…Time does not heal,
It makes a half-stitched scar
That can be broken again and again you feel
Grief as total as in its first hour
Trigger warning. Suicidal content.
I have a hard time believing that suicide is a selfish thing to do. To leave those that are well behind hanging in the balance to me is not self-centered. While I don’t believe suicide is the answer I do know what it is like to be suicidal. To attempt suicide. To feel nothing. To not want to exist. As those who never deal with suicidal depression and they haven’t the slightest clue.
I committed suicide once…obviously, there was successful intervention. I remember the night like it was a few nights ago. But that was seven years ago. I was determined to cut both wrist and did. At the time, I didn’t feel I had anything to live for. Had I been successful in my endeavor to end my life, I would have miss out on raising my three children. I would have never met my current wife. By now, I would be long forgotten…except by a very few people.
I had tried years ago to kill myself, but did not consider it either a selfish or a not-selfish thing to have done. It was simply the end of what I could not bear, the last afternoon of having to imagine waking up the next morning only to start all over again with a thick mind and black imaginings.
It was the final outcome of a bad disease, a disease it seem to me I would get the better of. No matter how much love from nor for other people could help. No advantage of a caring family and fabulous job was enough t overcome the pain and hopelessness I felt, no passionate or romantic love, however strong, could make a difference.
I knew my life was in shambles, and I believed, incontestably, that my family, friends, and others would be better off without me. I had caused enough trouble as it was.
The sting of death is always , as Arnold Toynbee writes, “less sharp for the person who dies than it is for the bereaved survivors.” This is, he said, “the capital fact about the relationship between living and dying. There are two parties to the suffering that death inflicts; and, in the apportionment of this suffering, the survivor that’s the brunt.
Those who are left behind in the wake of suicide are left to deal with the guilt and the anger, to sift the good memories from the bad, and to try to understand an inexplicable act.
Why did I want to kill myself? Because I was depress and lifeless to say the least, and the condition causes me to see my life in such a negative light, with no hope or possibility of redemption, that there did seem to be any point in going on.
I was already suicidal and went in inpatient. I came home and my wife asked me to leave. She left taking our children. I lost my job. I had to move in with my mother and my depression only deepened. I rarely saw my kids. My daughter was only 4 months. Yes I was depressed and it was then I succumb to the Noon Day Demon.
Looking back into 2006 with my 20/20 hindsight, I see that I had much t0 live for. My daughter was very young. So young the divorce and the visitation schedule is all she knows.
I’m no stranger to suicide. I’ve had friends commit suicide when I was in highschool and to this day no one has figured out why. Once I was in an inpatient hospital and five minutes after having breakfast with another patient he hung himself.
None of those questions have ever been answered. They never are. If the reason is depression, don’t look anyfurther. There are no circumstances that warrant this desperate act. There is no fact that makes sense of. And nobody, ever, benefits.