In seventh grade I began to change. My grades went from straight A’s to all D’s and F’s. I would skip school on a regular basis because no one was paying attention to me. Furthermore, I hid all my feelings. I would cry alone and write in my journals about how sad I was every day and I truly believed I had no one in which to talk.
That’s when it started: suicide ideation. I remember like it was yesterday when I started to obsess about killing myself. My life became a movie that I would watch from the sidelines and I began to develop a plan. Cutting my wrist when no one was home would take me away from all this misery.
On the outside, I seemed happy. Adult Children of Alcoholics have a strong ability to figure out what it is people wanted you to feel and then you could dance to their tune before they knew they had one. I hung out with my friends and most of them were doing drugs, smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol at this point. There was also cocaine use but I did not find out about this until much later. I did none of that. I was the “good girl” of the group and sort of a outcast. I did not know that either but I learned later,for the most part, I was not among friends.
In addition to being an Adult Child of two alcoholic parents, I also found out that clinical depression and generalized anxiety was just part of my gene pool. I was not the only one who felt this way. But we all hid it well.
I would go back and forth in my journal about why and why not to kill myself. I developed a short pro’s and con’s list. The pro’s were I should kill myself because I was a late developer lacking any form of breasts and no pubic hair and the reason I could not do it were simply Jason and my Dad. I knew this would be devastating to them, plus I was the women and caretaker of the house. What would they do without me? The truth is I was depressed and my brain developed with a low pleasure center which meant I would have to force myself to do act. Finding joy was not my innate ability.
Finally, I gave it a try. I pulled a knife out of the kitchen drawers, walked up to my bathroom and began slowly sawing at my wrist. Blood came out but it was rather minute. I cried and cried but finally decided I could not go through with it. Some could equate this to the children of the day who cut their selves for pleasure but for me I meant business.
It was not until I began dabbling into drugs and alcohol did I ever feel normal again. Drugs and alcohol are a horrible method to treat major depression but it was all I knew. For we accept the reality we are given until we know better.
Unfortunately this has been a life long problem coupled with alcohol and drugs; the disease within caused me to become apathetic. It would not matter how much information a person would give me, or if I discussed it, my baseline was not to care about myself and I dove deeply into other’s lives.