I was 8-years old the first time I wished for death. I wasn’t actively suicidal, but I prayed I would die (or at least be severely injured) by my mother as she threw the Fisher Price washing machine in my direction. I was sitting on my bed, silently crying, holding my knees. I hadn’t cleaned my room and my mother was angry. Maybe I had shoved too much stuff under my bed because I didn’t want to deal with it, I don’t really remember which time this was.
Her solution was to dump out every dresser drawer, turn over the frame, upend my toy box, dump my bookshelf…..and THEN I had a reason to complain about cleaning my room.
The washing machine, unfortunately, did not hit me. It hit the wall next to me instead and left a corner-shaped hole.
Later that night, it occurred to me that I could have placed myself in front of it in a subtle way that ensured I got hurt but left my mother unaware that I had done it on purpose.
I wanted her to think it was her fault. I wanted her to kill me, or at least hurt me badly, so she would feel the pain she caused me when she raged. I negotiated with myself about having the courage to place myself in harm’s way if the opportunity ever presented itself again.
“I don’t REALLY want to die, but I want to get hurt bad enough that she has to take me to the hospital. Maybe a permanent injury? I don’t…
