Emotional wrecks are just that

Do you know how sometimes you pass a car accident on the street, and even though it's terrible and horrible, you stare as you pass?

Sometimes I have emotional wrecks.  Times when I get to the lowest of my low, and it doesn't matter how much love and support I have, I just feel like everyone is staring at me rather than helping.  Of course, this isn't the case.  I have a boyfriend and a friend group that loves me tons.  From a post of mine:

It seems like people don't notice when you reach out. Especially if you are good at faking, if you are capable and strong most of the time. Even when I told my boyfriend and my best friend that I was horribly suicidal, that I thought about killing myself every single day, all the ways I could do it, that I had started suicide notes, that I had fantasized about my funeral...they still don't seem to understand that I really, truly need help. It took me breaking down and being a complete emotional wreck before anyone took me seriously. Even then, I still get called an attention whore and told I'm wallowing in my own despair sometimes. They don't seem to understand that the little things are what break the camel's back when you feel that way.

I don't even know why I'm replying to this. I guess I just want you to know that sometimes we are better at appearing more put together than we seem, and it's hard for our friends and family, let alone strangers, to see past that facade.

Lately, I have felt like shit.  I've been out of a job, out of school since summer break began and my bank account has officially dwindled down to nothing.  For the first time in a very long time, I made serious steps toward a suicide attempt.  First, I threatened to down a bottle of pills that my boyfriend wrestled out of my hand.  I started crying and hyperventilating when he took them away and threatened to flush them down the toilet, scared that he would take away my own means of relaxing.  We argue, I cry some more.  Then I locked myself in my car with a paring knife and toyed with the idea of slicing my wrists.  You know, down the street, the real way if you want to kill yourself, not across the park.  Instead, I ran it over and over my inner thighs, just to feel the blade across my skin, not enough to actually pierce my pale flesh.  I thought for awhile.  I realized that killing myself wouldn't do anything but cause everyone pain. 

Then, in just a T-shirt and a pair of panties, I got out of my car and walked back into my house, where my boyfriend once again wrestled the knife away from me.  He held me while I cried.  While I told him that I didn't know why I felt this way, but I hated myself.  I hated my life.  I felt worthless because I had no money, no job, nothing driving me.  I couldn't do anything fun with friends because of lack of money.  For what seemed like a century, he stared as I told him my emotions.  Then, he told me that he was sorry, that he wanted to help, that all I needed to do was ask for help.  I thought I had, I told him.  "No," he said, "not like this."  I forget that he needs practical statements, things he can actually help.  Overarching themes of suicidal tendencies and depression are hard for him to understand.  But now...he's going to help me get through this.

I really think I'm going to be okay.

I'm calling a tow truck.  I'm putting my keys under the mat.  And I'm walking away from this.  Maybe I can't pretend my emotional wreck was a dream, maybe I can't get back in the same car and drive away as if nothing happened, but I can pick up the pieces and take a cab home.  Or, I can walk.

I'm choosing to walk.  Because even if I deserve support, even if I need an ear and a hand and a foot up, it comes down to me putting one foot in front of the other and making progress of my own volition.  Tomorrow is a new day.  A new day for me, and for you.