So, Doctor Douchebag was essentially the catalyst to the self-doubt and constant thoughts of "I'm faking this pain" or "It isn't that bad." Great stuff Doctor Douchebag, I still hope you wake up some day experiencing the level of back pain I had back then and you called pretend, but only for a day, as I don't think even he deserves this level of pain.
So, being an 18 year old male who was a tighthead prop in rugby and then told that his aspirations in that sport were no longer a possibilty, you can imagine that my initial thoughts led to suicide and killing myself, as quote unquote 'My life is over.' I can tell you now, that the version of me from back then did not know what the fuck he was talking about.
Interesting side note, the psychiatrists and psychologists of the UK do not condone the phrase "killing myself," instead they prefer the term of 'ending my life.' In my opinion, this is one of the many things about UK doctors I find incredibly odd, like, "Nah homey, I didn't want to end myself. I wanted to blow my fucking brains out."
Anyways, moving on, in fact, wait. Why did Doctor Douchebag not recommend me to a psychiatrists then? I mean, Doctor Douchebag basically put me under a huge amount of psychological trauma, obviously I would need the fucking psychological support. After due consideration, I decree that henceforth, Doctor Douchebag is now to be known as Doctor Dickhead.
So, as can be seen from above, I had the consistent and overpowering desire to kill myself and funnily enough, the opportunity arose when I was house sitting for my physiotherapist. Due to South Africa being a crime hotspot, her husband owned a gun and he happened to show me where it was just in case.
A day into the house sitting gig, I was staring at where this gun was, mentally preparing myself to do the deed. As with most peope, I had a low nagging voice not to do it, it came mainly in the form of my mother telling me this, but most of my family was part of the voice at one point or the other.
So, I decided to message my friend and if he didn't respond within an allotted period of time, I would go through with it. This friend usually took a day to respond, but I swear, this day he responded almost as soon as the message was sent. He helped calm me out of this consistent cycle of self-hate and get to a more reasonable point. He told me that if the thoughts came back, I should message him before they got too bad and I committed the deed. They didn't come back as he managed to calm me enough to sleep.
Years after, I asked him if the reason he needed me to message him was for him to try calm me down again. This short piece of shit responded with, "Nah fucker, I was gonna phone your mom and tell on you :p"
To this day, I owe the fact I still haven't given up and will not give up to this friend and my family. They are the reason I keep fighting even when I cannot for myself. If oyu are suffering similarly, please, talk to someone, beit friend, family or just someone on the suicide watch line. I promise, you will be missed and we want you here. Even you Doctor Dickhead!
