Voices and Words - to be driven to contemplate death

Last spring I seriously contemplated killing myself. This was different than the past. In the past it was the overwhelming desire for rest from mania that drove me to simply want quiet — and to be quite honest — when you brain is overdrive for so long you seriously think — “I know what will make me sleep… death!” 
Last spring was different. Something new had come home to roost. I was visualizing gutting myself like a fish with a kitchen knife- odd right? Except it wasn’t. See the self-loathing I felt made me want to die in a way that I felt I deserved, in a painful horrific manner that would make amends for my insistence on existing despite being a horrible, ugly, worthless piece of shit.
That last sentence is important. Because it’s actually tame compared to what my mind really told me… what my mind still tells me. After years of pushing down the problems and pushing forward — after years of swimming through it — I was drowning.
There has always been a part of my brain that recalls everything single horrible thing ever said to me. For a long time I let it stay unfettered — it was there to keep me honest after all — the vile horrors of who I am on repeat 24/7 would serve to keep me from thinking too much of myself right? God forbid an ungodly untalented and ugly girl like me think she has anything to offer the world, stupid cunts like myself should be reminded daily of why we should save everyone the trouble and die like the sad beached whales we are….
See how that works… The voice kept me “honest” sure. It keeps me in bed the day after a party — where I go over each and every moment of my interactions with people at the get together- noting mentally in exquisite detail every single moment I couldn’t shut up, kept talking, was not funny, and was way too open. “No one gives a shit about that crap” my brain says “You are really a fucking annoying bitch. Have you tried maybe giving yourself brain damage so you could lose the ability to speak so you would stop making people suffer through your shit?”
The past few years — I gave up all the drugs and drinking. Hell I even quit smoking. Smoking was this last safe place for me — a sweet poison that somehow still calmed the angry internal dialogue.
I tried to get help. I went back to the psychologists — who put me on a cocktail of medications — all of which made shit worse. I gained a ton of weight. My body immediately was and still is still off kilter. I made the mistake of reading the psych docs notes — confirming my suspicions when she said I was morbidly obese and masochist, seeming to have no motivation to get help or to make life changes and that I was resistant to taking medications because I was addicted to manic episodes. Never mind the side effects were killing me, one drug so much as making my suicidal impulses even stronger than before.
I quit the medications. The psychologist refused to see me anymore. And I started to get a little better. The voice is still there however.
Where does it come from? Things said to me honestly. I hear the words of the man who sexual assaulted me, who told me ugly girls like me shouldn’t fight back because this may be my only shot and getting any attention. I hear the words of abusive exes — telling me how annoying I am, how I ruin everything. I hear strangers’ words telling me that I am an ugly skank for going out in public dressed in something other than full body coverage. I hear words from childhood — telling me crying is me trying to make someone else feel bad, telling me I deserve the rage I get because I should have known better than to make too much noise. A little girl who was told she should get used to people not liking her because she was always going to be considered ugly. I hear the words of peers telling me I was a whore because I had sex despite the fact I was raped.
“The only reason they talk to you is because they know ugly fat chicks like you will put out” “You are nothing more than a throw away lay for a guy looking for easy pussy or some freak with a fatty fetish” “You never shut the fuck up do you, you stupid bitch — no one wants to listen to you — they don’t say anything because they are being nice because they pity you because you are so fucking pathetic — it’s like listening to a retard run its fucking mouth” “Why do you bother with make-up it won’t fix your ugly face” “You should be glad he is with you even if he abuses you — it isn’t like you are prime dating material, of course he is probably cheating so he can actually have sex with a real woman not some masculine looking cow bitch”
The words of others then blend and merge, turning themselves to even worse phrases that bring me to shakes and turn my guts and make me cry. Things I can’t even speak or write without vomiting. Things I feel guilty for even contemplating sharing with someone — because I know the pain it causes me and how it burns and I worry that if I share it will bring that pain to someone else.
I am safer now than I was last spring. I am not healed by any means. But the constant words and the new strength of them is now somehow more tolerable. I have acknowledged them. I am surviving. I am swimming. When I can I will confront them. When I confront them I will take their stingers and render them to sounds and shapes rather than weapons and bombs planted by villains of my past.