I’ve been thinking about killing myself for years. I’ve stood in front of my bathtub with a razor at my wrists, had a full bottle of pills in my hand, and picked out trees that I could crash my car into. I’m not really sure why I’ve never gotten any further. Maybe I’m afraid. Maybe I’m smarter than I think. Maybe I’m so afraid of becoming like my mother that it stops me. That’s probably my biggest fear now. I’m not afraid of dying, I’m afraid of being crazy. I’m afraid of hurting everyone I care about.
I’m afraid of having to go home and deal with it. I dream about running away. I never realized how bad home was until I left. I never realized that other people’s mothers didn’t scream at them every time they couldn’t find a dish, the vacuum, or a piece of paper. Other people’s mothers didn’t throw things at them, didn’t threaten to kill themselves, didn’t lock themselves in a room.
Having your mother get mad at you for some tiny thing and then threaten to kill herself is one of the worst feelings in the world. You’re paralyzed. You’re a horrible person. You’ll do anything to make it better. After all, she’s your mother. She’s your best friend and worst enemy. She’s the person that says she loves you more than life itself. She’s also the same person who tells you that you’re stupid, you’re useless, that she doesn’t even want to see your face again.
Her opinion of you is what matters the most. She never apologizes. She never admits she’s wrong. All those things she said about you are still true. You carry those things with you. You try to do better, you try to do better than everyone. You’re still never good enough (when she’s angry) and you just need to try harder, work harder, do more (when she’s happy). When you finally get away, the guilt still never leaves.
She’s your mother, yet part of you hates her. Part of you hates what she did to you.
Your friends and boyfriend don’t understand why you don’t let anyone see you cry. They don’t understand why you can’t deal with emotion. You don’t really understand why yourself. You’ve been dealing with it for most of your life after all. You don’t tell your boyfriend that when he gets angry, part of you cowers in fear, part of you worries that its going to happen again.
So you choose silence. You hate talking about your problems. Sometimes it makes you ill. You hate sympathy. You hate it when people acknowledge the problems.
You’re fine. You’ve always been fine. You’re fine now. It takes a lot for you to even admit to yourself that you’re not fine, so you don’t, and you drown yourself in a chorus of comfortable disbelief.