For much of my life, from the time I was a small child, I wanted to die much more than I wanted to live. My father committed suicide when I was nine years old, and my family in general was a disastrous maelstrom of abuse and dysfunction. I was a cutter, too, and went through a period of drinking myself into unconsciousness to escape the pain, and various other self-destructive coping strategies.
Once I had my children, though, no matter how much I wanted to die, I knew I could never do to them what my father had done to me, and that was what finally drove me into therapy, when my kids were about three and four and I was completely losing it. If it had not been for my children and my long-suffering and very dedicated therapist (13+ years!) I would not be here now.
I'm happy to say that for the last few years of my life--my kids are 21 and 22 now, and I'm 51--I am firmly anchored to earth and committed to life, happy to be here, and immensely grateful for the forces that conspired to keep me around until I started to want to stay, took root and started, finally, to grow and bloom. I can say, with all my heart, I'm really glad I didn't ever do it. I would have missed so much.
