I open the medicine cabinet to grab some Tylenol for a headache.
If I took this, it wouldn’t be enough to kill me. I can’t do that.
With a cold chill chasing up my spine, I pick up the bottle of Flexeril. There are at least 50 tabs in it.
This would work. I could call Stacie and have her watch the kids for me. I’ll leave a note on the front door that she will see when she brings them home, telling her to take the kids to my sisters and to call the police and my husband.
I hear the kids playing downstairs, but it has no affect on me. It’s an emotional muteness, a stale sound. I’m not sure how long I’ve stood here, seeing only the bottle in my hand – my heart vacant, engulfed in despair so raw, that death felt appealing.
Should I call someone? Maybe I should start counseling again. We can’t afford it. No. Just put the bottle down.
I put the pills back and sit on the edge of the tub.
I am so fucked up. No normal person goes to get Tylenol for a headache and instead, starts planning her suicide. Why is this my life. Why can’t I just cry and feel better. I’m so sick of this. I want to end it but…the kids. I know in my heart they are better off without me, but they will never understand that.
My daughter bursts through the door.
“Mommy, what are you doing?”
“I’m just sitting here, baby.”
With begging eyes, she asks “Will you do a puzzle with me?”
“No, baby. Mama just doesn’t feel like it.”
“You never want to do anything with me.”
“That’s not true. I’m just tired today.”
“You’re always tired.”
“I just don’t feel like doing a puzzle right now, honey. Maybe later.”
Why can’t I just sit with her and do the fucking puzzle? All she wants is my attention. Why can’t I give her that?
***
This was my Monday morning. It’s my Tuesday nights and my middle of the days. This scene plays out whenever the fuck it feels like it. This isn’t my every day, but my any day. I don’t want to live this way, but my brain doesn’t give a shit. Depression is a narcissistic disease. It doesn’t care that other people are depending on me, that people love me, that I love them. Depression is spiteful. In spite of medication and my beautiful life, I struggle with suicidal thoughts.
My awareness of what suicide does to a family is almost a curse in itself (My uncle committed suicide when I was 6 years old). It imprisons me in this revolving state. Because I have seen first hand what suicide does to those left behind, I won’t make the conscious decision to end my life.
People say live life to the fullest. I feel cheated of that concept. I can’t erase the neurons that collided in my brain, due to the trauma I endured as a child. I can’t undo the damage responsible for feeding my predisposed genes.
I’ve worked on working around them. I’ve talked it out, I’ve medicated to balance life and I’ve just trudged through. I love my children with all my heart and soul. But it is with that tattered soul that I fear the damage I am doing to them. People say, “Just look at your beautiful babies.” I know how precious they are and how strong their love is for me. That’s what hurts the most.
This is my depression. This is how depression has manifested in motherhood. This is the challenge of living my day to day, surrounded by love, while being encompassed with sorrow and despair. I don’t wear a scowl on my face, as a sign that I am broken. I lace up mental combat boots and march on. I try to be the woman, the wife and the mother that I want to be, and I am most days. Not only because I am trying to protect those that love me, but myself as well.
I must have a light that shines somewhere deep inside me. It’s dim, but enough to keep me alive. It’s enough to keep me moving forward. That is what I will continue to do. That’s all I can do. I don’t know how I am going to win this internal war, but I will. I just pray there will come a day, when I will no longer be my own worst enemy, and finally be able to live fully and freely.
~Originally Published on SisterWives Speak
W.T.F. 