The Darkest Thoughts

*Trigger warning: suicide and self-harm*
I stood in the entrance to the living room, my arms folded across my chest with my shoulders curled forward. My body was tense. I attempted to keep the inferno of emotions that blazed under the surface from boiling out. 
As much as I wanted to scream and cry, I couldn't. 
I had to remain calm, neutral. 
Any outburst would be turned against me as proof that I was crazy. I needed to be heard, so I kept my emotions in check.

“I think we should consider separating for a while. It will give us a chance to get ourselves together and decide if where we’re at is where we want to be,” my voice was strained from the effort to remain calm, but I don’t think he noticed.

His gaze turned to me, and I saw his pupils widen and his eyes go black. “We’re not getting a divorce.”

“I didn’t say divorce. I said separation.”

He scoffed, his lip curling upward. “You know just as well as I do that separations always lead to divorce.” 
His voice rose with anger until he was yelling. “And you’re not getting a divorce. You know why? Because there are two little boys who need us together to make sure they’re raised right.” 
He had started to lift from the couch as he spoke, but he caught himself and settled back into the cushion. He lowered his tone. His look turned from angry to menacing. 
“The only way you’re getting out of this marriage is if you slit your wrists.”

I turned away and headed upstairs. The conversation was over, and nothing I said would get him to see logic or reason. The words hit me hard; made me feel like I was flawed and a failure. I felt guilty for even suggesting that we do something to fix our problems and potentially improve our marriage. But at the same time, I wasn’t surprised by his reaction. He felt threatened. When that occurred, he had to regain control and power by knocking me down.
Part of me believes that he would have been totally fine if I had slit my wrists. If he shed any tears, they would have been forced. My death would allow him to become the victim and prove to the world just how selfish I am. He’d have a sob story to tell people that would make them feel sorry for him. He’d get attention.
The Struggle  
I had no intention of giving in to his whims at that point. He set out a challenge that I was going to defy, but there had been plenty of times before that moment when I had contemplated exactly what he had suggested. I knew that there was no way I was going to get out of the marriage, and that seemed like my only option.

One of the times I remember distinctly was driving home from dropping the kids off at school. I had started working from home, and my stress levels were through the roof. I wasn’t sleeping well, so I was wracked with exhaustion. 
As I came down the backside of the overpass and pressed the brake to stop at the stop sign, it occurred to me that I could make everything go away. I would no longer have to worry about anything. I started to cry. Not the gentle sobbing where tears run silently down your cheeks, but ugly crying. My vision was blurred, I couldn't catch my breath, and my entire body was racked with despair. 
I drove home, dried my eyes, and went to work.

There were two little boys who needed me around to ensure they grew up right.

Fast forward several years later, two years after my ex made that comment to me in our home, and thoughts of suicide once again crossed my mind. I was divorced at this point, but life was far from easy. 
My ex had found himself a new girlfriend, and he was making sure it wasn’t a secret how happy they were together. I plummeted into the depths of depression. After years of dealing with panic attacks and anxiety, my body was tired, my brain felt like it no longer functioned. 
I felt abandoned, unworthy, unlovable. 
I was nothing. 
No one cared. 
The pain and loneliness penetrated deep into my soul. I just wanted to feel better. It seemed like my only option was to end it all.
My Deepest Fears
There were times that I was afraid my brain would hijack my body and force me to do unspeakable things. I was convinced I would sleep walk in the middle of the night and stab my kids while they slept. I thought for sure that I would get into my lock box and take out the gun that was in there and shoot myself in the head.

I couldn’t trust myself. 
I was convinced I would do something terrible. 
I walked through the kitchen, eyeing the knife block wearily, wondering if I should hide it somewhere in the house where it would be difficult to access. I thought about putting a gate up in front of my door to make it harder for me to navigate through the house in my dreamlike state. I wondered if I should put locks on the boys’ doors and tell them not to open it in the middle of the night for any reason.

I was afraid of myself.

I was afraid of what I thought I was capable of doing.

I thought the only way to ensure I didn’t hurt anyone was to take care of myself.

I entertained ways to go about it; what would be best to reduce the trauma to the boys -- or to make sure they weren’t the ones who found me. But there was no perfect scenario. There was no way to minimize the damage that kind of action would have on my children. Besides, I couldn't leave them to be raised by my ex. I had to make sure they had some kind of stability in their lives. I had to stay around for them.

This helped a little, but not much. During this time, I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I didn’t even tell my therapist about my dark thoughts. I was convinced there was something wrong with me, or that I would get locked up in a psych ward. 
That may not have been a bad thing, but it would have left my boys at the mercy of their father. It would have given him fuel to show the world how crazy I truly was. He would have used that against me. I couldn’t let that happen.

Days were hard at this time. 
Getting out of bed was a struggle. 
I cried so many tears, I’m surprised my eyes didn’t shrivel up and disappear. My soul ached. There was an emptiness in my chest. I had no idea how I was going to move from one day to the next. All I wanted was to feel better. I wanted the hurt to go away. I put on as happy a face as I could around my boys and in public, but inside, I felt hollow. I felt dead. I wanted to be.

While the divorce took its toll emotionally, it certainly wasn’t the only time I entertained the darkest of thoughts. 
About a year after moving to Nebraska, when the isolation became apparent, things took a turn for the worst. I was still married at this time, but loneliness was common. His job and friends always took precedence over his family, so he was hardly ever home. When he was, he focused on taking care of himself or drowning his issues in alcohol. Most times, he was outside with the neighbors living his best life.

I had high hopes for the move. 
I imagined that it would give us a chance to start again, to discover who we were as a couple without the stresses that had been weighing us down before. 
Instead, I found that it was hard to find a job, so money issues were a constant. Since he spent more time at work or outside, I didn’t have anyone to talk to. My closest family was 3.5 hours away, but they had their own lives to live. I didn’t want to burden them with my problems.

My anxiety increased, and there were a couple of months when I had panic attacks every single day. These left me feeling drained with a foggy brain. I had no idea what would trigger the panic, so I was on edge day in and day out. In some cases, I did what I could to have panic grip me. There was a brief moment of respite once the chemicals left my system. I could relax for a little while.
Getting Through My Days
To ensure I could function enough to get the kids to school and perform at my job (I had found one at this point), I was taking half a Xanax daily. I know for some that doesn’t sound like much, but it was a lot for me. I needed something to take the edge off, and it helped. But coupled with that was the fear I would become addicted, that I wouldn’t be able to function without my happy pill.

I’m not opposed to taking medication to help with anxiety and depression. I’ve tried it several times in the past. When I was in college, I had a pill that really seemed to help with my emotions, but I quit taking it because of cost and the fear I would be dependent on it for the rest of my life.

At one point in the marriage, I was looking for a way to stay even keel, so I started taking some anti-anxiety meds then as well. I went through two different options before I stopped. 
The first one caused me to have panic attacks (hence the Xanax), and the second pill made me throw up. A few years later, I thought I would try again, and the pill I was on made me feel like I was underwater. With two young boys, I had to be able to function, and these pills weren’t helping.

But neither were the panic attacks.

I had to find a way to feel “normal.” I read what I could about anxiety and panic disorder and found grounding techniques I could use. I talked to my therapist and filled out workbooks I ordered from Amazon. I took the Xanax when things got really bad and told myself that I could check into a rehab clinic if addiction took over.

There were a few moments of calm, and I rode those waves when I could. That often involved me going to my bedroom and curling up with a good book. My body, mind, and soul were so worn down from dealing with the flood of emotions and chemicals, I needed an escape. That came from reading.

During one particular event, I was enjoying a book when my ex came into the room. He had been drinking, and he stood in the doorway and asked, “Is this one of those situations where I need to put a gun to your head and give you something to be scared about?”

I pushed my eyebrows together and stared at him. “No.”

“You sure? The gun safe’s right there.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” He turned and headed back downstairs to watch TV and finish his drink.

If you have ever heard a parent addressing a crying child and telling them, “I’ll give you something to cry about,” that is what he was attempting to do. He assumed that my panic stemmed from nothing and that to make it real, I needed to be faced with a real threat. 
At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I was riding a calm and wanted to stay that way, so I said what was necessary to get him to leave the room. In retrospect, there is something really fucked up about your spouse asking if they should put a loaded gun to your head. 
I suppose I should consider myself lucky that he asked and didn’t just do it.

While the grounding techniques and Xanax helped with the panic attacks and anxiety, they didn’t go away -- and they were starting to take a real toll on my daily activities. There were moments when I couldn’t leave the house or I couldn’t be around my kids and husband. I had to be by myself trying not to completely fall apart.
I Fall Apart
With my focus turned inward, my spouse was becoming more agitated that I couldn’t take care of his needs. He felt like I was neglecting him on purpose, so he made it a point to let me know that I needed to fix whatever was going on. 
He questioned whether I should get back on medication, practically demanding that I talk to a doctor. He made sure I knew that I was fucked up and needed to find a way to fix it. 
I felt broken. 
I couldn’t control my thoughts, so I believed what he said. There was something seriously wrong with me.

This certainly didn’t help alleviate the anxiety, and it pushed me into depression. I once again entertained thoughts of death because I was sure I would never be fixed; I would always be a burden.
My brain told me that I would never be able to go through with my plans and that I would totally fuck it up. Then, I would be a vegetable or invalid that had to rely on others. That would make me an even worse person.

I felt stuck. 
I couldn't live, and I couldn’t die. 
I was a worthless human being that was taking up space in the world and not contributing anything of value. I was neglecting my family. I wasn’t taking care of my spouse. Something needed to be done, but I didn’t know what. I had failed at everything. I wanted to disappear.
The dark times in my life ran deep, but they didn’t last forever. 
It took a lot of work and looking at traumas, but I was able to discover where a lot of my dark thoughts came from. I’m not proud of those moments, and there are times when I feel guilty about entertaining the idea of death. But I no longer deny that those are the feelings I felt at the time, and they were justifiable and I need to honor them.

Life isn’t always about rainbows and sunshine. There are days when it storms. People get so mad when they hear about someone committing suicide and ask why they didn’t reach out. I hate to hear this. It drives me crazy when people think those who kill themselves are weak. They aren’t. They’re tired of dealing with shit. They’re tired of feeling like shit. I know. I’ve been there.

I tried to reach out to others, but what was I going to say? Most people don’t understand how narcissistic abuse works, so they wouldn’t believe that my ex had said the things he said to me. 
Plus, I was the one who suffered from mental disorders. I wasn’t doing anything to take care of the problem. I may have been going to therapy, but what I really needed was medication. Since I refused to take it, the dark thoughts were my fault. 
Suicide would have been my fault. It would have just reinforced the selfishness I displayed during our entire relationship.

While I have always been prone to anxiety and depression, there are certain triggers that can make them worse. Things got worse when we moved because I was isolated from my family and friends. They got even worse when he found a new girlfriend because I was finally and unequivocally shoved out of the picture. After 17 years of dedicating my life to him, he dropped me like a bag of garbage and never looked back.

And that was exactly how I felt. Like garbage. 
I wasn’t worth anything. 
No one loved me. 
No one cared about me. 
I was left on my own to rot.
Taking Matters Into My Own Hands
My ex may have been the catalyst for many of my dark thoughts, but it was my responsibility to heal the wounds that were caused by my past. For a long time, my kids were my reason for living. In many ways, they still are. But my number one priority is me.

I’m finding my value and worth. My life is worth something to me. I may not live big. I probably won’t leave a huge legacy behind when I die, but that’s okay. I’ll be able to say that I overcame some of the darkest thoughts and lived to tell the tale. I’ve grown and changed throughout my life and did what I could to discover the best me.

Life isn’t only about thinking good thoughts and shunning thoughts of death. There has to be darkness to make the light seem bright. There has to be rain to make the sun shine warm and inviting. 
I don’t view myself as a hero because I overcame the urge to kill myself when others didn’t. There are times I envy them. I just see myself as a human trying to do the best I can. 
Some days are a struggle, and getting through takes every ounce of strength I can muster. There are times I don’t want to, when I want to throw in the towel and say fuck it. 
I’m not afraid of death. I actually kind of look forward to not having anything to worry about. What I’m afraid of is leaving things undone, including my life and raising my boys. I hang around out of curiosity, even on the days when it’s really painful to do so.