There was a time when I believed I was doing the right thing by taking myself out of the picture. I knew I was hurting my wife by attacking her and telling her I hated her, and that I was hurting my children by being depressed, and I thought that I needed to get out.
I didn’t want to die. But I couldn’t see what else to do, except to make it a really slow suicide. I imagined leaving—ostensibly moving out to my own place—but we all knew that was just a means to an end. I would stop taking my meds, and I would get worse, and I would lose my job and then my apartment, and end up homeless and paranoid and I saw myself in a gutter—in NYC, in the Bowery. When I learned that NYC doesn’t let people be homeless, I was at a loss.
But it never came to that.
Is it wrong to take your own life? I believe that people don’t want to die. They just want the pain to stop. I know that it can become impossible to imagine a time when the pain will lift.
I was really lucky. I had a number of people who really cared about me, and they kept on talking to me, and urging me to stick it out. My wife did this even though I had cheated on her and I had attacked her mentally, using all the hurtful things I could tell her in order to drive her to a point where she would stop caring about me.
She had had a prior boyfriend kill himself. He had launched himself off the roof of a hospital for the mentally ill. She knew what it did to her, and I think she didn’t want that to happen to our children.
That is a powerful argument. I love my children so much, and I could not burden them like that. Although, it took me a while to see that. At first, I thought I was doing them a favor.
Yet, down at the bottom, I didn’t want to die. I couldn’t even believe I was thinking I wanted to die, because I had always wanted to live—forever, actually—before. It was just too hard. I couldn’t imagine going on with the pain.
I think that thinking of suicide is mostly a metaphor for how much it hurts. Sometimes the metaphor becomes reality, but mostly it is an appeal to someone, anyone, to lift the pain. There is no language to describe the pain. There is no metaphor to describe the pain. The only thing I could think, over and over, was that I wanted to die. Even though I didn’t want to die.
For me, thinking that way was about asking for help. And I was lucky. I don’t drink or smoke and I have people who really love me (although I didn’t believe it at the time).
I don’t know if other people think the same thing. I don’t know if they have this idea, way down deep inside, that they really do want to live. But I believe they do. I don’t know if they think suicide because there is no other thing to think when you feel like that. But I believe they do. I don’t know if the only thing they really want is to end the pain, but I believe they do.
If people really don’t want to die, then suicide is wrong. It’s wrong because there are other solutions to the problem, which is pain. When you are desperate, it’s almost impossible to believe there is any other solution, but I don’t think people, in their hearts, want that solution.
I don’t want to die. I don’t want to hurt. I just want to be loved. But there’s a hole inside me that is bottomless. It can only be filled by love, and yet, all the love in the world can’t fill it. I’m sorry. It’s too hard to think about. Although, it is amazing I can get even this close to thinking about it without spiraling down. The meds really help me.