I’ve written about my issues with suicide a lot here. There is, of course, a kind of hierarchy of ways of thinking about it. Theoretical thinking about it is quite different from planning it. Thinking of it as a way of relieving unrelenting pain is different from thinking of it as a release from temporary pain, or as a way to get revenge on people who have hurt you.
It can also be therapeutic, I believe. It can be really hard for people to think about it this way, but when I was depressed, and it seemed to me that the depression would never lift—ever—I had an experience where I wanted to make a suicide pact with a depressed friend. We were discussing methods, and the more we got into it, the more hysterical it became. Eventually, we were laughing so hard, it hurt. After that, it was hard to take it as seriously as I had before that conversation.
When the thoughts come, so far, I have always had that voice in the back of my head saying ‘yeah, but you’ll never really do it.’ I sure thought about it a lot. It’s also kind of frightening that 20% of people with my brain disorder (bipolar) don’t survive, according to my shrink, who is a pretty big deal researcher in the field (i.e., I think his data are trustworthy).
It still gives me an unsettling feeling, writing about it, as I am here. My heart is feeling heavy—sinking into my tightening stomach. I guess it could be a kind of post traumatic stress syndrome. I think part of the reason I write about it is to desensitize myself to the memories.
One good thing is that it is becoming hard for me to imagine that time when I thought the pain would never end. I’ve come a long way since then. A weird thing is that when I think about it, I feel like Odysseus listening to the Sirens. There’s a part of me, as stupid as it sounds, that wants to be depressed again. There was a certain comfort in giving up all hope. I no longer had to do anything once it became impossible to do anything.
I think that most suicide thinking is about desperately wanting help—usually love and acceptance. Even when the depression is beyond your control, the only thing that seems to make a difference is finding out that people love you or appreciate you. I never believed it, but it did make a difference.
I don’t believe anyone who commits suicide truly wants to do it. I think they believe there is no other choice except unrelenting pain. Sometimes anger, too. Usually it’s just pain, because thinking about the impact that taking your own life has on others often keeps you from doing it. Doing it in anger (at those you believe think they would be better off if you were dead) is a different kind of thing, although also an implicit quest for help.
Well, as you can see, I’ve thought about it in a pathological way. It was beyond theory for me. It was a cure I didn’t want, but sometimes believed was the only option to pain. People kept telling me to wait. It will get better. Just wait. Don’t do anything while you feel this way. You aren’t making the same decisions you would make if you didn’t feel this way (duh).
I don’t know if I wish they had said, “it can get better,” instead of “it will get better.” Does one generate more hope than the other? I think one is more honest, and at a time like that, hearing lies can be helpful, but it can also be counterproductive.
I think that people are great believers that hearing (supposedly) more realistic reminders of the esteem in which one is held can be a way to “talk people down” from the railing of the bridge. I was perfectly aware of the consequences and of another reality, but it didn’t seem to matter. What mattered for me was being able to accept myself as a person who wanted to die. Somehow, giving in to it, helped me get out of it.
I guess that’s why I still think about it and feel it. I am reminding myself that I can’t stop the thoughts. I can only accept that I think and feel this way.
Thoughts, though, are not actions. Plans also are not actions. Thoughts can lead to action. Plans place you even closer to action. Standing on the railing of the bridge (or buying the gun and ammunition, or saving enough pills, or asking someone who loves you to help) puts you even closer. Once you step off the railing or pull the trigger, you’re gone. Pills draw the process out so you have a possibility of being rescued. From what I understand, once the thoughts turn to planning—that’s when you have to start worrying. When the plans bring you to the edge of the point of no return, you gotta really worry. I haven’t been there, yet. I hope I never get there. And if I do, I hope I never pass that point.
I believe that life is really the only gift. Giving it back isn’t very polite. Nor is it revocable. I have grown to think that kindness to others is perhaps the most important thing in life. I would hate to be thought of as essentially a rude person. Even if I weren’t around to know what I had done.
Sorry about rambling on so long about this. Sometimes I think I need to remind myself of why I am doing this. Living, I mean.