I write this blog to start the conversation. I write this blog in hopes that someone will read it an realize they are not alone. That is the big lie of depression, that we are alone and always will be. The truth is there are many of us out there and it is my sincere belief that if you just start talking it will begin to eliminate the stigma that hovers over and around depression and mental illness.
That being said…this is a guest post by a dear man – IronTempleDog. The trigger warning is there because he writes bravely and honestly of thoughts and feelings surrounding suicide. I want people to see this and reach out, ask for help. If you don’t think you can talk to anyone around you then please call:
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
I romanticize suicide. It’s an option for me. I’m terrified of it but now that I’m not religious, there’s nothing really holding me back except the desire to live, the harm I’d do to those I care for and the fear of pain. The problem with that is as the noise in my mind gets louder and more urgent, those things fade in importance. My worry over my own mental health trumps my worry over the grief of others right after the desire to live fades and so far, I’m left only with the fear of pain and that is fleeting indeed.
It doesn’t take much of a nudge to make me think that it will be quick and that it won’t be that bad. I’ve been there… so close to that edge that I could hear the echo. I’ll be there again too. This is the thing. It’s going to get me one day. I have an illness that there’s no cure for and in cases like mine, it’s frequently fatal.
It’s not that there’s nothing I can do. My quality of life has gone up a great deal in the last few years and that helps stave off the worst of my episodes. I have tools, but I know that I’m never far from a tipping point. The tiniest thing can set me off and then there I am again, listening to that haunting echo.
It almost calls out to me. Sometimes even when things are fine. I imagine the peace of oblivion. An end to the endless struggle. I’m tired of being the way I am and some days, even good days, I just want to rest forever. The final mortal equivalent of a day in bed, hiding under the covers. I imagine giving myself the freedom to rest, permission once and for all and I’m not going to lie, it’s appealing.
Then I think of blood and bones and dirt. Pragmatism. I think of hearts broken and lives changed and promises that I’ll never keep. I think of places I’ll never go and things I’ll never see and I hope. I hope for me and for people that love me despite how fucked up I am and will probably always be. I hope that maybe there’ll be a cure one day or ridiculously, that maybe I’ll just somehow be fine one day. Worse even than that, sometimes I hope I’m imagining it. That maybe it’s all just bullshit that I’m subconsciously making up for some crazy reason. Or I hope that maybe there’s yet another miracle just around the corner.
Hope is a motherfucker though. It keeps me here and sometimes here is the worst place. Not really, of course. I’m the luckiest guy in the world, honestly. If it weren’t for being insane, that is. Because I am actually pretty crazy though, sometimes here feels like the worst place and in those times I hate hope with everything I’ve got. You see it’s the reason I stay, in the end. It’s the thing that keeps me dragging on, even when the noise is too loud to think and the pain is too great to bear anymore. In all of the reasons I’ve cited for living, in every single one, hope plays a role.
When I’m tired and I just want to rest my heart forever, hope won’t let me go. For that I both love and hate it in equal measure. It keeps me here. It keeps me here.
Hope. Suicide. Life.
All of them are beautiful motherfuckers.”