My New Plan
Diary entry 3
( This is a continuation of the story I began in My Suicidal Foot )
The moment I had made my promise to Lucifer, I knew what I had to do. I knew there was only one thing for me to do if I was going to survive this life without killing myself sooner or later. I had to completely abandon the only thing in this world that kept me living–the pursuit of my true love–and heal myself. It became crystal clear to me that my present life and all I endeavored in it was so profoundly and severely subconsciously affected by all that had transpired in my life and by all that had happened to me, that until I had succeeded in fully and wholly healing myself from all of my past, I was going to continue to generate tragedy and suffering for myself.
Concerning my pursuit of my true love, Lucifer had effectively killed that desire within me, among other things. I had believed Lucifer to be my true love, but I came to learn that he embodied such an exploding paradox of both angelic and demonic aspects, a paradox that tortured me unspeakably over the years. I clung with a death grip to his angelic aspects, and then even to a memory of them; I was so desperate to unite with them again, and so desperate to reunite with his love and his innate understanding of me, and mine of him. Now, however, I proclaim to know nothing about my so-called true love and I don’t even entertain the possibility of the concept anymore. I don’t want to know.
Concerning my healing, I had to give myself over 100% to myself, to return to the place of my youth, the United States, for some semblance of stability and then delve into intensive therapy and other healing methods–I especially wanted to pursue energy healing methods, since I had tried psychotherapy before with no result. I concluded psychotherapy was useless, but I knew it was the preferred method of this day and of people like my family members, who would end up financing more than two thirds of my therapy.
As a very sensitive and empathetic girl growing up in a highly chaotic and hostile familial environment, I learned at a young age that I had to protect myself against the family around me. I would never confide anything of great emotional importance in any biological family member. As I became more articulate in my life, I was able to pick and choose things to tell, so it might have appeared as if I had been confiding important things in them, but I wasn’t. I had to protect myself from them at all costs, after all. For example, I had made it a point never to mention my suicidal inclinations, which I had had since the age of 20, to any biological family member. I have never forgotten what happened the one and only time when, as a 21-22 year-old, I dared to mention that I was suicidal to my mother–she became indignant and accused me of being manipulative–and to my father–he lectured me on how selfish I was. I deeply regretted having said anything to them. After their reactions, I hated myself even more; I especially didn’t want to manipulate anyone (my father was always calling me, my mother, his wife…his mother…actually, every single woman in his life selfish and self-centered, so his words had less impact than my mother’s). I contemplated my behavior and realized that I can’t be manipulating anyone if I never tell anyone about my suicide. Thus, that became my default policy on my suicide and suicidal thoughts and desires.
However, in the years since these experiences with my mother and father, both my mother and my brother have experienced depression second hand. It turns out that people they care about, their respective significant others, suffer now from depression to varying degrees of intensity. This has made both my mother and brother more lenient and tolerant of me; they have softened up a bit, even if they can’t understand depression, and less, suicide. Moreover, by the time I was in Finland with my broken foot, I had been so long without regular communication with the family, I had been in Algeria, had broken my foot, spent four nights in airports and was a step away from killing myself; nothing my mother or brother could say to me could bring anything worse upon me than what I was already planning. So during my stay in Finland, I might have hinted in an email to my brother that I was a little depressed, just to see if his reaction would be safe. Obviously, if his reaction wasn’t safe for me, I wouldn’t mention anymore about my depression.
In the end, my brother mentioned my depression in an email to my mother and, when all was said and done, I informed my mother that I had this plan to kill myself and both she and my brother pledged that they would help me pay for therapy back in the U.S., where my mother still lives. Had they responded in any other way, I would probably have remained in Europe and eventually killed myself, sooner rather than later.
Thus, I had my work cut out for me upon my return to the U.S. All I had to do was implement my plan–I had a certain amount of money and a limited, but indeterminate amount of time in which to heal and release 40 years of pain and purge my subconscious of all known and unknown effects of my past, most of which I don’t even have any memory of.
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Tags: recovery