I was 9 years old when I first felt suicidal. I threw myself on the ground, outside of our apartment, and started screaming that I wanted god to kill me.
Being raised an atheist and secular didn’t mean I didn’t watch telenovelas where Maria or Elena or Valentina went to church to pray for anything she wanted. At one point, I got my mother to buy me a rosary because someone in some Mexican telenovela wore it. While I didn’t know that religion was an actual thing people truly believed in real life (I was 9), I did know that if I believed in something, it could happen.
Of course it would. Everything is possible. I am a child.
When the abuse and neglect started to really affect me to the point of wanting to die, turning to that one magical being that Maria Elena in Mi Amor Favorito (made up) turns to when she struggles, just made sense. It worked for her, so it might work for me, too.
Throwing myself down and begging god to kill me was just the beginning, because night after night I would pray to not wake up. When it didn’t work, I stopped.
That’s when suicidality started. Under those stars, on the street, when I finally had enough of the abuse and neglect and decided death, however I understood it, was the solution.
For years, I fantasised about it and dreamt of the peacefulness it would bring.
Years later, I started bringing this to reality, slowly, first by starting to self-harm and then by attempting suicide at 17. Naturally, I failed because apparently taking five antidepressants is not good enough, but hey, I tried.
I continued beating myself, literally, over and over again, absolutely losing it and punishing my body or using it as a punching bag when I needed to calm down.
Seeing the bruises and feeling that deep pain in my muscles made me feel like I had a way to control my rage.
I could stop it. It would hurt, sure, but I could stop the rage, the anger, the pain.
If it means I have to sacrifice my body and suffer the bruises or bruised and bloody knuckles, that’s okay.
I could stop it.
I would hit my left abdominal area over and over again, for years, for everything, alone and in front of others. It was the easiest area to reach and hit with my right hand, and it was so close and soft and perfect. Just a few hits to my body, or a few punches to a bag of pellets, and I can breathe. Hit, hit, hit, hit, hit, feel the pain, wash my face, and move on.
This was happening for years, on and off, sometimes for weeks, sometimes I would take a break for months. But then COVID happened, and I was stuck at home with a father who got radicalised into the conspiracy theory “cult”, and I went mad.
Hit, hit, hit, hit, hit, hit, hit, hit, hit. During COVID, I also started hitting the bag of pellets so hard I drew blood. The first time I hit rock bottom was at 17 when I attempted to end my life. The second time was during the pandemic when I saw blood on my hands.
Chronic fatigue has been present ever since I was a child. I struggled with anaemia, and mental illness takes its toll, too. And yet, the last 6-7 years just ramped up my tiredness until I felt like I probably had cancer.
For a while, I could pretend it was “depression” or “well, I am on two different drugs for my BPD, of course I feel the side effects”, but when my mental health improved and I still felt like I was dying, I had to look at it. The longer I waited, the worse it got, and the less energy I had to wake up, eat, speak, or exist.
Sometimes I would sleep for 15 hours straight, get up for an hour, and then go back to sleep. My body was shutting down, slowly but strongly, and my mind was following it obediently. When you can hardly stay awake, why would you think, dream, fantasise and plan about the potential future? Am I even going to be alive? Who knows, really.
In October 2024, I scheduled an appointment with my doctor.
After I told her everything, she asked about my diet. You guessed it, my being vegan suddenly became a giant problem, and she suggested I think about incorporating meat in my diet, but that we will check my blood and see how my iron is.
Before she knew how anaemic I was, if I was, and what caused it, she immediately blamed it on veganism.
I gave blood in the morning, and by noon, after the clinic was already closed, they called me to ask where to bring me my results because I needed to go to the ER right away due to how severe my anaemia was. It was so bad that they did it outside of working hours.
At the emergency, they gave me an iron IV, and before and after, pulled me aside (literally) and told me “hey, we saw you are vegan (it was written as a note btw), and we see people like you often, so think about including meat in your diet.” BEFORE THEY KNEW WHAT WAS WRONG AND WHY I WAS ANAEMIC!!!
After going to my gynaecologist for a checkup and later having an ultrasound of my abdominal area, they found I had an enlarged spleen (18cm) with a large cyst inside (15cm), and that my heavy periods were not normal. Apparently, passing out from cramps and bleeding through a tampon and a pad in less than an hour is not normal. I guess.
Anyway, she found a polyp and put me on contraception. While I heard so much fear-mongering around The Pill, it turns out most women have very few side effects (or, in my case, zero) and they are not as scary as they would have you believe. And honestly, once women gained access to contraception, we started to gain more freedom, so all this hate towards it is reminding me a lot of propaganda that I see from tradwife and anti-vax “cults”.
You would think women are dropping dead or becoming disabled due to it, and it turns out most women are fine. With that being said, I am aware of the “blood clot” danger, and I am hoping I can solve my uterine problems fast so I don’t have to be on the pill for too long. If I stay on it, may it be because I am sexually active and want to avoid pregnancy, not because of something that can be solved if my doctor just sends me to a surgeon, you know?
I wrote about my first two splenic punctures in this post here, so do read it because I will skip it here, since it’s already been covered.
After the two unsuccessful punctures in May and August, I had my third one in December 2025. I knew it would fail because they only drained it, and the chances were just not in my favour.
Spending an entire year going from one doctor to another, from one puncture to another, with nothing happening, was a test of how much strength I have in my heart and mind. Hating myself led me to this place. Hating my brain led me to this place. I literally stand where I stand because of hate, violence, and disgust.
You know, I had no idea why my spleen was harmed for the longest time. It took me months before I knew it was my fault. Until one night, when I was in pain, joking with myself about punching myself in the spleen.
Then it hit me (no pun intended).
I used to hit myself. In the splenic area. A lot. A lot, a lot. I haven’t done it in maybe two to three years, but I used to. Often. Holy fuck, I used to punch myself hard in the stomach.
It was one of those moments when your mind gets illuminated by a realisation of something so simple yet so profound. Just because I stopped harming my body, it doesn’t mean that consequences won’t come chasing after me later. When you don’t know that punching your abdomen can cause something permanent, you don’t even think about it.
It was just bruises. Bruises heal.
Doctors asking why this happened, if I have any ideas, and me looking at them and saying, “I used to hit myself”, was humiliating. In part because I didn’t want to be out there talking about it in front of others in the room, but also because they were visibly uncomfortable and quickly changed the topic. I wish they didn’t.
I wish someone would want to hear my story. Anyone. Even my father turns quiet when I mention it, or remind him of its origins. It feels lonely being in this hurting body, trying to navigate this new path of learning to love myself, and healing not only the past but my physical body, with no one listening.
I wish someone would listen and wouldn’t feel afraid of the darkness. I’m on the other side, after all, and I want to share the love, not harm. But death and suicide and self-harm make people uncomfortable, and I swear I don’t understand. I tried to, but I never figured it out. Maybe because they have been present in my life for so long, and I got to know them very closely. Or maybe I just am different, not bad or good, just one of those people who doesn’t mind the dark.
In early April, I had surgery for my spleen and gallbladder. As I write this, I am a week into my healing journey from cholecystectomy and splenic cyst fenestration.
I’m moving slowly, walking slowly, coughing slowly, eating slowly, living slowly. Quite literally, I cannot go fast.
This has been a very interesting week, not being able to do what I always do, like never going to bed with unwashed hair or not showering for a few days, or saying no to people who need help because I’m unable to. Or walking slowly and feeding my cats with patience, being careful of how much I eat to not put too much pressure on my stomach, and lovingly touching my body when the stitches ache.
I have never touched my stomach as much as I touch it now. I am bloated, and it is not straight like it usually is, but I love it more than ever. This stomach was my victim. This stomach was abused. This stomach was screaming, and I was deaf.
This body has been through so much. I turned 33 this month. Is it not the time for me to love this home I have been born into? Mother Earth gifted me this body. This body is my entire home, the only one I truly have. The only one I possess. The one home I can never be evicted from, and the one thing that can never make me homeless.
I love myself so much. I love myself so much. I love me.
Tanja
