I wrote anonymously on Saturday night with the closing sentence “I want to die”. This morning I slit my wrists after my husband had gone to work. I initially toyed with the idea, dragging the blade across my left wrist lightly, then I cut my right wrist deep enough to touch the vein but didn’t cut into it. I did that twice. Both my wrist were bleeding but not pouring like I was going to die. I was just going to cut them deep when my dog started to jump up at the house from outside in the yard and wimper. I guess he could hear me crying.
In april this year I took an overdose. The psychiatric team gave my husband a card with an emergency number on it, this morning I called them. Guess what? it was an answer phone. But they phoned me back and called an ambulance and got me to hospital. Then a social worker and a shrink came to talk to me. I was cooporative and helpful and I told them everything I could. They agreed with me that there is nothing that anyone can do. I am seeing the best shrink in the uk (in their opinion, I agree he’s pretty good) and I am on the highest dose of drugs that he can put me on without locking me up. If they lock me up they know it will not help.
So now what do I do? I don’t really want to die, I just dont want to be me any more. If I had enough sleeping tablets I would take them all, just so that I can rest for a while.
I say that no one listens but I have nothing for them to listen to. I ask them for help, but there is nothing they can fix. I know what I want. I want to curl up in a ball and waste away into nothing. I want to swap my body for the body of a cancer patient, I want to give them, the ones who wants to be alive, the chance to live in my healthy body, while I rest in the knowledge that I am dying in their sick body. I want to give so much, but I am trapped inside my head.
I used to work in a mental health secure unit. The guys in there used to pretend they were sick just so they didn’t have to cope with reality. Then, after a while, they would just forget how to cope and they would stay sick. I sometimes wish I had taken a leaf from their book. But they have no guilt. I have guilt. I only remain alive so that my husband won’t have to find my dead body, so that he won’t have to deal with the grief.
I don’t know how to cope but I don’t know how to die. No one can help me, not even myself. So what do I do now?