Worse

December 2010 was a blur. 
It started off with a bang, discovering my husband's affair.  Then I had to (almost entirely by myself) put together a last crossover ceremony.  This was extremely stressful, but also extremely emotional since Cub Scout Pack was being forced to close down due to lack of parent involvement.  I didn't even have a Cub Scout, but had spent years working to ensure it's viability.
Just like I had with my marriage.
During this entire time I was in excruciating pain.  I had been in pain for a year, but had been told everything from, "It's just a pulled muscle," to "You're just a little overweight, lose ten pounds and you'll be fine," to "It's just the flu - I hear it's going around."
Turns out, as I found out mid-December, I actually had a slipped disc.  The prognosis wasn't good, but I was told I needed to at least try physical therapy.
It's like... I got caught in a "punching machine" and the hits wouldn't stop coming.
Details of my husband's affair kept trickling in - and not from him.  The more I dug, the more info I found that he hadn't divulged.  The more I'd dig for truth, the more he'd evade or outright lie.  "Oh, I don't remember..." he'd say.  And I'd show proof.  And he'd say, "Oh, yeah, well, it wasn't important."
As if that made it better.
When I was finally told I needed surgery to have the disc removed, several well meaning friends cautioned me against it.  "Don't do it!  Don't have surgery!  You'll regret it for the rest of your life!"
But the thing is - I was so scared, but I was also so convinced that I would die.  I wanted to die.  I had hoped I would die.  It was, in essence, my plan.  I'll have this surgery and then die on the table.  It won't be anyone's fault.  These things happen.  A sad, unfortunate thing. 
And then my husband could clean up the damned mess he made by himself.
I could just, you know, let go.  And stop being in pain - inside, outside... to my very core. 
Except I didn't die. 
I wish I had.
At one point I took something like... eight or ten Valium.  Other than making me loopy and extremely tired, there wasn't much side effect.  I didn't die.
I wish I had.
When the emotional pain became too unbearable, I would cut.  Little gashes across my breasts, or on my shins or feet.  Scratches on my wrists (people look at your wrists when you're depressed and this wasn't something I cared to share.)  Finally deep gashes on my upper legs.  Deep.  I watched the skin separate and the blood spill, and all I could think was, "I wish I could just die," but I didn't.
But I wish I had.
Eventually, the cuts healed.  The surgery was "successful" - at least in stopping the searing pain that had been plaguing me for over a year at that point.  There was residual pain, but it was bearable most of the time.
I told myself to hang in there.  I told myself that I can't know what the future will hold.  I told myself to keep living or I might miss out on something.
Except, secretly, I still wanted to die.
But also secretly?  I am terrified of oblivion.
So I held on.  Not truly "hoping" so much as "putting in the work" in hopes that it would result in the change that would somehow, magically, beautifully, perfectly put all of my past pain and discontent at ease.  You know, you don't lose weight you've gained over 10 years all in a day or a week or a month or usually even a year.  Healing takes time.  Rebuilding takes time, whether it's your heart or your body or your finances or your marriage.
But as I sit here, snot covered and teary, I just keep wishing I had died back then.  Maybe my husband would have been happier with the OW.  Maybe he would have all he dreamed of and more.  Maybe my daughter wouldn't have run away.  Maybe my kids would be happier and more fulfilled and more successful and more driven.  Maybe they'd be a closer family. 
Maybe oblivion isn't as bad as I fear.