This post contains blunt thoughts on suicide and depression. Don’t read it if you don’t wanna.
It’s about 3:30 AM, and I just woke up thinking about killing myself.
Often, I fall asleep while fantasizing about suicide, but this may be the first time I woke up directly into a sea of suicidal ideation.
Years ago I wrote a post on Facebook that scared a family member, so they called the police, who then showed up at my door when I was in bed trying to sleep. I was cranky. They quickly left. It was a waste of everyone’s time. Just sayin’.
Suicide is not some big taboo for me, not anymore. It’s a comfortable topic. I’d rather discuss suicide than sports, weather, or celebrities.
When I’ve known people who killed themselves, I felt like I understood why they did it. I couldn’t resent them for it. I didn’t see them as selfish. I saw them as people broken past the point of no return. People who had long ago reached their pain thresh hold, and who held on for a long fuckin’ time before surrendering to the void.
Well, guess what. I believe I am broken past the point of no return. At some point in the past decade, I definitely reached my pain thresh hold. Or depression thresh hold. Depression is a little different than pain, although surely related.
I’ve been holding on for a long time, and I’m not done yet.
But let me be candid. I would be surprised if suicide isn’t my eventual destiny.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Not next year.
But ask me about my ten year plan.
I don’t have one anymore.
So if a day comes in the next decade or two when you find out I killed myself, you can skip the surprised part. I’m telling you right now, it would take a 180 degree turn of which there is no precedence in my life, to avert this outcome.
I am not saying this to be edgy. This is just my reality. I’m broken. I’m tired.
I am also receptive to help. The funny thing about professional help is, it usually isn’t very helpful in my experience. Trying to get the help I need, jumping through hoops, hitting dead ends, running into barriers, getting turned away; these things are soul-crushing when I’m already drowning.
Then a lot of times, so-called help is patronizing, lazy, harmful, and demeaning. I’ve tried a lot of medications, but never any that made a positive difference without a slew of negative side effects.
I can’t always articulate myself like I’m doing now, especially verbally. That’s probably why I’m writing this. Normally lately, there is a vast field of disconnect between what I’m feeling/thinking, and my ability to express those thoughts and feelings. That makes it insanely difficult to be a compelling advocate for myself when trying to get help.
I’ve had times in my life, when I felt like everything was going to be OK. Times when it felt like everything was worth it, the good and the bad.
Sometimes I’ve been so high on life (even without drugs) and the world seemed so meaningful and magical and sparkly.
But for every beautiful high, there’s a hideous low waiting around the corner.
And those lows… They just keep getting lower and longer.
Let me put it this way.
I feel like I might come out of this current depression I’m in. Maybe even soon. Granted, I have been saying that for a couple years now. And I did poke my head out of it occasionally, but it keeps sucking me back in. But let’s say I emerge from it completely, and for a long enough period of time that I can function for a spell, build up my life, repair some of the damages done over these past few years, find new reasons to live, etc.
But what happens if the depression comes back after that? Truthfully, every indication in my past says that it will. To me, it is naive and overly idealistic to expect any other outcome.
(And yes, I’m aware that a lot of these beliefs are probably part of what keeps me in a funk– I’m essentially already planning my next relapse into depression before getting sorted out this time. Ridiculous? Maybe… but it is what it is.)
Well, let me be blunt. I would rather die than go through this (or worse) again.
I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. Some people have told me they feel the same. They just don’t talk about it much. Or put it in a public blog post.
But I don’t have much left to lose. I don’t have a reputation to protect, or any reason to sugar coat things. I’ve seen good things come from laying it all out like this before, so it’s whatever.
Just don’t call the cops on me. “I might kill myself in the next decade or two” doesn’t count as an imminent threat. And hey, if you can call 911, do you know who else you can call? Me.
Also published on Medium.