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I recently started seeing my T. again after being away six months at the end of the world. Toward the end of my stay there, I'd emailed to ask if we could pick it up where we'd left it off. By phone. I didn't know if she'd ever done it that way. I could sit on my couch if she wanted and we'd just pretend she was sitting on her chair across from me.
Before getting back to Montreal, I stayed a few days in Sept-Īles trying to figure my current work situation out. One night I went to visit some friends I had there, had quite a bit to drink, had quite a bit to forget - those six months, the last 2 especially, they were really hard. I never wanted to live that again.
Six months earlier I'd been working in Ottawa. Government job. Exactly the job I was supposed to get when I graduated. It was while I was there that I started looking for jobs at the end of the world. I think I wanted to go on the edge of it and see if I could jump off.
With my friends, that night, I said that I'd be quitting this job too. Go back to Montreal. Live my life like I've only got one year to live. Do what I want to do. Stop being what other people want of me. My dad was so proud of me when I started working for the MP. Now he could tell me to tell him all the things he thought we should change about politics. My relationship with my dad had been on and off before. Mostly thunder. With the new job he wanted to have weekly Skype appointments. Go figure. Anyway, so I think the last 2 months I stayed because I didn't want to displease my dad, and I was with my friends and I don't know, alcohol's the social lubricant not just with others but with ourselves, and I said that was enough. I don't care what he thinks. I need to care about me.
I see Mrs. E. Oh how I'd never been so happy to see her and I saw it in her eyes that she was happy too. I told her that I was going to stay on unemployment insurance for a while (I managed a deal with my ex-boss to lay me off for lack of work); that I was going to live this year like it was my last one.
She said something like what did I mean. I didn't get into it; told her something about you know, how people who find out they have cancer? I want to pretend I have cancer and do all the things I've never done because I wasn't true to myself.
The truth is - I didn't tell her - the reason for the year is because I really do think I only have one year left to live. I've seen in the past few months that my dark moments have sort of changed. I've had suicidal ideas since I was 16, I've acted on them a number of times but I don't think any attempt was ever serious. I think I was seeking attention. But in the last few months, those ideas have changed. They've become more... like this is actually a viable option. Ha. Viable death.
I thought about it in Natashquan in the last two weeks before I left. I thought about it and had the same thought process as I usually have in Montreal: I can't do it because I can't do that to my landlords. Real nice people. Village people. People who don't need to see a hanging girl. That's what had changed: I didn't think about my friends or family.
I always thought about my friends and family - that is the *only* thing that's ever stopped me from doing it...
I feel like my best friend must have felt in the few months that led to her suicide. A bit more neutral. A bit less desperate. A bit more... how do you say... accepting of my fate. Fate. A year. I wrote an email to Mrs. E last week, a short one. It said I had lied. That actually I thought I really wasn't doing well despite all the thrill I've been living since I've been back.
I didn't send the email. I was crying so much as I wrote it. It wasn't a suicide note, it was just admitting defeat. I've always thought I was someone that was easy to defeat. The smallest little bumb in the road, that's it, I give up.
But the truth is, that's not the truth and in the past week I've had a pretty good confirmation of it. After the unsent email I ended up on google. Montreal/borderline. Another email was sent. A response was received.
If I'm so easy to defeat, how is it that I've wanted to die for so long and now that I've gone into neutral about it, that I don't even think about my parents anymore, that I feel like my best friend used to say: they don't understand, they can't be mad at you; if that's true why, now, would I choose to get in touch with another therapist? It's not like I do this very often. I lost faith in medical professionals a long time ago. I didn't really have faith when I sent the email, but when she wrote back, I don't know, I felt it.
I just needed to say it. Like the last post, I feel weak but hopeful. I trust myself a little more.
Should this not work out though, I am very concerned.