The Darkness of Suicide *TRIGGER WARNING*

I have taken two drug overdoses in my lifetime. The first occurred in the early 1980s while married to and living with my abusive ex-husband I later divorced.

Years later, in 1990, I sought therapy for the first time because the father of my live-in boyfriend would leave a loaded shotgun by the front door during his drinking stupors. I feared for my life and sought help. For reasons I would not understand for decades, I could not stop venting about my mother, who I severed ties with and never wanted to see or talk about again. But I could not stop venting about her brutal behavior. My first therapist diagnosed me with Clinical Depression and Alcoholism. He patiently coaxed me into an out-patient recovery program.

I was the only female of 13 of us. The other lady graduated the day I arrived. In a group session, we went round the room telling our experiences. I could not believe that they all talked about things they did that were exactly what I did, only I did not get caught. I was the only person in that room who had no run-ins with the law. One man had even murdered someone in a three-day blackout. I went home and cried for hours, terrified of how close I had been to danger.

Pummeled by my mother and two older sisters with hatred and rage growing up that overloaded me with depression, Complex PTSD, plus decades of the repressed child abuse and domestic violence that included incest, sexual abuse, self-loathing, self-destruction, promiscuity, and addiction.

The second happened only about 5 or 6 years ago in my bedroom of the apartment I live in today, even after several years of recovery relapses, psychotherapy. After mother failed at her second suicide attempt while we lived in Caracas, Venezuela, South America, she interviewed several psychiatrists until she found one she liked. He diagnosed her with bi-polar disorder.

Decades later, when I started going to psychiatrists for my own mental illness problems, they assumed that I was also bi-polar. I was on bi-polar meds for several years, medications I did not need because I was not bi-polar. Finally, in2017, a therapist correctly diagnosed my Complex PTSD.

In 2011 or 2012, weighed down by a deep, blinding saturation of self-destruction and self-loathing, I could not see a way out.

Desperate to stop the emotional pain, I resorted to taking a handful of tramadol I later threw up. I hoped to pass out and die in my sleep. But the thoughts of my older abusive sisters touching my things after my death kept me awake.

Heartbroken, I had to get up and keep fighting.

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