Being out of town and on the road for a month gave me lots of time to think. I also got to see many of my very closest friends; had many heart to hearts, shed tears, and got some rest. Several times during the month I’d think about a blog post, but I like posting in solitude with no distractions. In a tiny trailer with 2 kids, there isn’t true private time. I often shed tears while writing, and certainly didn’t want to have to explain that to my kids. So now I’m home with several “ideas” to write about.
Over the years, I’ve had many long term bouts with depression. I’m on medications and trying to get control. But because of that, drs often have to ask “have you thought about dying” (they are actually asking “are you gonna off yourself”). Well the answer to have I THOUGHT ABOUT IT is YES. Will I off myself – NO. Am I suicidal right now NO. Do any of you reading this need to get worried. NO!!!! So relax and keep reading.
The truth is I’ve had many thoughts about dying and killing myself and disappearing etc. At times I’ve had more serious thoughts. As a teen, twice I took too many Tylenol. Or thought I had. When the dose is 1 pill, 9 seemed like a lot! I had the intent to kill myself. Part of me wanted to die. But there was another part that I guess stopped me from taking more and more. Granted – that was the last 9 in the bottle. Who knows. I didn’t even pass out. Nobody even really knew about it.
In university I was bulimic. I was so desperate to be thin, but I just needed to eat. I had to eat. I’d try and not eat but by the end of the day I’d scarf down whatever. Then I’d feel guilty so I’d puke. I got good at it. I didn’t really care if it would harm my throat etc. I wanted to lose weight. And I did. And I got compliments. It was great. Until I passed out at the toilet one night. SCARY. I realized I had to change my ways. So I began eating, and occasionally puked. I stopped myself from puking. Eventually I just gained weight and tried to accept it. But by then I had my DH (my dear husband) and I wasn’t as worried about being THIN to be accepted. DH loved me. I didn’t want to hinder my health or die, so I vowed never to induce my vomiting again. I’ve stayed true to that vow. Unfortunately the binge eating still exists. Another battle, another blog.
For years my dad has said he isn’t afraid of dying. He said, he didn’t WANT to die, but wasn’t afraid of it. I always found that statement very unsettling and upsetting. How can you NOT be afraid of dying? its DEATH! I couldn’t comprehend how ANYONE, young or old, healthy or terminal could accept death peacefully. I just found the whole idea SCARY.
On TV I’ve seen plot lines where someone has died and the loved one touches the body or lies with it etc. I distinctly remember the Grey’s anatomy character Izzy lying in bed with just died Denny and I thought EWWW. How can you touch a dead body? Isn’t that gross?
Then DH died. I was so grief stricken. I immediately crawled into his hospital bed. I had waited 3 weeks to lie with him. Now I was never going to again. I wasn’t concerned about the dead body. I was just with my DH. I didn’t ever want to leave him. I had to be dragged away. At his viewing I kissed him. I touched him. it wasn’t gross or morbid. These were going to be my last moments EVER with him. I loved him. Suddenly Death was something different.
In the time since he’s gone I’ve had a couple of psychic messages from him. He is existing in a realm outside of our understanding. Suddenly I don’t fear death at all.
I don’t WANT to die. I’ve thought about it. There have been some very troubled moments. I even have a plan. Heck I’ve had more than one plan. But a plan doesn’t mean action. It merely indicates that I’m a methodical, organized, over thinker of things. But knowing that I’ll see DH again, puts me at peace about dying. I’m not scared of it. I get what my dad says now. He’s not ready, but he is prepared.
In the past year I refused to take a lot of my medications. I’m diabetic. I NEED to take these meds. So my one therapist told my I was “passive suicidal”. I didn’t care. My response was “ok sure, whatever” I was too depressed to care. I didn’t really enjoy living. I knew I had to live for my kids. At times that seemed like a small concession when if I actually died I could be with DH and NOT deal with all the crap being dished out at me in the here and now. But I kept living. Probably slowly killing myself with poor health. But I didn’t want to die. So I changed. I started to care. I started to take my meds again. I’m working on improving.
Each day I’m working on living. I’m trying to lose weight so I’ll need smaller granny panties. But I’m startled to realize that I don’t fear or even dread death. It really doesn’t scare me at all anymore. It’s no longer a black ominous void. So although I’m not yet ready to die, I am at peace with the idea.
And that’s me.
