I have people in my corner that love me.
Folks and friends that expressed this love to me whether it was with their uproarious laughter attached to our conversation like a festive ribbon , or that rare but essential confession of “I’m glad I’m here with you to experience this.”
I still want to drown myself in a lake.
I’m given an opportunity or chance after days, months, years of fighting for one. It’s a mark of hard work finally producing ripe fruit.
I want to shoot myself in the head with a shotgun.
I have a day of difficulties, a litany of inconveniences that could range from a flat tire, ripped pants at work, to a headache from not eating all day due to the business of work.
I want to take a hot shower, eat a quart of Homemade Vanilla, and lie in bed.
I also want to raid the medicine cabinet, consume everything it has and never wake up again.
Depression and Suicidal Thoughts have traveled with me since I was 12. Naturally, I thought of them extra appendages of puberty much like voice cracks and growth spurts that would shed as adulthood took over.
My voice and height stabilized. My mental health, not so much.
To this day, well into my early 30’s depression and suicide are still a major part of me that I’m convinced will never quite go away. Maybe it’s not supposed to for some people. Maybe it’s just something we “chosen” are meant to deal with either figuring out a way always keep those thoughts sealed or at bay like some inner demon we can control.
Or we become like Anthony Bourdain.
Or Kate Spade.
Or Chester Bennington and Chris Cornell.
Your Best Friend.
Or any other pained soul who could not beat the living monster whose heart beat inside of us wishes to stop the beat of our own.
Obviously, I never knew the celebrities we lost to suicide.
But every time, my Google News Feed shared a story on them, or some analysis, the same scenario would happen.
I’d wonder how long had they suffered? Did they ever try to reach for help? Was it even possible for them?
And then, like Mike Tyson punching me in the gut with a boxing glove adorned with razor blades, pointed stones and broken glass, the final thought would hit:
If these people had success, and people that loved them and still couldn’t beat their demons, what hope do I have?
Why should I believe that I’m any more capable than them?
It’s not logical.
Thinking that way. And comparing ones own pain to another seems almost narcissistic which makes you feel even worse about yourself. But then suicide doesn’t make for logical thinking.
Everyone of those scenarios I listed at the beginning, a normal person would look at that and not think about how much they wished they were dead to ease their pain.
They wouldn’t sit down and look at all the positives yet also manage to justify killing themselves like taking cough syrup to cure a cold.
A recent article I read, says it’s a thing. They drive in suicide is ramped up with mentioning of a celebrity one. They call it a Contagion.
Sounds more like the plot for another Zombie Shooter game, right?
And I suppose knowing that should in a way make me feel better that I’m not alone.
Instead, it makes me feel about the same as when I confessed my depression and suicide thought to my Significant Other, and she in turn confessed hers to me.
There is a sight of relief, from understanding, but that’s brief because of the following thought:
“My God, why do you have to experience this hell, too?”