deepundergroundpoetry.com
My Sucidal History
To be suicidal or not be suicidal?-- That is the question.
When the truth is, one does not become suicidal because they want to, one does not wake up one day and try on Manic Depression as if it were a new skin that they needed to see fit right. The truth is, my suicidal thoughts stem back to the root of my childhood when I would wonder if the fall from the oak tree would kill me, or how many bones would I break if I jumped from the second floor window of my apartment? Oh yes, I thought about it daily, the carving knives became icons of self-indulgence, the darkness that hung over my head made me want to die more and more as the days went on. My mania gave me the cliche mask of seeming happy enough that no one thought to worry about me when under my long sleeves were scars, cuts, burns, bruises and gashes. No one knew and no one needed to know. But where did this come from, this suicidal mind? I must have been born with it because I thought about it when I was young and I was plagued by the whispering in my ears, the strange things I would see walk through my walls and then fly out my window. The endless rabbit holes, I felt like I was falling down-- Where did it come from?-- I think I know.
When I was young and my father had succumbed to demon rum, and liked to chase it down with my blood stained body, he sometimes instead of wanting to kill me-- Tried to kill himself, I do remember countless calls my mother got saying that my father had been arrested because he had tried jumping off a building or tried stabbing himself with a knife. Of my dear father you gave me this disorder and daddy's little girl I will always be cursed to be, not only with your green eyes but also with your genetic disorder that has turned me into something abnormal, something that can't look at a knife, a pen, a shoelace, a bracelet-- without finding some kind of self-harm that I could use it for. But let us remember the days when I refuse to move from my bed and even the carving of the bloody lines on my legs and arms becomes a task of great difficulty. Oh mommy dearest this is where I must thank you, for those nights after my father left you didn't leave your room, you didn't eat, you didn't talk, you didn't notice the rope burn on my neck because I tried to die. Oh so it is you that I must blame for the endless days when I refuse to move and then finally pull myself from my coffin and try to find som salvation left in my lonely life.
So I have found the source of my mania and the source of my depression, a double dose did my genetic go through-- Aren't I a lucky girl?
But everytime I try to die-- You look at me with disapproval mother, did you yourself not try and overdose on pills because my father left after beating the shit out of you?
And when you left father-- You told me I was dead to you, and that is the sentence that I will never forget.
And when your new husband mother raped me and made me even more broken then what I was-- You ignored it and looked the other way.
When my best friend left me-- You told me to get over it.
When my innocence was stolen from between the sheets.
When I was beaten by both of you, my loving parents.
When I had the abortion.
When I miscarriaged.
When I was beaten by the one person I tried to actually love.
When I tried to kill myself. . .
With the noose. . .
With the knife. . .
With the pills. . .
With the gun. . .
With the razors. . .
In the lake. . .
And the sleeping pills again. . .
No one cared, and no one listened to me.
I was crazy and that's all I was cracked up to be.
It's my fault that I'm like this, isn't it? You didn't do anything mother and neither did you father. . .
NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNo
It's all my fault.
Bad person.
Bad student.
Bad daughter.
Bad girlfriend.
Bad wife.
Bad mother.
Bad girl.
Stupid girl.
Trying to kill herself again?
Back into the asylum with you, ya wayward victorian whore-- What did you think you'd get for becoming a scarlet letter and destroying your marriage.
You're suicidal.
You're attention deficent.
You're anxiety.
You're paranoid.
You're fat.
You're stupid.
You're crazy.
You're antisocial.
You're manic
You're depression.
You're a whore.
You're a broken girl.
You're a nobody with a pipe dream.
You're a anybody in a crowd.
You're no one.
"Family history of manic depression?"
Yes.
"Family history of suicide?"
Does it matter?
They wouldn't tell you if you asked.
They hate me.
And it's my fault-- That I'm like this.
Does it matter that my family tree is absolutely littered with suicidal people?
Does it matter that my family is absolutely the main reason that I hate my life and so tried ending it many, many, many, times?
My suicidal history-- Is for me to know and everyone else to pretend doesn't exist.
When the truth is, one does not become suicidal because they want to, one does not wake up one day and try on Manic Depression as if it were a new skin that they needed to see fit right. The truth is, my suicidal thoughts stem back to the root of my childhood when I would wonder if the fall from the oak tree would kill me, or how many bones would I break if I jumped from the second floor window of my apartment? Oh yes, I thought about it daily, the carving knives became icons of self-indulgence, the darkness that hung over my head made me want to die more and more as the days went on. My mania gave me the cliche mask of seeming happy enough that no one thought to worry about me when under my long sleeves were scars, cuts, burns, bruises and gashes. No one knew and no one needed to know. But where did this come from, this suicidal mind? I must have been born with it because I thought about it when I was young and I was plagued by the whispering in my ears, the strange things I would see walk through my walls and then fly out my window. The endless rabbit holes, I felt like I was falling down-- Where did it come from?-- I think I know.
When I was young and my father had succumbed to demon rum, and liked to chase it down with my blood stained body, he sometimes instead of wanting to kill me-- Tried to kill himself, I do remember countless calls my mother got saying that my father had been arrested because he had tried jumping off a building or tried stabbing himself with a knife. Of my dear father you gave me this disorder and daddy's little girl I will always be cursed to be, not only with your green eyes but also with your genetic disorder that has turned me into something abnormal, something that can't look at a knife, a pen, a shoelace, a bracelet-- without finding some kind of self-harm that I could use it for. But let us remember the days when I refuse to move from my bed and even the carving of the bloody lines on my legs and arms becomes a task of great difficulty. Oh mommy dearest this is where I must thank you, for those nights after my father left you didn't leave your room, you didn't eat, you didn't talk, you didn't notice the rope burn on my neck because I tried to die. Oh so it is you that I must blame for the endless days when I refuse to move and then finally pull myself from my coffin and try to find som salvation left in my lonely life.
So I have found the source of my mania and the source of my depression, a double dose did my genetic go through-- Aren't I a lucky girl?
But everytime I try to die-- You look at me with disapproval mother, did you yourself not try and overdose on pills because my father left after beating the shit out of you?
And when you left father-- You told me I was dead to you, and that is the sentence that I will never forget.
And when your new husband mother raped me and made me even more broken then what I was-- You ignored it and looked the other way.
When my best friend left me-- You told me to get over it.
When my innocence was stolen from between the sheets.
When I was beaten by both of you, my loving parents.
When I had the abortion.
When I miscarriaged.
When I was beaten by the one person I tried to actually love.
When I tried to kill myself. . .
With the noose. . .
With the knife. . .
With the pills. . .
With the gun. . .
With the razors. . .
In the lake. . .
And the sleeping pills again. . .
No one cared, and no one listened to me.
I was crazy and that's all I was cracked up to be.
It's my fault that I'm like this, isn't it? You didn't do anything mother and neither did you father. . .
NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNo
It's all my fault.
Bad person.
Bad student.
Bad daughter.
Bad girlfriend.
Bad wife.
Bad mother.
Bad girl.
Stupid girl.
Trying to kill herself again?
Back into the asylum with you, ya wayward victorian whore-- What did you think you'd get for becoming a scarlet letter and destroying your marriage.
You're suicidal.
You're attention deficent.
You're anxiety.
You're paranoid.
You're fat.
You're stupid.
You're crazy.
You're antisocial.
You're manic
You're depression.
You're a whore.
You're a broken girl.
You're a nobody with a pipe dream.
You're a anybody in a crowd.
You're no one.
"Family history of manic depression?"
Yes.
"Family history of suicide?"
Does it matter?
They wouldn't tell you if you asked.
They hate me.
And it's my fault-- That I'm like this.
Does it matter that my family tree is absolutely littered with suicidal people?
Does it matter that my family is absolutely the main reason that I hate my life and so tried ending it many, many, many, times?
My suicidal history-- Is for me to know and everyone else to pretend doesn't exist.
Published 11th Sep 2011
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11th Sep 2011 2:30am
Dear "lord". Is it sadder that I cried while reading this? Or that I have known your words like my own?
11th Sep 2011 4:05am
As ruff and horrible it may be it is the truth and I congragulate you to be able to say it. This made me want to cry,as I have felt the same. A great piece.
