My friends (three of them) and I have a tradition on Fridays: we go out to eat. Every Friday at six o'clock. Usually it's our favorite Mexican restaurant, but we've been changing it up a little bit. Recently, I haven't been up to going out, but I don't want to set off alarms or worry them, so I go anyway. I'm pretty good at faking it, it's just kind of exhausting.
Last night was the usual: Mexican food at the best restaurant in town.
For some reason, I couldn't bury the gravity of my thoughts yesterday. It was written all over my face. I wasn't crying (yet), but I was very obviously upset. The one who always drives (we'll call her Nicole), kept asking me what was wrong, and like usual, I said that I was just very tired (which wasn't a lie, I was also very tired). So Nicole dropped the subject at dinner. After dinner, we went out with our fresh firewood to the fire pits at the river. My friends got the fire going and Tyler (not his real name) brought out his guitar. I didn't feel like singing or laughing at jokes that I don't think are funny, so I told them I was going to go sit by the river for a little bit. Surprisingly, they didn't question it.
I walked down to the river and sat on the concrete boat ramp and put my feet in the water. And I just stared at the passing water, mesmerized by the consistency of it. Only Nicole's loud laugh brought me back to reality for moments at a time. In one of those moments that I was actually mentally present, I pondered how I could die there...I could "fall" into the harsh river. No one would survive the torrent of this river, especially at night. So I stared at it long and hard, wondering what it would be like to die by drowning.
And then I started thinking about why I wanted to die, and something I had never considered came to mind. Why do the people helping me at the university care much more than my family does? More than my friends do? I have never felt so listened to and cared about than when I'm talking to the university staff that are paid to care about me. That's quite unfortunate for me. I hate going there. I hate filling out the questionnaire. I hate being called back into an unfamiliar room, just to battle with making eye contact. I hate rating things. The secretaries know me by name. The nurses know me by name. I'm a "frequent flier". I know how people feel about frequent fliers. I've seen it many times at the hospital where my sister works. Often times, these people are suicidal, but lack the funding for any further treatment. They pretend that they are sick, so they have a warm place to stay, even if it's only for a few hours. Maybe they know that the benevolence shown to them is only a professional facade, but pretending that someone cares is worth the trip. The hospital staff are very nice to his/her face, but roll their eyes when the patient turns his/her back. I wonder if it's like that when I walk in those doors to the clinic.
That thought that these people, though professional, care about me more than the people that should, hit me really hard and I started crying and I couldn't stop. I was sobbing. I have taught myself to not want their help or their concern because they have never shown it before. I told my parents about the abuse and they made excuses. I told my sister about the abuse and she basically said "that sucks". My parents knew about the cutting and they didn't say much at all. I told Nicole and Joy (other Friday dinner friend) that I was hurt by them constantly leaving me out, and they said sorry and continued to do so. Two of my siblings saw that my ex boyfriend was creepy long before I did and didn't bother to talk to me about it. That's not the end of it. They brush everything off. No one takes anything seriously. So telling them about my desire to die, telling them my thoughts of suicide would be so completely awful, not because they won't care, but because they WILL care. I know they will care. Everyone will rush to my side with their concern and tell me they love me and they're here for me. They'll huddle around me and ask how I'm doing a million times a day. They'll talk about how strong I am and how important I am in their lives. They'll want to talk about what led me to this state of mind. Why? Why not care before it got to this?
Even now, as I type these words, I'm fighting tears (which is rare...I don't cry very often). So I won't tell them. It will only make it worse.
And if you're wondering...no, my friends didn't notice that I was sobbing by the river. Or maybe they did (cause it's kind of hard to miss a red-eyed swollen face), but didn't want to go there. That wouldn't surprise me. No one wants to go there.
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