Finding the Myth

At the root, beneath all the emotions and distortions, behind the fear and the pain is the myth. My ability to drive myself to believe so completely that I can disconnect from my life. I can act on the basest of impulses. It set there between Beatrice and I as the final minutes ticked off her clock. I had said it out loud. I even surprised myself. It is my inner sanctum. My beliefs I hold deeply and silently. I don’t share them. I do not talk about them. But there it was. She repeated my words and it became so real. I don’t want to die. I want to kill the suffering. As if I could indeed kill myself and rise from those ashes. A suicidal phoenix of sorts. That I so completely believed that I would not, in fact, die. There sitting between us was the myth I had created so many years ago. The one I lived by, and so nearly died by on more than one occasion. It fostered the disconnect that became my tool. I desperately needed a way to control the descent. I needed something to latch onto. As self-destructive and awful as it was, and is, it became a means of soothing myself. When the ground pitched and my footing became unsteady rather than look forward and find strength I looked back and found my myth. I grabbed on, and still do. That neon sign in my head pointing me on a path to self-destruction. I know, intellectually know, that I cannot kill my suffering without killing me, or vice versa. If I end my life, yes the suffering goes with it into whatever abyss lies beyond here. The suffering does not abate, even when I have walked out into the very end of this life. Even when cpr brought me back to this time and place, this life, this reality. The pain was still there, as real and immense as it had been before, even greater as it was joined by guilt and shame. The guilt is profound. It surrounds every inch, every pore. To awaken in the shadow of a failed suicide. To come to the realization that it did nothing to abate the pain. To look at the people around me and see the pain it had caused. One might think it would temper a second thought, or attempt. It does not. In that final count down there are no real attempts to examine those around you. Your vision is so tunneled by the plan and the obsessive secretive pattern. The dishonesty keeps the choice there. Beatrice asked that today. It does remain a viable option as long as those around me don’t know it is there. The minute I nod, or reply affirmatively to the question about suicidal ideation, or a true plan it becomes infinitely more difficult to finish. Sure you can kill yourself in a hospital, it happens, but it is a bit more challenging. She asked me about fighting that choice to become secretive and turn down that path. I don’t know why but I found myself angry in my silence. Was it that it felt too pat, and overly simplistic as she said it? Was it that I did not want to change this? Where was that knee jerk reaction coming from? I know it is far too easy for me to stand defiant and exclaim it is my life to take. My choice to make. But I remained silent, taking stock of my reaction and pondering its root. It was an odd session. As much as I might have wanted to I could not settle in and work. What was so straightforward and amazing last week was not in sight this week. I understand I was protecting myself, and that it was all just too close. As I said to her there were many ripples in the pond. Maybe too many for me to keep a handle on and still let myself relax into the work today. I think we somehow found our way to a incredibly important finish, even if it lacked emotion and connection. The honesty she has been asking me for appeared, even a bit to my surprise. Somewhere in the jumble of defenses I heard her. Where it goes from here I don’t know. How do I challenge a myth that was born so long ago? One that I can sell myself so completely that I lose all touch with my reality. A myth so powerful it provides the gateway to depersonalization and ultimately self-destruction. It is the key to my suicidal behaviors because without it I do not think they could occur. I do not think I could stand completely connected and in touch with reality yet still choke the life from myself. It is the piece that primes the weapon and allows be to become lethal.
I am left adrift and wondering where my honesty will take us. It is hard to hear something out loud that has sat so still and silent all these years. It is deafening now.

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