I still think about suicide all the time.
Like every single day really.
It’s hard. To be in pain every minute of every day.
This morning was especially bad. I had a hard time getting out of bed, and the pain was wretched, and my mom just laid on the bed with me and talked to me while I waited in vain for the pain pills to kick in.
But they never really did.
And so I ended up taking more than the recommended dose of hydrocodone so that I could stand upright long enough to get through a shower.
I hadn’t showered since Monday, and today was Thursday and four days is really the longest an adult should go between washing themselves regardless of how bad their right ribs hurt. Plus, my little sister had a very important doctor’s appointment in the afternoon that she really wanted me to go to with her, and when I see people I’m not related to I like to be semi-clean. So, I summoned all my strength and cleaned my hair and washed my body and put clean underwear on and went to the appointment.
But the pain pills only last so long. And I’m getting to the end of my monthly supply, which means I have to make each dose stretch as long as possible, lest I run out and have to go through crazy withdrawal symptoms on top of my insane amounts of rib pain.
And so, I spent more of the day in pain than I did not in pain.
And I thought about suicide a lot.
At one point, my mom and sister and I were in a department store and the two of them went to the bathroom and I waited on a uncomfortable wooden bench and I was in so much pain that I couldn’t even hold myself upright long enough to wait for them so I had to lay down on the bench and all I could think was, “I just want this to be over. I just want to be dead.”
And I was thinking, “I’m here, in a department store, with probably at least a hundred other people, and I feel so alone, so sad. And with all these people around me, I have no idea how to ask for help.”
We walked the aisles of a Barnes and Noble and I searched and searched for a book about pain. I wanted to find something, anything by someone who had endured what I was going through. Something real, about what it’s like to live this way.
But nothing. I couldn’t find anything.
I looked at every single book in the health section and the medical section and the women’s health section and the self-improvement section and I couldn’t find anything real. No memoirs about people dealing with pain day in and day out and surviving it.
And I started crying.
Because I feel alone. Because I feel like maybe nobody understands how hard this is. Because I feel like the doctors maybe don’t believe me. Because I feel like I have a broken rib that just doesn’t show up on any X-rays or MRIs.
And I pray for God to give me relief. But he never answers.
So I just pray to die.
But God never answers that one either.
I know, in my head, things that make me not kill myself. I know that it would devastate my family. I know that I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t needed. I know that it would be really dumb to kill myself.
But the pain. It just messes with your head.
It makes you crazy so much quicker than you ever think it would.