Hiatus broken

I tried to kill myself. It's a senseless act, and the only one responsible for it is me. Now that I've figured some things out, I'm going to spill them on this blog. 

The first (and most important) issue is horrifying to me and to my friends: If a person wants to kill herself and thinks about death constantly, she's not going to let on how awful she's feeling. Otherwise someone could stop her. So, please don't think that anyone's at fault except for me. I struggled with bipolar disorder, thought I was don't all the right things (therapy + meds), and I still felt miserable. I'll always struggle with my illness on some level. But I must never again fall for the illusion of suicide as an answer to the constant questions that plague me. I'm making my promise here: I will not do it again. I plan to learn how to come up with solutions and how not to dwell on death as though it were a sweet exit from an otherwise terrible life. 

The second insight: I should have called someone first and I should have been emotionally open enough so that I could figure out who I should have called. I isolated myself. It's no one's fault but my own. I tend to deflect my feelings by intellectualizing them, like researching the best ways to killing myself. (It's actually quite difficult to do, apparently.) Too often have I tried to keep up my emotions at bay, until it's too much to bear. So I need to let my guard down. It'll hurt but not nearly as much as I have hurt in the past.

Third, suicide leaves no notes. It silently embraces the abyss. The abject punctures the myth of self-knowledge. As Kristeva puts it (and yes, I'm doing this even here), "The corpse, seen without God and outside of science, is the utmost of abjection. It is death infecting life." She believes that we trail our abjection through life, like the shadow one wants to flee but is always attached to us. 

Again, with a little less drama: each person carries her own corpse around, hurrying away from death as much as she fastens herself to it. I guess that is still a little too poetic, and I'll try to say it better next time. The long and the short of it is that my mistakes will dog me for life. My regret, my shame, my despair. 

S., I'm so sorry that I did this wrong to myself and to my friends and to you. I cannot say it enough.