I have attempted suicide once again, for the third time, and being the miserable failure I am, I failed once again. I really believed that third time would be the charm and I would be able to do it. But I was unlucky... I don't remember much, but according to my discharge letter from the intensive care, a foid found me lying down unconscious on the train rails, and she pulled me away and called the police and the ambulance. Although I was not entirely conscious, I still barely remember what happened inside the ambulance because of the foid rescue worker who repeatedly slapped my face and told me not to close my eyes and talk to her. I remember telling her "you're way out of my league, why do you want to talk to me?". I don’t remember how she answered. Aside from that, I remember her telling me her name. I don't remember what happened after that and I woke up in the intensive care the next day. As I gained consciousness, I realized that I was tied to my bed, and asked the nurse why they tied me. She told me that when they first brought me and left me alone in my room, I tore my intravenous infusion off, which caused my blood to spill everywhere, then I got up, started walking down the corridor and as they saw me and grabbed me to bring back me to my bed, I shouted and said that "I want to die", and "please let me go so I can jump from the window". I didn't remember doing any of that at all and I was shocked to learn that I had the strength to actually get up because the only thing I remember is just dreams. Then, I asked the nurse about the rescue worker from the ambulance whose name I still remembered, and I asked if I can talk to her, and she said that she will bring another patient soon, and then I can talk to her if she has the time. Sure enough, she came soon after and when she brought the patient and was about to leave the intensive care, I called out to her since I remembered her name. She came to me with a smile and told me she was glad that I survived. Then as we talked, she remembered that I said she was out of my league, and told me "no one is out of your league, there are no leagues". Of course, I didn't care about that nor did I believe her, but the fact that she tried to make me feel good brought a genuine smile to my face. Since I live all alone and no one says to me stuff like that, I felt a bittersweet smile covering my face. I also wanted to tell her "spare me your fake pleasantries", but those words just didn't came to me. I smiled and thanked her, and before she left, she held my hand for a few seconds as she smiled back. It was the first time I held the hand of a woman. I guess I'm not a KHHV anymore but rather a KHV. After that it was nothing interesting. Just silence, more infusion, and more medications. I had to stay there for a few days and it was so depressing.
Then, after I left the intensive care, I had to stay in a psychiatric hospital since this was my third suicide attempt, and I had to stay for a fairly long time, too. In the end, I just put my happy mask on and pretended to smile and talk to other patients and workers, so that I could leave. It was not my first stay in a psychiatric facility, so I had already realized what the doctors expect from patients before they agree to release them, so I did everything they expected from me by pretending and using a fake, happy persona. I then left and came home again. And as soon as I entered my room, the silence was deafening, and I regretted that I left the psychiatric facility, because there are at least people who work there and doctors with whom you can talk anytime. I felt like a failure once again and thought to myself I want to go back, but I was afraid I would look like an idiot. Instead, I took my cell phone because it has been a long time since I have used it, but of course, nobody had called nor sent a message, since there isn't anyone who would care... But to my dismay, I saw instead that it was I who have contacted someone when I was in the intensive care and was half conscious... I actually contacted 2 people. One was my psychotherapist and the other was another doctor whose specialization I will not reveal since it is in a very specific medical area. They are both foids. I have told them things which apparently made them uncomfortable. I don't remember sending those messages, so I called them both and tried to explain. I apologized like the failure I am and told them I don't remember sending those messages. I said I was all alone and they are the only people with whom I could talk, and that's probably why I contacted them. They didn't believe me, but they weren't necessarily mean about it. I noticed that they didn't believe me, so I told them that I can send them my discharge letter from the hospital that proves that I was half conscious and not completely conscious. They weren't interested, and both of them told me not to contact them again, and that I had to find other psychotherapists and doctors. I apologized once again and told them even if they won't accept me as a patient anymore, I really wished they believed me at least, so, I offered and insisted to send my report from the intensive care once again, so at least they know that I didn't want to bother them, but they weren't interested. They told me not to contact them again and hung up. I continued talking to my phone as if they would hear me. I said: "I can not even have a psychotherapist or a doctor in my life, let alone having friends. What kind of a loser gets rejected being treated by medical professionals?".
But I don't care anymore. I have no strength left in me. I started self harm since I have returned home. My limbs are full of wounds and cuts. It hurts like hell, but I deserve it, so I will probably continue doing it. My knife is covered in blood, and I sleep with it next to me. It gives me a mixed feeling. On the one hand, I live alone, which means that I don't need to hide my knife and I just leave it there next to my bed. On the other, I wish someone who cares was here and they would see what I'm doing and would take my knife away and tell me that I don't deserve such pain. Of course, nobody will ever do nor say that.
The weather is hot these days, so I can not wear long sleeves, and people immediately recognize my wounds outside, and they look like I'm a crazy person. I feel more like a failure as time flows.
And all of this just because I was born as an ugly man.
That’s why nobody cares.
That’s why my psychotherapist and my doctor thought I was being an autistic, creepy weirdo.
That’s why I have to hurt myself.
That’s why I am all alone.
That’s why I just want to put a gun to my head.
That’s why I want to pull the trigger and be dead.
That’s why, in the end, I will die alone.
Just because I’m an ugly man.
Somebody, please kill me.
Please...
Then, after I left the intensive care, I had to stay in a psychiatric hospital since this was my third suicide attempt, and I had to stay for a fairly long time, too. In the end, I just put my happy mask on and pretended to smile and talk to other patients and workers, so that I could leave. It was not my first stay in a psychiatric facility, so I had already realized what the doctors expect from patients before they agree to release them, so I did everything they expected from me by pretending and using a fake, happy persona. I then left and came home again. And as soon as I entered my room, the silence was deafening, and I regretted that I left the psychiatric facility, because there are at least people who work there and doctors with whom you can talk anytime. I felt like a failure once again and thought to myself I want to go back, but I was afraid I would look like an idiot. Instead, I took my cell phone because it has been a long time since I have used it, but of course, nobody had called nor sent a message, since there isn't anyone who would care... But to my dismay, I saw instead that it was I who have contacted someone when I was in the intensive care and was half conscious... I actually contacted 2 people. One was my psychotherapist and the other was another doctor whose specialization I will not reveal since it is in a very specific medical area. They are both foids. I have told them things which apparently made them uncomfortable. I don't remember sending those messages, so I called them both and tried to explain. I apologized like the failure I am and told them I don't remember sending those messages. I said I was all alone and they are the only people with whom I could talk, and that's probably why I contacted them. They didn't believe me, but they weren't necessarily mean about it. I noticed that they didn't believe me, so I told them that I can send them my discharge letter from the hospital that proves that I was half conscious and not completely conscious. They weren't interested, and both of them told me not to contact them again, and that I had to find other psychotherapists and doctors. I apologized once again and told them even if they won't accept me as a patient anymore, I really wished they believed me at least, so, I offered and insisted to send my report from the intensive care once again, so at least they know that I didn't want to bother them, but they weren't interested. They told me not to contact them again and hung up. I continued talking to my phone as if they would hear me. I said: "I can not even have a psychotherapist or a doctor in my life, let alone having friends. What kind of a loser gets rejected being treated by medical professionals?".
But I don't care anymore. I have no strength left in me. I started self harm since I have returned home. My limbs are full of wounds and cuts. It hurts like hell, but I deserve it, so I will probably continue doing it. My knife is covered in blood, and I sleep with it next to me. It gives me a mixed feeling. On the one hand, I live alone, which means that I don't need to hide my knife and I just leave it there next to my bed. On the other, I wish someone who cares was here and they would see what I'm doing and would take my knife away and tell me that I don't deserve such pain. Of course, nobody will ever do nor say that.
The weather is hot these days, so I can not wear long sleeves, and people immediately recognize my wounds outside, and they look like I'm a crazy person. I feel more like a failure as time flows.
And all of this just because I was born as an ugly man.
That’s why nobody cares.
That’s why my psychotherapist and my doctor thought I was being an autistic, creepy weirdo.
That’s why I have to hurt myself.
That’s why I am all alone.
That’s why I just want to put a gun to my head.
That’s why I want to pull the trigger and be dead.
That’s why, in the end, I will die alone.
Just because I’m an ugly man.
Somebody, please kill me.
Please...
