3 years ago, today.

Jan 10th 2018 I drove my car at 75mph into a tree off the interstate trying to kill myself.

Do I regret it? No.

Would I do it again? Ooooonly if I was promised it would kill me this time. (you know, remember to take off my seat belt.)

You see, people often praise me in the present, and others like me, as if I have fully recovered and still want to be alive because 3 years has past. They thank me for being alive and that they got the chance to get to know me. Their opinions and emotions border a concept I can not empathize. I wonder if some of them actually believe that the things I have experienced since my last suicide attempt has "opened my eyes and heart and changed my mind about being alive/living." As if it was a close call, and now I'm humbled to be here. I'm not. And I would much prefer to still be dead.

I'm told that the fact I have a loving boyfriend, a clean-safe-warm apartment, okay therapist, and good friends should make my life worth living. But they don't. None of them individually or all together are good enough for me. I don't know why. So I ask myself, why are those things good enough for YOU and everyone else to to stay living? In the search to find the answer to my question I have found out that I do not value nor feel the same pleasure others do with my illnesses. And I no longer blame myself for being different. Because I know if you were me, you'd try killing yourself too. But there are people like me who feel drawn to staying alive due to guilt for their children, I can't count the times people all but said "I'd be gone too... if I didn't have kids."

And I don't have kids, nor want them. But at least I know that I'm not the only one in this world who experiences this phenomenon.

So my response to if my suicide changed my mind about wanting to die??

Fuck no! My environment is healthier and better than the day I tried to take myself out of it though, but my body is the same. Which is why I laugh; a good hardy chuckle.

And don't get you panties in a bunch, this isn't my suicide note, this is me talking about the my daily thoughts and making sense of them by putting them into a blog.

This is the photo I took, mid police chase while about to attempt suicide. (you can see two, maybe three, police vehicles, there are more behind them)

So why haven't I tried again? That's a hard but long question to answer. In short, I have tried again since, but nothing has came as close or as concrete as the pure adrenaline boost I had that pushed my mania over board why being "chased" by the police and having my car's tires popped, in order to try and take me to the hospital. The police had no idea that their stupid little tire spikes at their speed trap was egging me to just get the deed over with. Their focus was on getting me out my vehicle and pulling me over, though I had done nothing wrong, other than, not pull over.

A friend had called the police multiple times and shared with them enough information that worried them so much they skipped calling me to ask if I am okay and instead GPS pinged my cell phone to find me driving home from work in the morning to do their "welfare check up". (This friend is someone no longer in my life and will never again be in my life. Perhaps I'll write a blog about our last interactions.) Of course fleeing and evading the police is a felony charge, I knew this. My goal was to end my life, not get taken to the hospital or to jail. So when they shut down the interstate, by slowing traffic behind me to a stop- there were roughly 8 police vehicles, 4 in each lane; they set up a speed trap a few miles up the road, where they popped my tires, just before one of the Clear Spring exits. I knew it was body bag or jail at this point, I could feel my car decelerating, so I punched the gas and aimed for the nearest tree, heart in my throat. This was it. I looked down and saw my odometer around 75mph. (I understand with popped tires this does change the speed, but I am unsure by how much, it all happen quickly.) And I hit the tree.

From impact to the hopsital most things were a bit of a blur. I remember smelling smoke and choking on breathing, upset that I was still conscious. Upset I was still alive. I remember opening my car door, but falling out with a face full of leaves and dirt. Trying to open my eyes and not being able to? It was really strange. It was just my sense of hearing, smell and touch that seemed left. My face was wet, presumably with tears, my body was cold. For some reason the police had removed my shirt over my head (I wasn't wearing a bra, I never do) and pulled my pants and underwear to my ankles, they didn't go over boots. *shrugs* The EMT's asked me why I was naked, and I had to look down to notice that I was. I should have asked for a rape kit. But it didn't even cross my mind at the time.

They did succeed in taking me to the hospital. Even though they so wanted to take me to jail instead. I wish they did... I can imagine me trying to hang myself there.

This is only a sample of the dark things I think and remember. I now dream about the best way to off myself? The least painful, fastest way? Finding the day with the motivation and all the things I want in place before I go doesn't cross as often as I wish they did. Wanting an organized suicide apparently is not where I excel or success. Thank goodness, right?

WRONG! The thoughts keep spiraling thinking, "how do I get rid of feeling this way." I refuse to resort to recreational drugs or substances to hide my pain. I know many of my peers find relief in their addictions, but it doesn't interest me in the least. They are short lived at best, expensive and destroy your health and body. I know hearing that from someone who is chronically suicidal sounds odd, but for me- if I can't live healthy I don't want to live at all. Finding a balance and acceptance for my disabilities has been something I keep fighting. I can't change how I feel about life. (that I hate it and don't want to be alive) But if I am going to be alive, and not actively trying to kill myself, I'm going to try my hardest to get better. All or nothing. Despite the very little reward. Acceptance has been the biggest coping skill therapy has taught me.

I know most who read this thinks its vile, weird, or worrisome that I still have very little will to live. Poor mental health is serious, it is why I talk about it. There isn't a day in Sean and I's life that we don't know I will inevitably attempt suicide again; unless some freak accident doesn't kill me first. And I hope the next attempt is my last! I hope it works and lets me end this battle with no reward. Or if it fails again that magically it hits a reset button in my brain and I never struggle with wanting to kill myself again. (one is more likely than the other. *wink wink*)

Because living like this is terrible. Its hard to focus on the positive when the things that are suppose to bring me joy, are mere bread crumbs compared to other "normal" peoples' feast of brain pleasure. It has baffled me for years why people are so excited for life and the things that they are given. Logically I see how a good family, environment, employment/career, hobbies and following your dreams can bring them joy. But the equation is different in my brain and just because you plant an apple seed, doesn't mean an apple tree grows. Not in my body. At least not yet.

I have done nothing in my life to endure this much hell with little to no release. I am often angry and jealous that people who can't fathom to understand my illness, have the audacity to tell me that their loves ones are "all the happiness they need." I don't feel that way. Sean doesn't make me feel that way. Sean is not enough for me want to stay alive. Not one is. He is arguablely the best human being I have dated, but holy fuck that is not how I feel about people. He is not my reason for living. He is my bandied. People try and tell me than "there is something out there better and I hope you leave what you cling to now so you can find that happiness." But if the "happiness" they are referring to is my serotonin, it's on low supply and no person place or thing has given me a will to live.

Happiness wasn't in prozac, Cymbalta, Hadol, Welbutrin, Seroquel, Reseridone/Resperdol, Depikote, Effexor, Topamax, Lithium, Lexapro, Lamictal, Deodon, Abilify or Naltrexone.

Happiness wasn't in exercise, yoga, meditation, essential oils, music, vegan/detox diets, sex, love, or sleep either.

And it certainly wasn't in the Mormon cult of or my toxic family upbringing. I do keep looking. I do keep trying, but I haven't found it yet.

I'm trying to put together words and scenarios that would help you understand, but it's like I'm locked up in someone's house, shackled and tethered to a life-long hell. And though I am hungry, and malnourished, my brain, the master of my demise, decides when I will eat and how much. And it's never enough to keep me wanting to be alive. Some days I count the hours until my next feeding, not knowing when it will come. And other times I plan and actively try to never see another feeding again.

Both are hard.

To wish that you understood is to wish you this pain and life. You can't possibly know otherwise. And if that would make you finally believe me and help/fund research for cures for others like me, than ..... I wish you all to know this pain. :)