A Diary of Me: A Place of Hope, Surviving Suicide by Rae Rose

There is so much death and suicide surrounding us. These are bits and pieces of my story that I have written over the years at my most desperate times. I am not proud of the fact I have struggled with suicidal thoughts and attempts, but I know I am not alone. The fight was hard, and the darkness is still threatening to overtake my brighter days, but I am in a place of hope. I want to live.

Sometimes, I wish I could reach out to the me lost in hopelessness. Maybe back then if I knew of someone else who survived and had found a better life, maybe I wouldn’t have taken the pills, risks, and bad decisions.

Everyone I know who has committed suicide ‘you never saw it coming’. They joked about things I can think back on and say, ‘I should have known’. Still every time it is a shock and sadness and regret are all that are left behind.

These are bits and pieces from a story I wrote from my own experience. This was not very easy for me to write and is harder to share. This is the real me.

I wrote this as a teenager after a particularly annoying “therapy” session. There were so many therapist we were forced to see, but only one got close to the real me. Most psychiatrist fell into two categories; idealist wanting to be cool and who were the easiest to manipulate and play.

The second category had already judged you as a waste of life. These types felt better about themselves by punishing you as if a life without love or care was not punishment enough. The one psychiatrist that even got close to peeling off my mask scared me so badly that I never found the courage to go back.

Detached

She sits there calm, collected, and cool, seemingly detached. For her it is a paycheck, just another day at the office. For me this is my everything laid bare. I want someone to see me, but why should she care. I am just one more throw away kid. We are forced to be here by the state, a pretense of caring.

“Do you or have you ever felt like hurting yourself?” She asks me lwhile ooking down at the pad of paper in her lap.

I know this word game to well. “No, I have never thought to or tried to hurt myself.” I answer even though if you looked at me, really looked at me, you could see from the tears in my eyes or the shift in my glance it is a lie.

Why should I open myself up to this detached well off, white woman? This woman who gets to go home and talk about the street rat she was forced to spend an hour with.

If I felt safe, if I believed for a minute she cared my answer would be:

‘Yes, I want to die. Every day I wake up I want to cry with regret. I want to die so badly I cannot think of anything other than how to die. I have tried so many different pill combinations, any and every pill I can get a hold of I have tried. Honestly I have lost count on how many times I have tried to die.’

Nobody really cares or wants to be bothered. This one is no different. Writing down more than I can say she is barely even here.

I remember some pretense of caring as a youth, but not enough to keep the darkness at bay.

From the age of 7 until I turned 21 I tried to kill myself multiple times. My only solace was hiding in the library reading story after story. Eventually my own stories, poems, and narratives were taking shape. My youth was filled with violence, death, loneliness, and pain. Every day trapped in that hellish abyss I died a little more.

Along with a story of a girl like me who craved and vied for love she would never receive I wrote this poem. I chickened out of cutting myself and instead took a bottle of prescription drugs I found. I hate gagging down pills so taking 20 some unknown pills speaks to my conviction.

Dying

The blood I see gives me the sensation of being high,
It gives me faith I soon shall die,
Let those who loved me not hurt,
Let them look to my memory for comfort,
The world around me becomes a blur,
No longer in pain, no longer unsure,
I take my final breath,
Now I find peace, now I find death.

My first attempt failed, and I just woke up sick and miserable. I was heartbroken.

My second attempt I tried to overdose again. I attempted many other passive aggressive attempts over the years, but I always woke up. A failure even in killing my pathetic self.

Forgotten, I am ready to die,
Alone, unable to even cry,
The cold and bitter rain,
Imprisoned in my own pain,
Loneliness and despair pushes me past insane,
Entrenched in the depravity of shame,
I have nothing left to give,
Unable to find my reason to live,
I take my final breath,
Here I find death.

I would go through vicious cycles of depression, Hate, and desire. I hated my parents so much and all those who told me I would be nothing. They would always tell me I would be nothing more than a prostitute or druggie. My hatred gave me the desire to become more than they allowed.

It was so hard, and I gave up so many times, but I always kept pushing myself. Forcing myself to take one more step. Occasionally I would give up and down a bunch of pills hoping to end my pitiful existence.

Because in the darkness I could never reach the light.

I still struggle with the darkness. I constantly feel like I am on the edge of the abyss. My demons still taunt me. But I am still here. I continue to fight for my husband and children who continue to love me even when I can’t love myself.

By Rae Rose

My name is Rae Rose and I live in the Pacific Northwest. I have always, always loved stories. I love writing, reading, listening and imaging the words coming to life. My youth was not the happiest and it is not an exaggeration when I say stories saved me more than once.

Every story I tell carries a seed of truth. Mine and of those who were not able to survive. Every story is special and personal to my heart. It is my hope that you enjoy the stories and find comfort, love, and laughter in my words.

*Rae Rose (Paiute, Mayan, Japanese) is a writer based in the Northwest. Follow her @Rae_Rose7