“Did you really want to die?”
“No one commits suicide because they want to die.”
“Then why do they do it?”
“Because they want to stop the pain.”
How To Kill A Rockstar
Suicide: Surviving The Teenage Years
The war raged on within me. Should I live or should I die? I think every person is born with a profound optimism and hope that someday life will improve. But slowly for some, it ebbs away. That was my problem. I kept trying to fight the pain, but I kept losing the fight. Some days I could manage to beat it down to a constant ache, other days it would rage like an all-consuming fire. It never just stopped.
I think by now my older sister was beginning to see the hole. Maybe she had one herself and knew the signs. She followed me everywhere. She became the voice of reason in my head. She tried to stay connected, keeping me in line. She would try to talk to me about what was going on in our lives, but there was little we could do. She tried to hang on, but I was growing up, and out of control. The problem was by that time, I had the ideology that if they were going to call me crazy, I would act that way. I was so wild and unapproachable by that time that anything that looked like normal, was impossible. I would challenge anyone who tried to get close or to hang with me. I found that the more crazy they were the better I liked them. I would hang with anyone that knew how to get rid of the pain. It had taken over my life.
By the time I was 15 I had a following. I was fearless. When your not afraid of dying and you look for death, nothing is out of the question. I had no fear. I would get in my friends’ cars and drive them at 120 mph. I drank moonshine and beer together. I would get into fights with people twice my size. They learned I was crazy and wouldn’t stop, so they learned to stay away from me. I had found a way to fight back the pain. I buried myself in drugs and alcohol. I thought if I couldn’t kill myself maybe they would do it for me. I had a high tolerance when it came to alcohol, so I could hold more than anyone I knew. But getting rid of the pain meant getting out of control. I chose to be out of control over the pain.
I hit another emotional brick wall when I was 16. I had been in and out of my parent’s house and on my own, since I was 14. They had decided that if I was going to self destruct, they needed me gone so I wouldn’t take everyone with me. I took an overdose of barbiturates. I had gotten the medicine from my parents’ house. It was when they had let me stay for a few days. They needed some money and I had it. One of my parent’s had one-time prescription for a spider bite. I “borrowed” the car and drove to where I worked. I had taken the medication before I left the house. I got there and went in the back door. They had walked back to the door when they seen me come in and asked why I was there. They had told me to go home earlier because I got into a fight with another employee who I had been hanging out with at the time. I told them I was there to finish the fight. What they didn’t know was that I had come to give everyone a reason to hate me before I died. I was on my way out.
They knew something was wrong when I started screaming at my boss. I wasn’t someone that liked to raise my voice, even when angry. They immediately called the police. Some of the employees cornered me in the back and wouldn’t let me leave. The police arrived, tackled me and put me in handcuffs. I wouldn’t tell them who I was. I passed out as I was laying there.
The next thing I remember is hearing voices. I opened my eyes to see that I was at the hospital. I couldn’t keep my eyes open, but I did hear the doctor say that too much time had passed and that they couldn’t do anything. My mom asked if she could just take me home, that the police had released me into her custody. I passed out again and when I woke up, I was at home being shaken by my mom. She said that the doctor told her to shake me awake every few minutes when my breathing slowed down. I have never heard of that since, and I don’t know if she made it up, but I guess it worked. I was mad that she had done that. They couldn’t understand that I just wanted to go. For just a little while I felt no pain. I was free of it. I had reached a place that I was untouchable. I just wanted to get away as soon as I could.
It was a couple of weeks before I got to a point where I could function again. My older sister volunteered to move out of my parents’ house and get a place for us. She had just turned eighteen, and I’m sure, wanted to get out of the situation too. Little did she know what a bad idea that was. We found a place that was cheap. We moved in with lawn furniture for chairs and mattresses on the floor. We both found jobs, and she made me promise to finish school. I told her that I would try. We tried to make it work. We both got in with the wrong people. She ended up moving in with some friends and I had to go back to my parents.