My younger sister has told me that because of my attempts on my life that she has come to terms with me dying prematurely and that she has pre-emptively grieved. Needless to say my heart sank and my eyes filled with tears when I heard this
I hate how much my actions have affected her. I hate even more so the fact that she sticks around knowing that she will be hurt again by me. I don’t believe that suicide is selfish, but I feel that I am for allowing her to become emotionally attached to someone who has a tendency to go into self-destruct. When I look at her, all I see is her pain and my guilt. How could I have done this to someone who has done nothing to deserve it?
Over time I have come to terms with her decision to stick around. I don’t understand that decision but hey ho. From this experience, I am acutely aware of how my illness has a way of making me feel like a burden to people who I disclose my struggles to. This is why I would never turn to a family member for help in a crisis. It is also why not many people know about my mental health issues.
As much as I know this is not true, my mind questions “why tell someone about it if you know that they will be unable to help?”. This is why I am rarely truthful to my psychiatrist or support worker. If I say that I am severely self-harming, all that they will be able to offer me is advise on wound care and when to seek medical attention and a contact number of the crisis team. They are better off not knowing in my opinion.
It is the same when I have an appointment to see a GP about a physical ailment. They look at my notes and history and ask away. How are you feeling? Have you been having dark/suicidal thoughts? Are you self-harming? I know they want to cover their back but please, if you don’t ask then I won’t tell.
All I want to scream at people is that you don’t really want to know the answers to your questions, please don’t ask. If someone could waive their magic wand over me and rid me of my self-destruction then maybe I would. I am only a muggle though and yet to see evidence of magic. Perhaps if I could find someone with a perfect patronus, maybe I could be free of the bloody dementors sat on my shoulders. I’m sick of this emptiness and the rattling of the soul-sucking. I feel as if I am rotting away in an Azkaban that fills my head.