Let's talk about suicide. My suicide.
The only attempt in my life I desperately wanted to forget about.
But forgetting doesn't change anything because the problem comes back, though it is masked and hidden behind some substitute. The reason it always haunts me is simple: I have never faced a direct cause.
This is how my non-mother punished me; God alone knows what for. Suddenly, her mood changed, and she stopped talking to me. I could only count on the look of hatred and single growling from time to time.
She knew it hurt me. That was the point. And I am sure she knew that this very pain was so unbearable it could kill me. By doing so, she could feel full power over me; she had control.
That day, it was too much for me. I was sixteen, spending winter or summer break at home with her. And she didn't speak to me whatsoever. This situation was prolonged, and I didn't know what to do. The pain inside my chest and head was so tremendous I was sure I was going mad. I couldn't stand it. So I took a pill. One pill of a painkiller containing tranquilizer. But the pain was only increasing. So I took another pill. And another. And another. Until the pack was empty. I drifted away for a very long time. I was sure I would die, but it didn't bother me. I simply wanted to stop feeling the pain. I was lying on my bed in my room for almost two days, and she didn't check on me once. She didn't speak to me, after all.
When I gathered, I was alive, but something inside of me died for good. And stayed dead up to this moment. I pushed myself away from the shock; I suppressed the memory. I felt like an ultimate loser who could not do anything properly - even kill myself (it was after I found out that this amount of drug wasn't enough to take the life). In my own eyes, I was a pathetic being.
Today, suppressing this memory, though unsuccessful, let me live. I was also unaware of another factor helping me survive. I discovered it now. But about that, another time.