Six months ago, I moved from the beach in California to an ugly suburb in the midwest.
My parents are getting older; my brothers and my nephew live here; it’s cheaper and less crowded here. That’s what I tell people.
The truth: I’m depressed and exhausted and I want to die.
I hate my body, dislike the business I have owned and run most of my adult life, am deep in debt now, am far from my grown child (who is back in CA), and I suddenly own a house I didn’t really want that is a fixer – maybe a tear-down. There’s a lot more to the story, of course.
I’ve been through many traumas – the big kind and the little kind. In fact, almost everyone who knows me says, “You are so strong! I can’t imagine how you survived.” (My biggest trauma is well known)
Shortly after I moved here, I met a stunningly handsome man whose divorce was final and whose life seemed to be improving. I felt delighted by this great good fortune! Things went really well for three month. I was happy, and for a while, so was he. Then things changed. A woman threw herself at him at work – she’s younger and prettier, has a perfect body and less baggage.
He went for it.
Tonight we’ll be having the “break up” talk. I already know he’s doing her, because he abruptly left my life about 10 days ago.
Frankly, as pathetic as it sounds, he was the only source of happiness in my life right now. He told me yesterday I’m the “sweetest” woman he’s ever met. Of course, that’s not the same as the “hottest” or the “fittest” and to him, and most men of course, that’s the most important thing.
I don’t have the strength to find and love anyone else; I can’t handle my life or this house or my homesickness for California. It will be winter soon here. I can’t face that either.
If suicide didn’t cause such deep emotional harm to the people I love, I would have done it years ago. My mother and my daughter would be so hurt! But it beckons me relentlessly. Every day I have to force myself to think of reasons why I shouldn’t do it. Some days – like today – that’s a lot of effort.