Why I Changed My Mind About Telling You When I Tried To Take My Life

I wrote you a message, several, before I swallowed the bottles of pills, downed them with a raspberry sour, and laid down wearing that blue dress that I never get to wear. After about 15 minutes, the wooziness set in, my thoughts blurred, but not enough for me to second guess the fact that I had sent you anything. Why did you deserve anything? I groggily and shakily reached for my phone, thankfully remembering that Instagram has the “Unsend” option, and deleted them all. I had tried to confide my feelings in you while you were trying to convince yourself that you loved me, yet you still merely scoffed at them, convinced I wanted nothing more than attention.

It’s been months (months? weeks? I can’t remember to be honest, because I do my best to not let myself think about you) since we’ve even spoken. I’ve blocked you on all social media. I’m terrified to see your face. I accidentally ended up at a bar with my friend across the street from a show that you and I were supposed to go to together (I forgot which venue it was at) the other night. Once I figured it out, I closed my tab as fast as as could and left immediately; head down, hood up, just in case you walked out at just the right time.

You’ll never see this, and that’s fine because you don’t need to. This is for me because I don’t have anything for you anymore but residual pain. Although that’s from you than for you.

I don’t blame you for not being able to handle being with someone with a severe mental illness. It’s hard, it takes work. What hurt me was your dismissive, superior, callous, condescending attitude. Your insults, your mockery, the sound of your laughter as I cried, your wild accusations of me “following you to work” despite the fact that you would text me in the middle of the day saying “I’m bored, come visit me”.

It was your inability to make up your mind, I wanted to give you the world. Was I difficult to handle at times? Of course. Were you? Of course.

Was it fun picking you off of the floor while you were blacked out, yelling how much you hate me, telling me to get out, asking me why I’m even there, telling me how much you preferred your life without me? Nope. Did I deal with it anyway? Did I give you nothing but understanding? Yes.

Should I have held you more accountable for your actions instead of relenting the next day as you would bristle up and pick a fight as soon as I tried? Absolutely.

But that’s not what happened, and somehow through all that, I’m the one who suffered, I’m the one who has to go see my doctor two blocks from your work once a week, turning my head and closing my eyes until the bus moves again so I don’t risk the chance of seeing you, even for a split second.

I almost died the other night, I wanted to die. I have my dog, who heard my choking on my own vomit and convulsing, causing him to bark and awaken my roommate just in time to thank.

My last thought before I wanted to die, was first that I wanted to tell you, my VERY last thought, was that you really didn’t deserve to know, and I’m still not sure what that means.

I don’t know if I miss you, or if that’s turned into fear, self-loathing, or if everything that happened at the end just put me in one of the lowest depressive episodes I can remember.

I cry daily. Sometimes I think about you. Sometimes I don’t.

One thing I know I miss is who I thought you were, not who you turned out to be.