When I look back - I have things I regret. Who doesn’t?
I look back and I regret so much, I barely have pride. I’ve come so far from the hell I found myself in. Smoking, drinking, drugs. Amazingly, I kept sex as sacred, so I suppose I could have fallen further.
I thought of killing myself so many times. Driving a blade into my own body, through my stomach, or seeing how quickly I could take every single painkiller we had, washed down with bleach or vodka - it was different depending on the day. Then finally, jumping to my death. I found myself staring off a high drop one night. It was in the middle of nowhere, a long fall of a concrete bridge in the middle of a national park. They might have never found me. And as I sat there, the hardest thing was the thought of leaving my family with nothing. No body, no closure. And I couldn’t. So I slowly went home. And began clawing myself painfully out of the pit.
One of the things that still strikes me is if I had killed myself, I would have died a martyr.
The people that bullied me would have lamented my death. The girls that had mocked me for being fat would have cried that I was too beautiful for this world. Even worse, the people that had stood by, silently, while I was in hell, would have suddenly taken an interest in me, wishing they had seen it coming.
There would have been a small pocket of true friends, their grief measured in true tears. Their pain measured in shock. They may have seen it, not realised it, or even thought that I wasn’t that close to the brink.
And the people that pushed and pushed until I could take no more would sing my praise. We create our dead. It’s disgusting and so fucking poetic.
And the most fucked up thing is I still have bad days where I look back and I’m trying to remember why I didn’t do it.
They would have called me beautiful.