imalloutofoptions
When Will I Be Ready To Let Go?
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imalloutofoptions · 5 years ago
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The Beginning of My Suicide Blog
My name is Z, I am 23, Female and live in Canada. In March of 2020, I plan on dying. I haven’t gotten all the logistics worked out but I’m working on it. I have recently moved from my home town to a new city in September of 2019. This was a mistake and has thus lunged me down the familiar path I’m on. But that’s another posts worth of story. For now lets start at the beginning. 
I was born to an absent black father and my white mother in a small town of less than 40,000 people in rural Canada. I was raised by said mother (L), not by my father (V). My mother was a waitress and 35 years of age at my birth, my father about 50 and worked for the US military. I have a brother and a sister from my mother and another man, and two sisters and a brother from my father and other women. I know none of these siblings particularly well. My mother shortly after my birth separated from my father who was a bit of a fling after finding out about his cheating on her, creating my half brother. My sibling closest in age is my brother J, who was 15 years my senior. Soon after my arriving in the world, my sister became pregnant as a teenager and my brother started doing drugs, both leaving home before 19. Because of this I was mostly raised as an only child. My mother obsessed over me in an unhealthy way, as I was the only child that could not leave.
My father requested continuous visits to see me as I got older, wanted me to visit him and his new wife (C). This was fine as my own step father (F) was abusive to my mother and it frightened me. When I was 6 my father set up for me to go to stay with him in the southern United States with him and his wife over the summer holidays. It would be quite the plane ride but my mother allowed me to go. While there my father worked nearly every day, as well C, so I spent most of my days in summer camp. While there an older boy who was 13 continuously molested me, day after day for two weeks. At one point in the car when C was dropping me off for camp in the morning, I told her what was going on. C looked very frightened and said “Let’s not tell you father, lets keep this between us”. I knew then that was I was doing was wrong. What I didn't understand was that the real reason for C’s request was because my mother would be so angry at my father for allowing that to happen to me that it would disrupt C’s wonderful married life. The abuse continued until I was allowed to go home. My mother claimed I was never the same again. Where once I was cheerful and social, I became withdrawn and anxious. This has lasted my whole life. 
Since then my mother and I had fallen into poverty. I received many an IOU for xmas. Constantly moving, struggling to make friends at new schools due to yet undiagnosed Autism, the years of 6-13 were particularly hard on me. I was bullied, I was lonely and I was unhappy. I remember very little of this time, it all blends together. Much of it was yelling from my mother, fighting between her and her new boyfriend. He called me lazy, and he hated me. My mothers hair grew grey, her teeth started falling out. I became embarrassed to bring her to school. 
At 12 I faked a broken leg at track and field day for attention and an ambulance was nearly called. When my mother arrived to find me running around the field just fine, I was grounded, suspended from school and forced to attend child therapy. Promptly was I diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome. The psychiatrist at the time refused to put it on paper as “there is no treatment and a child this age needs less labels to bind them”. I was ignored. I didn’t cry for attention any longer. I couldn't make my mother upset. My existence already made her life hard. At 12 again I was diagnosed by a school counselor with dyscalculia, giving reason for my struggle with mathematics. 
I made some friends by 13 and life started looking up. Still anxious and depressed but better. Still could not look my self in the mirror without being physically nauseous, still could not have a shirt that showed any cleavage lest I become nauseous, cannot look a grown man in the eyes lest I hyperventilate and become nauseous. I grew hugely obese.
By high school things were different. There were things I was good at, like drama and horticulture. I made several new friends, two of these that last till today. Finally I was good at something. I still failed math twice, and got barely passing marks in everything else but I had made a plan to kill myself at 18 so it didn't matter. I had told my mom one night as a 14 year old that I didn't think I’d ever be able to make it as an adult and how I’d thought long and hard how I’d commit suicide at 18 so I wouldn't ever have to grow up. She said to me that, if that’s what I wanted to do then she would support me all the way. I kept this sentiment with me for a very long time. 
At 16, my mother had a psychotic break just before Christmas. She began experiencing psychosis based visions. I came home from school one day and her and a family friend were in the living room around the “Christmas” tree, a branch sawed from a willow in the back yard erected in a cat litter tub, and my mother was crying profusely while the friend looked frightened. My mother claimed that by cutting down the branch she had take away the “fairies” home and she could see them jumping ship and dying. The friend looked worried at me but said nothing. I went to my room and closed my door.
It became worse. My mother started smoking marijuana in the house as well as cigarettes even though it hurt my lungs. She was up all hours of the night screaming and slamming doors. If i complained she would just tell me to stop being a baby. She became paranoid that I was going to abandon her when I went to a friends house one night when there was a power outage in our side of the city. The neighbours, her friends looked concerned and said nothing. My family knew what was going on and as usual, I was the black sheep, so they said nothing. During this time I restarted therapy as I had finally remembered my childhood camp trauma and was handling it poorly. I cried during class often, my grades failed more. I was left there for a year as her condition deteriorated. I still cannot stand slamming doors. Eventually she said that as we were being evicted, she had found herself a nice cabin in a near by port town and I was to find a place to live myself. And thus I was abandoned. At 17 I moved into my sisters basement. 
18 came and gone, my first job, my second. I wasn’t supposed to make it this far. My third job I stayed at for nearly 5 years. I saved religiously to leave the backwater town I’d been born in. Full of hate, I couldn't stand it. As I had recently come out as gay, dating was nearly impossible when in our town but 21 if you haven't left you’re either pregnant or addicted to meth. I dreamed of leaving, I saved and saved and saved. I attended therapy, tried 3 medications, lost weight, gained weight. Finally I had enough saved to move. 
Unfortunately since moving, I’ve broken my bicycle, needed a new mattresses and bed frame, my roommate moved her 3 person family in with their 6 year old, totaling 7 people in the house which means I have no kitchen access and few moments of shower access, and my job is run by the most awful business man possible. My rent is 800CAD for a room, and this was the cheapest I could find. Even if I could move, I have no more money, my hours have just been cut, my coworkers have banded together to tell me they don’t like me, my mother is homeless, I’m alone and my friends back home are tired of hearing me whine.
I’ve called the suicide hotline, like I’m supposed to.
I went to the hospital, like I’m supposed to.
I tried religion, like I’m supposed to.
I tried meds, like I’m supposed to.
I kept trying and trying, like I’m supposed to.
I’m so tired. I’ve suffered for 23 years. I have no money for further education, and I certainly am not smart enough. I just want to rest. I want to go home to my ‘parents’. I want parents. I want a mom. I want a family. I want to be ok. I’m so tired of paddling. I feel like only now have I realized there is no shore. There is nowhere to go. It does not get better. I have wasted my time. March, I will go home to my home town, re-home my cats, give away the last of my savings, see the gullies and the forests I played in as a child, and die. I’m all done. Life wins. It won. I’m so tired. 
How long does a person have to continuously suffer before suicide is viewed as ok? Because at this point friends and family must be expecting it. Everyone knew better than I. They were right, I was wrong. I cant play poker with an empty hand. I wasn’t meant to thrive. My death would benefit everyone but me. A few more months and then I don’t have to be afraid anymore. I can rest. I can finally relax. Finally have that vacation I always wanted, just me forever.
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