When your friend commits suicide

As someone who has suffered from suicidal thoughts most of my adult life, I have found myself completely unprepared to deal with one of my best friend’s successful suicide this past week.

My friend caught me completely off-guard with her suicide. I thought she was one of my friends in the “worried well” category, not someone who would actually commit suicide.

I don’t think I have ever had so many emotions boomeranging around in my brain since I found out. To say it has “triggered” me is an understatement.

I went to college with this friend, and it is so significant because both of us really helped each other figure out who we were going to be in life. We debated and explored different ideas about our future identities on a regular basis.

We were so excited about our futures. Anything seemed possible.

At one time we thought she was going to marry a man who would be a stay-at-home dad because she was so career driven in college. That didn’t end up being true at all.

We both came from dysfunctional homes and had the burdens and wounds that come with that to wrestle into our adult identities.

My best friend ended up working full time in a successful career and raising four kids on her own. She loved her kids more than anything, but something went wrong.

She hasn’t been living in the same town as me for a while, so I hadn’t been keeping in good touch with her. Mostly seeing random Facebook posts that made me think her life was okay despite the pressure and depression I am sure she felt ongoing after her marriage failed.

I am so angry at myself for not keeping in better touch with her. Like maybe somehow I could have saved her from whatever demon was eating at her soul.

I am so angry at her for doing this to her kids, though I am scared to know the reason she did this. I am terrified there might be more to her story than I want to know that made her commit suicide.

I can’t wrap my brain around this. I am “the weak one” with mental health problems. Suicide is my thing, not hers.

I have never felt so desperate to bargain with God to turn the clock back so I could have the chance to help her. I just want the chance, but I know it is too late, so I sit in shock and confusion some more.

Why couldn’t she reach out to me. I am right here, and would have been there for her in a second. I am angry at God for not giving me that chance, and I am sad that my friend didn’t reach out to me.

I know suicide intimately. I would like to think I have learned to tame it over the years, and could have led her out of that darkness.

My friend’s suicide has certainly helped me take it off the table for myself as a real option. I am mad that she had to commit suicide in order for me to learn how it feels to the rest of the world when someone does this.

As a mother myself, I can’t even fathom what this has done to her children. My chest hurts thinking about how she could do this to them, especially knowing how much they meant to her. They were supposed to be the kids for her that “broke the cycle” of family dysfunction and abuse, and yet my friend didn’t accomplish that after all.

I would be lying if I didn’t say this terrifies me for myself and my children.

My brain hurts trying to process this and go on with everyday life. I want to take a pill or drink some alcohol to numb myself, but I know that won’t really help. But sitting with these God-awful conflicting, mixed up feelings is like a form of torture.

I am sorry if I can’t think of something clever to say. My brain is barely alive, and my heart is broken. And my friend is dead, and there is nothing I can do about it.

Like my therapist always says, suicide is such a permanent decision. I wonder if my friend really meant it to be so permanent, or if she was just in so much pain she acted out in a fit of overwhelming emotion.

I will never know, and it so hard to sit with the permanency of that knowledge.

I feel so empty, hurt, sad, and angry. I pray to God her children will somehow have

decent lives and not let this ruin them.

Sadly, I know I can’t control this. And the permanency of her death is so final, which both infuriates me and paralyzes me.

Not everyone deserves forgiveness

I was just speaking philosophically about the concept of forgiveness with a therapist, and I agreed with his perspective that forgiveness generally is to the benefit of the victim. But, I disagree that everyone should be forgiven no matter their crime, or that forgiving someone will always benefit you.

As a survivor of extreme abuse from my mother and many others, I told him I wouldn’t even consider the concept of forgiveness of my mother. It would serve no purpose for her or me. After all, when your mother is a sadistic narcissist, she does not see any reason for a need to be forgiven.

She doesn’t need it, and I don’t need or want it.

As commonly found in survivors of child abuse, I struggle with blaming myself for the abuse that happened to me. “If only I wasn’t so bad, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.” It is really hard to get off that train ride of blaming yourself, if ever.

I have forgiven other people for betrayals because I knew by me doing so, I was setting myself free and letting myself move on. But, there is a big difference in hurting someone, and intentionally perpetrating evil on someone.

In the case of the evil my mother perpetrated on me, I will feel no better by forgiving her, especially since I don’t believe it is my job, or within my capacity to even consider it.

Where I stand today, I am not sure everyone deserves to be forgiven. I know there are many people who would disagree with me, which is totally ok.

Some things are bigger than the capacity to understand. For those, I leave it to God or a higher being to make that call as to whether they are to be forgiven or not.

In the case of my mother, she perpetrated such evil and intentional abuse that has robbed me of so much I should have had in life. There are long moments of feeling like she has ruined my life, and brief moments of taking that power back and trying my best to live a life that is still broken in so many ways on the good days.

I survived the woman who was supposed to be my mother. I wish I had a mother, but sadly I don’t, and never will. Even with my mother still alive, I would never want HER as my mother.

I have no desire to try to make amends or to fix anything. I have found when evil is nearby, it is best to step aside and let it keep going by instead of trying to tame it.

My mother will one day meet her maker, and will have to answer for her extreme sins. It hurts me to think of her possibly going to Hell, as I feel pity for her.

I was an innocent child who deserved a “good enough” mother. Sadly, she was far from it, and has no remorse for it.

I can’t imagine what went wrong in her life to make her into the person she became, but I still can’t excuse her, and I won’t give her forgiveness.

It was never ok what she did to me. And somehow I think if I contemplate forgiveness of what she did to me it says “it wasn’t so bad, or I am over it so I am going to let it go,” but that is never really going to happen. It will always be a part of my damaged soul.

Today, for me, courage is to stand up and say “I will not forgive you for what you have done to me. You have controlled and hurt so much of me. It is my right to never forgive you.”

And I know this is right today, because just saying that sends terror through me that you will find out I said it. A child should never be terrified of their own mother.

All I can say that seems appropriate is may God have mercy on your soul.

Giving up?

Lately, I have been struggling more than usual with suicidal thinking, time loss, confusion, severe amnesia, thinking people want me to kill myself, and generally trying to keep my mind in shut-down mode so I don’t become totally hopeless. 

If I do become totally hopeless, I am worried I will do something I don’t want to do to my kids, which would be to kill myself. 

It is such a hard place to be in. On the one hand, I really want to give up and put an end to my life. On the other hand, I want to be there for my children and make sure they are ok.

I know killing myself will mess up my kids, but when your mind gets sicker and sicker, it is hard to stay strongly rational so you can ignore those impulses.

And even though my wife says she supports me and loves me if I go to a psych hospital, the truth is there is only so much a person can take in a relationship, and what am I doing to my kids by being gone and missing so much of their childhood (even when I am here.)

Psych hospitals suck, even the best of them, and there is never any guarantee that they will help at all. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. 

Giving up is so much easier and pleasant sounding at the moment, but then if I can hold on to thinking about my kids it is not an option. Unless I get too sick to hold onto that thought.

I am just whining today. Mental illness sucks. At least I have a comfortable bed and two puppies to keep me company at home. I don’t much need food any more.

Ambivalence. Confusion. Hopelessness.

Life sucks today.

silent agony

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I am at such a wtf am I going to do moment. I can’t get out of bed, except sometimes to take care of my kids in my house and to go to therapy appointments. This has been going on for bloody 17 months.

I am not getting better. Sometimes I desperately want to get better, other times I hear inside that staying in bed is better and I shouldn’t try to change it.

I hate that my wife is so confused about what to do. Sometimes I think she wants to leave me, and I don’t blame her. Sometimes I want her to leave me so I do not have to be judged and can just stay in bed with no one trying to change me or feel bad for me.

But then I remember my kids. Shit, I just can’t abandon them. They need me. I wish they didn’t so I could leave this planet. I love them so much, but I lay in pain so much too.

It is a cruel joke that I have survived in life. I am definitely not living. I am holding on to parenting my kids mostly from inside my bedroom or the house.

No one understands how hard it is for me to get up and shower and eat dinner with them.

I know this is some kind of anxiety. I M probably terrified people are going to hurt me outside the house. I have a lot of recent experience with that.

My mind tells my body to get up and take a shower and do something normal. My body just ignores me and lays in my bed.

I am literally wasting away in this bed. I am getting older and don’t have much life yet, so I don’t understand why I am doing this. Oh, an insider says I am punishing ¬†myself for the therapist who abandoned me.

So many reasons. Not sure it even matters anymore now. I hate for my children to see me in bed, and wonder what they think of me.

My pain is raw. Yet I am also numb. This is why my suicide switch keeps flickering. The answer is there, but the insiders won’t agree so we languish in silent agony.

Uncovering the truth about myself sucks


My life with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) has made it so I don’t really know who the hell I am. I say that with anger, because I am bloody mad about it at the moment.

Others may not like who they are, but at least they know. Don’t take that for granted because there are others of us who get taken by surprise when we learn who we are.

My life is filled with amnesia. I can’t remember huge periods of time and important events in my childhood, and on an almost daily basis, I can’t remember if I have eaten lunch or what I even did for most of the day. I have to actually work to remember if I had lunch and what it was. Most of the time I can’t remember what I said 3 sentences back.

Yeah, I guess I sound a bit whiney tonight.

This week started with me suddenly experiencing a new memory about my childhood 30 minutes before my therapy session. I have no idea where it came from. It just entered my consciousness while I was getting dressed.

For those of you who aren’t versed in DID Land, a new memory is up there with an atomic bomb going off in your head. Other parts of ourselves typically hold these memories from our consciousness to protect us.

These memories stay hidden from consciousness because they are awful. They are unimaginable. They bring tears to your f-ing therapist’s face. They bring anger and suicidality and sadness to me.

People don’t just get DID. They go through bloody hell to get this “fascinating disorder.” I always knew I would find out things about myself that I didn’t know and didn’t want to know, but Jesus, some things are just too horrific to accept. And I can’t even say “well maybe this isn’t true” on this one because there is no way I could know what is in the memory without seeing it. They don’t even have this on tv or wherever one goes to see horrific things.

I am mad, really f-ing mad. This memory is not me, but it is. I don’t want it in my history, but it is. I can’t tell my children, but what if they find out.

This memory makes me a monster. It makes me one of them. And the BS that people shovel at you to say “but you were just a kid” is NOT what I want to hear. 

Some things are just unacceptable, which is why I have been teetering on the suicidal edge this week. I mean, how can I live with myself. My own children would disown me if they knew who I really am. 

My whole adult life I have tried to live a life that I wouldn’t be ashamed or horrified by my actions. Don’t do what you can’t publicly own. Ha! How ironic for me.

This week has been shitty and a good reminder that this world can be an awful place sometimes. The only thing that has kept me alive is the beauty and innocence I see in my children.

I fear my future. I fear this is the beginning of an avalanche. The choice is mine. I can try to stuff it down and live a clueless, empty life, or I can continue figuring out just who the hell I am and hope I can live with it and be authentic.

Don’t take it for granted if you know who you are. There are those of us who are existing just one step above robots. It is a terrible way to go threw life, even if you have what looks like a normal, successful life.

Pray that the truth sets me free one day. I don’t think there is anything else that can be done.

Failing my children


I don’t care that I am failing myself, but I am so utterly disappointed in myself that I am failing my children as much as I am.

I have mostly been living in bed for the past 16 months (another, longer story on how that happened). This is my safe place. The place I never want to leave. 

Even when I want to get up and be “normal” and do something in life, the others inside me hold me in place so we don’t leave the bed so we can stay safe.

My children are young, and they see me in bed everyday. Even when I am having a good day and get out, it is exhausting but I use every ounce of energy I have to try to be normal for my kids.

I hate myself when I miss their events because I know I won’t get these moments back to do over. Yet, I stay in bed as if chains hold me here.

“Singletons” the name given to those without Dissociative Identity Disorder, don’t have any concept of why I can’t get out of bed. They don’t understand how the fears or hurts of other parts inside me can greatly influence my behavior and thinking, and sometimes leave me paralyzed. 

Tonight my kids said goodbye to me, their mother who doesn’t get out of bed for unknown reasons, as they joyfully headed off for swim team practice. Another moment missed.

Sadness prevails.

Leaning toward love

 

I am the child of a sadistic, narcissistic, evil woman, so this is a day of painful emotions.

I am sad that I still play the pretend game and will call her later today to wish her a happy Mother’s Day. I will try to keep the conversation short as is always hard because she runs right over me with her words about herself, never listening to me.

But, I’ll get through this day.

My beautiful children will help. Their loving, smiling faces make life worth living. We are so lucky to have children who are the most beautiful angels it takes my breath away.

It amazes me that it didn’t take any special effort to not continue the cycle of abuse so many people talk about. It is natural to love and take care of your babies, which makes it harder to understand the actions of my parents.

I love my children more than anything else in this world. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for them.

I wish all moms could feel that way.

I am sorry for those of you who had moms like mine.

I am happy for those of you who are amazing moms, and also for those who were lucky enough to have a great mom.

A day of ambivalence. I will lean toward love. I hope you can, too.