Suicide Part 1: Personal History
I said a while back that I'd tackle the subject of suicide; I'm going to take a couple of posts to do it, but first I want you to understand where I'm coming from, so you'll know that I understand what I'm talking about.
When I was younger, and a lot stupider, I used to say crap like "I have no sympathy for people who kill themselves. The world's better off without them anyway. Weak, stupid, selfish, giver-uppers."
I thought of suicide as selfish, as just another way of trying to get out of a problem you're too chickenshit or lazy or dumb to solve and too weak to live with. I allowed exceptions for terminally ill people, but that was about it. Anyone who tried to kill themselves and failed was a complete waste, because they were clearly only doing it for attention.
Needless to say, I didn't know anyone who had committed suicide, and at the time I had not ever been suicidal.
I changed my thinking somewhat after a friend attempted suicide. Her attempt was a "cry for help," and she admitted as much. She didn't want to die. I didn't think what she had done was stupid, though. I thought it was sad. I knew this girl. She was surrounded by people who would not listen to her or take her seriously. She could not get help. I watched her try time and again. I watched her go to her mother, her counselor, her doctor, her teachers, only to be told that what she felt wasn't important, wasn't serious, and was only inconvenient and annoying. If her attempt on her life was a cry for help, it was clearly the only one these people were capable of hearing. I don't approve of what she did. I wish she had not felt driven to it, and I am very glad that she survived. But, knowing the circumstances, she was in no way behaving in a stupid or selfish fashion. I do not blame her for doing it, certainly; it worked. It worked, when nothing else had. Again, I certainly wouldn't recommend this as an attention-getting ploy, so please don't try it, but I am glad she got the help she needed.
It was still not something I could ever do. Despite my sympathy, I still considered it, on some level, as "giving up." Oh, sure, I had thought about suicide a lot. Ever since I was twelve, in fact. But suicidal thoughts and suicidal urges are two different things. I did not, at the time, appreciate that. I think, on some level, I still regarded it as "weak." As the mark of a flawed person. I knew I wasn't that kind of person.
Discovering I was wrong was like having the world yanked out from under me. I thought I'd known myself, and I thought I'd seen the darkest my life could get. I didn't know myself at all, though, and I truly didn't know how bad it could get. Now I can admit that. And as bad as I've seen it get, I can now admit that it gets a whole lot worse.
It took last year to take me right to the edge. I was having a major depressive downswing, worse than anything I'd ever experienced before. Finally I was diagnosed as bipolar, but help was a long time coming and slow in working, and I found myself not just idly wishing I were dead, but feeling an actual drive to finish the job. To my surprise, I found that I was capable of contemplating - genuinely contemplating - suicide. I had decided I wanted to kill myself, had decided that one day would be as good as any other, I was just trying to think of a way to do it that would not cause a horrible mess or horrible suffering.
The place I was in was completely foreign to me, the landscape unknown, and utterly unlike anything I had expected.
People imagine it as a histrionic place, a place full of wild winds, of hair-tearing and screaming, of nails raking across flesh, of violence and passion and fury. They imagine it as a forest so tangled with emotional vegetation that it is impossible to see a way out, or see the future past the very next painful step.
Hey, perhaps for some it is. No doubt plenty of suicides are committed in passion. It wasn't like that for me, but I can't speak for anyone but myself.
For me, it was not a place of wild emotions. Violence, passion, fury, histrionics, these are all very much part of wanting to live. To scream or cry you have to draw breath, and keep drawing breath. It takes hot blood to make hot tears. Feelings are a part of the urge for life. I had run out of pretty much every feeling but exhaustion and despair.
There came a point where I didn't scream or cry, where there were no more tears, hot or cold. I wound up going past the rage and fury into a place I'd never been before.
It was a cold place, and it was flat. It was open and empty. I could see a very long way into my future, almost forever.
And ahead of me, all ahead of me, was nothing but more pain.
It's not that I couldn't see that things would eventually get better. I knew that they would. I had total and complete faith in that. Every shred of experience accumulated over thirty years of life told me that things would turn around and improve, that I would have good days again. I could see them ahead of me, wandering like golden shafts of light between cloud shadows. I knew this darkness would pass.
But for the first time I saw with perfect clarity the fact that I would never be free of it. I have spoken of that several times here, the knowledge that "this, too, must pass" applies to the good as well as the bad, and the anguish that knowledge brings.
I saw I would never be free, that I could never expect it to be over forever, that I could not expect rest and reward, and I said to myself, "This road is too long. I cannot do this."
For a while there, I was ready to give up.
I did not, because . . . well . . . you know, I can't exactly say why. I can't say why I decided it would be better to wait a day, a week, a month, and then another and another, even when "help" was taking its sweet fucking time bringing relief.
Perhaps it was knowing that my death would destroy my husband and my cats. Perhaps it was for love of my imaginary people, and all the untold stories in my head. Perhaps it was the simple kindness of my friends, which reassured me that even at my worst I was still worthy of their love. Perhaps it was this place and all of you here. Perhaps it was nothing more than the fear of pain.
I was lucky. I was lucky to have these things to hold on to. It was almost not enough. For someone else, it may not have been.
I'm glad I didn't kill myself. I am very glad I didn't. Yes, I'm still afraid of the shadows, and yes, on some days I still would like to give up. But I am not ready to actually die. So I'm here. Living.
I want to say all this so that you have some small insight, so that you can see and understand that smart, strong people can and do feel this way.
Tomorrow or the next day, I'm going to take apart the idea that suicide is "selfish." I will post some quotes I feel are relevant. After that, I'm going after the idea that recovery is as simple as "getting help," and that anyone who really wanted to could get help and get better.
It's not a cheerful subject, and these entries have not been easy to write, but I think it needs to be talked about. If we don't talk about it, we contribute to the shame and silence that surround depression and suicide. We participate in our own marginalization by refusing to make our voices heard. And saddest of all, perhaps: when we do not speak of our loneliness, pain, and shame, we leave others to feel as alone, hurt, and ashamed as we felt.
I don't think we should do that anymore.
Part 2: Selfishness
When I was younger, and a lot stupider, I used to say crap like "I have no sympathy for people who kill themselves. The world's better off without them anyway. Weak, stupid, selfish, giver-uppers."
I thought of suicide as selfish, as just another way of trying to get out of a problem you're too chickenshit or lazy or dumb to solve and too weak to live with. I allowed exceptions for terminally ill people, but that was about it. Anyone who tried to kill themselves and failed was a complete waste, because they were clearly only doing it for attention.
Needless to say, I didn't know anyone who had committed suicide, and at the time I had not ever been suicidal.
I changed my thinking somewhat after a friend attempted suicide. Her attempt was a "cry for help," and she admitted as much. She didn't want to die. I didn't think what she had done was stupid, though. I thought it was sad. I knew this girl. She was surrounded by people who would not listen to her or take her seriously. She could not get help. I watched her try time and again. I watched her go to her mother, her counselor, her doctor, her teachers, only to be told that what she felt wasn't important, wasn't serious, and was only inconvenient and annoying. If her attempt on her life was a cry for help, it was clearly the only one these people were capable of hearing. I don't approve of what she did. I wish she had not felt driven to it, and I am very glad that she survived. But, knowing the circumstances, she was in no way behaving in a stupid or selfish fashion. I do not blame her for doing it, certainly; it worked. It worked, when nothing else had. Again, I certainly wouldn't recommend this as an attention-getting ploy, so please don't try it, but I am glad she got the help she needed.
It was still not something I could ever do. Despite my sympathy, I still considered it, on some level, as "giving up." Oh, sure, I had thought about suicide a lot. Ever since I was twelve, in fact. But suicidal thoughts and suicidal urges are two different things. I did not, at the time, appreciate that. I think, on some level, I still regarded it as "weak." As the mark of a flawed person. I knew I wasn't that kind of person.
Discovering I was wrong was like having the world yanked out from under me. I thought I'd known myself, and I thought I'd seen the darkest my life could get. I didn't know myself at all, though, and I truly didn't know how bad it could get. Now I can admit that. And as bad as I've seen it get, I can now admit that it gets a whole lot worse.
It took last year to take me right to the edge. I was having a major depressive downswing, worse than anything I'd ever experienced before. Finally I was diagnosed as bipolar, but help was a long time coming and slow in working, and I found myself not just idly wishing I were dead, but feeling an actual drive to finish the job. To my surprise, I found that I was capable of contemplating - genuinely contemplating - suicide. I had decided I wanted to kill myself, had decided that one day would be as good as any other, I was just trying to think of a way to do it that would not cause a horrible mess or horrible suffering.
The place I was in was completely foreign to me, the landscape unknown, and utterly unlike anything I had expected.
People imagine it as a histrionic place, a place full of wild winds, of hair-tearing and screaming, of nails raking across flesh, of violence and passion and fury. They imagine it as a forest so tangled with emotional vegetation that it is impossible to see a way out, or see the future past the very next painful step.
Hey, perhaps for some it is. No doubt plenty of suicides are committed in passion. It wasn't like that for me, but I can't speak for anyone but myself.
For me, it was not a place of wild emotions. Violence, passion, fury, histrionics, these are all very much part of wanting to live. To scream or cry you have to draw breath, and keep drawing breath. It takes hot blood to make hot tears. Feelings are a part of the urge for life. I had run out of pretty much every feeling but exhaustion and despair.
There came a point where I didn't scream or cry, where there were no more tears, hot or cold. I wound up going past the rage and fury into a place I'd never been before.
It was a cold place, and it was flat. It was open and empty. I could see a very long way into my future, almost forever.
And ahead of me, all ahead of me, was nothing but more pain.
It's not that I couldn't see that things would eventually get better. I knew that they would. I had total and complete faith in that. Every shred of experience accumulated over thirty years of life told me that things would turn around and improve, that I would have good days again. I could see them ahead of me, wandering like golden shafts of light between cloud shadows. I knew this darkness would pass.
But for the first time I saw with perfect clarity the fact that I would never be free of it. I have spoken of that several times here, the knowledge that "this, too, must pass" applies to the good as well as the bad, and the anguish that knowledge brings.
I saw I would never be free, that I could never expect it to be over forever, that I could not expect rest and reward, and I said to myself, "This road is too long. I cannot do this."
For a while there, I was ready to give up.
I did not, because . . . well . . . you know, I can't exactly say why. I can't say why I decided it would be better to wait a day, a week, a month, and then another and another, even when "help" was taking its sweet fucking time bringing relief.
Perhaps it was knowing that my death would destroy my husband and my cats. Perhaps it was for love of my imaginary people, and all the untold stories in my head. Perhaps it was the simple kindness of my friends, which reassured me that even at my worst I was still worthy of their love. Perhaps it was this place and all of you here. Perhaps it was nothing more than the fear of pain.
I was lucky. I was lucky to have these things to hold on to. It was almost not enough. For someone else, it may not have been.
I'm glad I didn't kill myself. I am very glad I didn't. Yes, I'm still afraid of the shadows, and yes, on some days I still would like to give up. But I am not ready to actually die. So I'm here. Living.
I want to say all this so that you have some small insight, so that you can see and understand that smart, strong people can and do feel this way.
Tomorrow or the next day, I'm going to take apart the idea that suicide is "selfish." I will post some quotes I feel are relevant. After that, I'm going after the idea that recovery is as simple as "getting help," and that anyone who really wanted to could get help and get better.
It's not a cheerful subject, and these entries have not been easy to write, but I think it needs to be talked about. If we don't talk about it, we contribute to the shame and silence that surround depression and suicide. We participate in our own marginalization by refusing to make our voices heard. And saddest of all, perhaps: when we do not speak of our loneliness, pain, and shame, we leave others to feel as alone, hurt, and ashamed as we felt.
I don't think we should do that anymore.
Part 2: Selfishness