

I’m staying way from the knives, which makes it hard to do things like cook dinners. I can’t really order out, because DF/GF/OF is not something most take-out places do, especially on the island.

I take my meds. I take my Xanax.

This is something I need to face, this fear, these urges. I need to turn them over, somehow.

I don’t know.

It’ll all go away after the 25th passes. My friends, keep me occupied. My writing, keep me occupied. The internets, please keep me occupied. When I’m occupied, I don’t think about shit like this.

But this pain does explain why I used to contemplate taking all the sleeping pills with a bottle of cheap wine, and why I mainline Xanax during the holidays. Anything to dull it.

A lot of crapola, you know?