I have wanted to kill myself since I was very young. This sounds sensational but it really isn’t meant to be. My mum caught me clambering out my bedroom window before my tenth birthday. I had written a will and tucked it in a vent in my bedroom wall. Toys to my sister, Roald Dahl collection to my cousin – if you were wondering what I had to ‘pass on’.
I got on with it until at 15 I went to the doctor’s because I kept being sick. All the time, just little dollops of sick throughout the day. They gave me some Pepto-Bismol but that didn’t work. I had blood tests for stomach ulcers but I didn’t have one. I don’t remember what I said but the Doctor looked at me one day and said ‘Maybe to treat the symptoms we need to treat the cause’ and he pointed to my head. I burst out crying and left the surgery with a Prozac prescription.
I didn’t take them for long. It was upsetting my mum and making things tense between us. I wanted to be better but I wanted to be better for her more than me. I spent some time looking at them all in a pile, popped out their silver pockets, green and cream little pills. I threw them away.
My first boyfriend was older than me. We met because he sold my mum some coke. She owed him the money after the party and he came round to collect it. He asked her for my number (!) and that was it. I thought he was incredible. He had a moped and his eyes were different colours. He would come over and we’d make a bed on the living room floor out of sofa cushions so we could lie next to each other. Otherwise we’d be in my single bed my room with my little sister. Not ideal for kissing all night. He noticed me.
My mum realised I needed my own space. We got given a caravan by a local vicar for free and so I lived in the garden in that. I lost my virginity in that caravan. I didn’t tell him that I was loosing my virginity. In fact I lied and told him I had done it before with someone called ‘Harry Brown’ because I wanted to look cool and I was lying quite a lot at the time. Just little lies, because I didn’t believe anything I said mattered so I decided I could say whatever. I started smoking weed a lot. I liked it because he did and he liked me. This repeats itself through out my relationships.
He was my first ‘savior’. Another pattern. I don’t have a Dad. Well, I do but he is pretty much non-existent. He’s much older than my Mum. They broke up before I was born because of his infidelity. He has lots of children by lots of different women. He wasn’t a part of my development as a child. Do I have ‘daddy issues’? Fuck you.
I left my first one for the next one. He was bad and I wanted that. I was hurting myself by being around him. I knew it all along and I reveled in it. We got a mutual drug addiction, we fought horrifically, he threw me around, out of a window on a February night, out of his car in the middle of nowhere. I needed him, he gave me all I wanted, hatred, contempt and pain – all for myself, obviously. When we finally broke up properly he put a video of us having sex on Facebook to show ‘everyone what a bitch she really is’. It didn’t matter anyway, as I didn’t care about myself and I didn’t think I would be alive for much longer.
I met my next one after I tried to kill myself the first time. I took an overdose of my medication, which I can’t remember, when I started taking and which I am still on now. I meant this overdose. It didn’t work. He was an acquaintance from my hometown. I was in mental hospital, it was snowing and he messaged to say he hoped I could go outside to make a snowman. I couldn’t but it didn’t matter. He noticed me.
He loved me and I loved him. So much. He had so much positivity. He was alive and happy about being so. This was so refreshing. He encouraged my happiness but he didn’t dismiss my sadness either. He was very caring. Throughout our relationship I continued my campaign of hatred towards my body that had been going on for years, cutting my legs in the bath, letting the blood run down the plug so no one knew. He knew, and he loved me anyway. We moved in together. My depression spiraled but I had him next to me. I started taking drugs again, abusing drugs. I didn’t notice him drifting because I didn’t want to. I just wanted to take drugs and feel dead. I burnt holes in my arms whilst he slept beside me. He left because he loved someone else.
I didn’t leave my room for 6 months. My drug addiction became very serious. If I didn’t have any I would meticulously scrape it off the tissues that I had blown my nose on when I did. I’ve never told anyone that before. I was very ill.
I survived. I met someone else. I got pregnant and had an abortion last year. I think I denied myself the happiness of a child because my campaign of self-hatred rampages on. Also he’s young and has ‘career prospects’. I wasn’t granted mitigating evidence from my university because this pregnancy was ‘an error in my judgment’. A man told me this from behind his desk whilst looking at my medical records on his computer screen.
This is a short compendium of the men in my life. I do not blame them but their involvement in this car crash becomes increasingly fascinating to me.