**Trigger warning** It’s been a bit since I could write. Mostly because I’m feeling like you’ve heard enough of the negativity. Blah. Blah. Blah. Shelley is sad. Ugh. Enough already. I know I’ve had enough. But my friend reminded me today of the gift of honesty and sharing. Even the crappiest parts. So…
“I made my bed today….”
My technician that delivers my daily rTMS treatment immediately reacted with excited raised eyebrows, a genuine smile, and what I assumed was going to be a “Good for you…”
“…and I put my clothes away. Tidied the house. I didn’t want to leave it for Derek & Zach, just in case today’s the day I don’t come home.”
Yesterday I drove by myself to Toronto. I chose to drive behind a truck that was completely loaded down with wood and supplies – obviously heading to a construction site. I stayed behind this truck for the majority of the drive down the 400. My eyes were swollen but there weren’t any more tears. Just the numbness. I kept hoping that maybe, just maybe, the driver missed something while making his load secure. Maybe he didn’t use the right knot for the rope tying down all of that wood. I kept hoping that one of those 2X4s would simply come loose, come crashing through my windshield and puncture my chest.
I envisioned every moment of it for 40 minutes. Wishing. Hoping. There were two scenarios.
The first scenario is that I would die instantly. Relief. Black. One last final breath out. It would be so incredibly tragic and sad, but I wouldn’t be labelled as a suicide death. Derek wouldn’t have to wonder why he ‘wasn’t enough’ and Zach wouldn’t have to believe that I ‘just left him behind’. Agonizing relief envelopes me as I ponder this plot line. Everyone would be so sad and would only remember the good things about me.
It would eliminate the need for me to contemplate suicide.
The second scenario was that I would live, but would be catastrophically injured. This felt doable! A physical injury and pain sounds like just what I need to tear my attention away from the slow, tortuous mental death taking place inside my mind. I can handle physical pain. I welcome it. I would be a solid hero for recovering my physical abilities. I would have people cheering every literal step I took as my broken body healed. Ten feet travelled one day. Twelve feet the next. It would be a celebration the day I no longer needed the comfort of the wheelchair, the support of the cane. I’d fight so freaking hard because I would feel like I have something to fight for.
I can’t seem to find the demon in my head for a physical fight. But he’s there and he’s a fucking monster. He’s playing with my mind. Reminding me to make preparations, because I won’t be here much longer and I’ve already been burden enough to those I love. “Don’t let them have to pick up after you when they’re finally free of you”.
I loathe sharing these scenarios with you for several reasons. Fear of judgement. Dislike of anything negative. Triggering someone I love. This isn’t a pretty fight. It’s nasty and disgusting and real and miserly, repulsive, revolting…
I’m literally trying to find a nice, uplifting way to end this post. I can’t.
So I’ll just remind you that I’ve fought this guy before. I’m winning. But I’m a bit messy at the moment.
Keep fighting. You aren’t alone.