The art of suicide

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    Maia Dawn

    It has been six months since my last suicide attempt.
    I have everything I want in the world: a husband who adores me, a prestigious and fulfilling career, parents who love me and brought me up with love, a dog who is my “better half” and a handful of friends, close enough to have meaningful relationships with. But there is a gaping hole inside me, a darkness that threatens to swallow me whole if I let myself slip. This hole manifests itself through feeling empty.
    Two years ago, before I defended my PhD thesis, I was put on antidepressants, that got me through the defence. But they also produced grand mal-seizures, and loss of memory previous to ten days before the incident. I was hospitalised.

    Two years later now, I seem to be ok.Except for the suicide serious enough, that I was institutionalised for four days.

    Besides the scars on my arms, I have mental scars from the trauma of rape that I don’t know how to resolve. I was raped 9 years ago by my professor. I never spoke up. I am 35 years old now, and still living the consequences. It helped when I finally spoke with my parents this year.

    I have anxiety.
    I want to have a child but I don’t know if I will be a good mother at all.
    I have not had sex with my husband for the last two years (we have been married for three and half years now). I chose him because he is older and very very gentle. He will not beat me.
    If it’s help I need, then I don’t know where to begin.
    But I am skilled in the art of suicide.

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