Tag Archives: suicide

The Morning After I Killed Myself, I Woke Up.

*Thought this was a pretty epic story by Meggie Royer – for anyone who has thought about the day after it’s all over. 

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.
By Meggie Royer
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The Hidden Masquerades & Mutuality.

My story is about a friendship I formed two years ago, it seems like much longer. We were two sad little girls sitting all alone with attachment issues.

One of my many nights of drinking, excessive drinking. ‘Classily’ indulging in two bottles of wine to myself, past the point of inebriation. Tonight was new, it was her house. She was this small eccentric ball of fun, like a small child chasing the butterflies. She was beautiful, so comfortable and alluring in her uniqueness. In my own way I was fascinated and mesmerised by how she drew people to her. I didn’t realise then the underlying toll that she was putting on herself by being part of this social gathering, by pretending to fit in.

Social_anxiety_by_FallenRox

The hours slowly passed and I was drunker(I wonder how that was even possible), thinking that I might make a pass at her but undecided if she was interested. It wasn’t what I expected when I walked into the dark room where she had been sitting, quietly isolating herself from the others with tears falling down her face. All my intentions quickly dissipated, this was different, this was real. Her body shook, physically racked by her emotions. I sat across from her, waiting for her to speak, uncertain if I should embrace her. Through the tears and jumbled words I found out that today was her dad’s birthday, her dad who had willingly taken his own life, like my own had.

I understood too well the pain that the selfish action causes to those around them. I asked her about him, trying to calm her breathing, I later confided in her something that only a handful of my closest friends new, the inner workings of person who also suffered from the abandonment of one’s parent, the build of attachment and trust issues. The deaths created foundations for our negative mental health. In her, I saw myself, I was the quieter subtly version of her, but we were still the same. Our friendship grew on the mutual hurt created by our parents. No one else understood in its entirety, no one could relate.

Her anxiety ruled her every day, not always able to leave the house. She would sit under all the covers on her bed, waiting for the day to be over, finding some comfort in the warmth. Her heart would start beating so fast, the quick panic written on her face, I could rarely calm her. The simplest of things would make her over-analyse, layer and layer of potential bad would fill her thoughts. The triggers making her fight the waves of nausea and the shaking confusion that would afflict her. I couldn’t make her panic go away, she was immune to the calm voices around her, the panic amplifying. I loved her and I still love her, she is a beautiful person that is slowly finding stability now, being more comfortable and happy for the first time in a year. I saw her the other day, the difference was overwhelming. In my own way I was the extremely proud mother.

1381394_839421942734750_954659834668011364_nMy pocket rocket.

An Attempt At Being Truthful About Suicide & Media Correlations.

I would think about suicide often, with a morbidly intense curiosity, never with the ability to carry out any plans. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about the day after the act, thinking of what I would be doing. My misconceptions of death were my driving interest, pivotal to understanding the finality associated with death which I clearly didn’t comprehend. I started to think of suicide at 7 years old, not in any strong capacity, a more unhealthy preoccupation about something I didn’t understand. Death scared me, the thoughts kept me up late at night; I would always think “what if I wasn’t around? Would things be better? Would I be better off?”.

A child is given the simple idea that when people die they go to ‘sleep’, they look asleep and as far as their parents are concerned the pets went to ‘sleep’ when they were put down. Early on we are given these ideas, fragmented concepts that hide actual truths. All through my school life my preoccupation was present, not always in the forefront of my thoughts, but always present none the less. In my mind I doubt I would ever have the nerve to carry out the act, the thought of blood stilling or hearts stopping makes me recoil away, intentional death becomes a monstrous act. It’s a monstrous act because most intentional acts of death are forms of violence and anger, sometimes premeditated or acts of manslaughter. Society negates death in such a light that even for ethical reasons it will always be frowned upon.

I write this after successfully drinking a bottle of red wine and finding out that a work colleague had opening tried to commit suicide on numerous occasions, publicised in our local paper about the realness of teen suicide and awareness. It made me wonder if I was just like her, except I wasn’t, I might be more sadistic and morbid, but I had no intentions, my suicide ponderings were not only during depression but also during times of great happiness in my life. I start to question why a person who is happy actually contemplates suicide on a regular basis. No person can adequately contrast their personal experiences or their inner turmoils, each individual is innately different with how they interpret and experience life as a whole. I start to wonder if this is a normal state for people or am I outside the norm without realising it, can it simply be that the norm is whatever a person wants to make it, what is normal for one person isn’t always normal for another.

I’m starting to question my own mental health awareness advocacy, I want people to be aware, but what they do with that information is entirely up to the person. It’s strange that I actually frowned the whole time of was reading my colleagues article, whose work pretence was good I will admit, but does admitting mental illness to a wider audience actually help yourself or is it merely about raising a generalised awareness to a public that is generally overwhelmed with other stimuli offered by media that dominates their thoughts? My pretence is focused more internally, I prefer to write, be anonymous, protecting myself, protecting my family from the hurt if they knew the truths from my writings. Putting an article in the local newspaper is following a new trend to make mental illness a ‘trending’ topic, highlighting its need for change and help.

the_suicide_by_navidoutlaw-d3ao76hI see the publications as sometimes detrimental, people start to only see the negatives associated with mental illness, the overloading of negatives creating the stigma that so many people in the mental health awareness advocacy are trying to remove. The publications are trying to make the public more aware, but they are failing to educate to a higher extent, the public doesn’t understand mental illness to any great degree, they see and read its consequences and why it’s an issue, but they fail to understand why some people suffer from mental illness and why others do not. They can even read the symptoms that people suffer, but that doesn’t make the content relatable. Yes this is a depressing post, but it allows me to vent the rage about mental illness and media, in its own way it’s a form of censorship. Only those who experience mental illness can help others, public media doesn’t always have to be the way to achieve this, often categorising and pigeon-holing mental illness creating misconceptions. End rant. Thankyou wine for allowing me to write tonight.