Suicide threats. They’re like being blamed for something you haven’t done, but to the extreme. At first I believed my decision was right, and fair, but it doesn’t take much to cloud my judgement.
“I can’t live without you, if I can’t be with you then what’s the point?” Sounds like the typical depressing attempt at getting your ex back right? That’s what I thought at first, and half-heartedly tried to distance myself from the tedious text messages that invaded my phone every night. But I have a tendency to feel sorry for people, and that mixed with a desperate urge to keep from hurting others didn’t exactly help with the whole ignoring strategy.
I tried to console him, but how easy is that when you know the only thing they want is the one thing you can’t give them? The standard lines were used, and every time I said them I cringed a little inside knowing that they sounded stereotypical and clique, but what else could I say?
It wasn’t long before I realized something was wrong, worse than a teenage heartbreak. Words became harsher, more accusing. But I deserved it right? I made him feel like he wasn’t worth anything, wasn’t worthy of love. I killed his confidence, so what if he damaged mine? I accepted the criticism along with the stories of him crying himself to sleep, tearing himself up, wanting to hurt himself. His mind was full to brim with destructive feelings and self-hatred, and I was the only person he could talk to he said. So I let him pour his poison into me, and became slowly more uncertain about who and what was right anymore.
That was when the threats started. One night, things took a different turn. His anger strangely evaporated, and was replaced with a defeated monotone. The relief that came from ‘kinder’ messages slowly turned into an unfamiliar fear that creeped slowly through my skin and my mind filled with clouds of confusion until the words that came next cleared the mist and threw everything into very clear perspective.
“I’m sorry Hannah I really am, but I’ve had enough. I just can’t, I can’t stay anymore, I know you don’t care anymore and I know you won’t miss me, so I’m only doing this because I know you’ll forget me. Goodbye Hannah” I sat frozen, and felt the hysteria bubbling up inside me. I’d never had to deal with this situation before, and my mind was tearing up my brain. I don’t think I really believed that he would end his life, but what if he did? I couldn’t stop the selfish thoughts taking over my rationality; what if accusing glares followed me around for years? What if people never understood that I just couldn’t love him the way he wanted me to, and forever blamed me for their friend’s death? I hated myself for putting my own life first, but I just couldn’t stop myself. In hindsight, I can recognise that these were no doubt normal thoughts for your average, not entirely selfless teenage girl that liked to dramatize everything. I do wish that I had managed to overcome them quicker, but I guess I was self centred, and I’ve decided that’s ok sometimes.
After calling him over and again to try and change his mind, I finally threw my phone across the room after receiving multiple voicemail messages and screamed into my pillow until I couldn’t breathe. My cowardice stopped me from running into my mum’s room, but I just couldn’t do it. It was too surreal, too ridiculous, and for a reason that I can’t fathom, I didn’t want her to calm me down and tell me it wasn’t a big deal, because it was.
That night was one of the worst I’ve ever had. Helplessness led to sleeplessness, and every couple of hours I’d jerk out of my sleep, screaming internally. My head was a constant battle, two evils fighting with each other. I couldn’t decide who I despised more; myself or him? I hated him for doing this to me, for bringing me down with him, but I hated myself for even considering that I should in any way think I was in a worse situation than he.