A few years back, my uncle killed himself.

I remember my mom calling us and telling us that my uncle had died of a self inflicted gun shot wound. I could make the argument that he killed himself because of just being diagnosed with cancer. He took care of my grandparents who died a pretty miserable death from cancer. I could make the argument it was because my parents were buying a house three hours away from him. That his support system was leaving and as much of a hermit as he already was that this would isolate him even more. That he didn’t want to live life without them. I could make the case that it was the combination of the two. We will never know.

At first I blamed myself. Considering how long I’ve fought my own battle with suicidal thoughts, I should have noticed the signs. For the most part I’ve gotten over that. Or at least it’s so numb to me right now that I can’t feel guilt. What I do feel? Anger. Jealousy. I wanted to die. I’ve wanted to kill myself for so long. He did it. He succeeded. That should have been me that died. He had the courage to do something I didn’t. I was mad at myself. Why did he have the courage that I couldn’t? How come he was strong enough and I wasn’t? He’s already killed himself. It’s not like I can put my mom through that pain again by killing myself. And then the guilt of being mad at someone who was hurting enough to end their life.

At the same time living is hard. And honestly I don’t even know where to start to explain this. Most days I’m ok but there’s still quite a few that I’m not. There’s still nights that I cry trying to figure out what my purpose is. It is easier to see my purpose as a mom when the kids are little but what happens when Jacob gets older and I feel like I’m not needed anymore?

A lot of times I feel like I’m not good enough to live. Like it’s my fault that Erik yells. That if I was a better mother I would be able to protect the kids from him yelling. If I was a better wife Erik wouldn’t yell. If I was a stronger mom I would have left already.

I deserve to die. Or at least I don’t deserve to live. I’ve always felt that way. I was never a good enough student. I am never a good enough daughter. I am not pretty enough. Or skinny enough. Not strong enough. Not enough.

I feel like such a loser because I can’t even be happy right. There are a lot more people with much bigger issues than me and I don’t have a right to feel this bad.

I get that the probability that I will go through with killing myself is zero, but the pain of wanting to die is still real and intense. I’m not silently suffering for attention. This hurts and I feel so alone.

Leave a Reply