“Great news Jasmine!”
“What? I’m going to die!”
“No, the pills you took were nontoxic! You just have to sleep it off!”
The doctor patted me hard on my shoulder and walked out the room smiling. And I was moved up into the psych ward to assess why I wanted to kill myself. I had been raped twice when I was 21 and no one believed me, I searched for and found my biological father and he was an asshole. Nice to me in front of his family a jerk to me behind closed doors, and I was soon going to be homeless in a couple of months. I had no one to really turn to everyone wanted me to make art, push myself to possible fame, but no one wanted to ask me how I was doing? How was I coping? Truth was I wasn’t.
I slept with many guys at this point. I slept with every guy who actively pursued me not because I wanted to but because I wanted them to go away. That was my thought process “Give them what they want so they can leave me alone”. I either slept too much or too little, I barely ate, I no longer felt safe to leave the house. Whenever I saw a group of men I panicked, but through all I was feeling I wanted someone to tell me what happened to me was wrong. No one said anything. Everyone blamed me. Blamed me so much that I just didn’t want to live anymore. I was erratic. I didn’t trust anything.In my mind there was no such thing as love, no such thing as safety, I thought love and happiness was something assigned for a selected few: The popular or the beautiful or the most athletic or the most intelligent.
I ignored people I knew. I withdrew. I became angrier with people who blamed me for my rapes instead of telling them how I felt. I stayed in friendships that no longer were healthy with me with friends who told me to just get over it. Move on. I needed someone to tell me it was going to be “ok” I needed someone to hug me. No one ever did. So, I blamed myself maybe I was too nice, maybe I gave them a signal I didn’t think I had. I deserved it because after all bad, dick teasing harlots get raped not art nerds.
I felt powerless. Loveless. Lonely. And so fucking miserable. I was ready to go. I didn’t care where my soul went just as long it wasn’t here.
This would be my seventh failed suicide attempt. I hadn’t attempted suicide in 4 years! I had never wanted to go more than ever. My seventh time to that psych ward.
I start laughing. Laughing turned to crying and I said loudly “Fuck. I can’t even kill myself right!” I knew in that moment I had no choice, but to live. I wasn’t sure where I was going to live, If I would ever get over my rapes, if I get out of these abusive friendships, if I ever would have a relationship with my father. The details of life were blurry and the unknown frightened the shit out of me, but I knew I had to keep moving. Why? I had to see if it would get better for me. I needed to believe in something. Hope that I would have happiness, hope that I would figure this out. I had left my life in others hands believing they could take care of me better than myself because I had thought they knew me better. I had trusted people to no end until I could no longer take the knives stabbing me in my back.
I had to hold on, I wasn’t sure what exactly I was holding onto. I wasn’t sure if life would turn around. Ten years ago this summer was my last suicide attempt.