It was the 1980’s, I was just 22, wrapped in a coat the boyfriend had given me. I was lying on the floor of my closet. I was cried out. I was solutioned out. I was shocked – stunned – and self-helped out. I still could not keep food down nor could I get warm. I could never get warm.
Lying there was the closest to any kind of comfort I could find.
For months, months, I remember walking to work, walking home – letting the dog out then drawing a bath, hoping I could warm up. Knowing it wouldn’t work. Hoping I could eat but not really caring. In bed by 6 pm.
I’ve spent the better part of my life, like most people, shaking my head at even the slightest mention of suicide. It touched my family, way too close, and I’m willing to bet most people know someone who has attempted or successfully carried out a suicide. As a matter of fact, I think most of us have entertained, if only for 1/100th of a second, it ourselves.
When someone, anyone, talks about a person who took their own life, I join in, nodding sadly – my eyes fill with tears and my initial reaction is generally deep, deep pity.
At the very core of my heart, though I don’t outwardly admit to it, I understand what it feels like, on the other side. It’s the side where one feels that the simple relief that surely must come, is worth the “pain” of ending one’s life.
It’s the place where one is far away from any kind of rational. It’s a place far away from the healthy perspective that the people who love you posses. It’s far away from comprehending the complete and thorough devastation that your absence and particularly, the way in which that absence was created, will cause.
I was exhausted and sick and truly frightened when I recognized the peace that washed over me when I considered not being around anymore that New Year’s day on the closet floor. I thought not of revenge, though it was certainly warranted. I only wanted relief from the indescribable pain I was trapped in and in the depth of my depression, I somehow felt I was slowly dying anyway.
I debated with my intellect as I truly had fought the good fight. Perhaps it was heaven itself directing me.
My belief in God is huge and so it only stands to reason that in fantasizing about being with Him, I was immediately enveloped in a sort of peace.
Just a few short hours later, I drove myself to a hospital.
Just a few days later, the completely unimaginable happened: anger, nearly rage, replaced the stranglehold of depression and while not permanently quite yet, it did reappear more and more with spaces growing smaller and smaller in between appearances.
Everybody has their own pain – their own story. And all of them unique and different from the other’s. Under NO circumstances do I condone suicide nor do I think it’s a solution to anything. My own experiences have taught me that I think it’s a permanent (perceived) “solution” to what, at least in my life, was a temporary problem. Of course, at the time, not a soul on this planet could have convinced me that any pain I was in had an ending.
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Last reviewed: 23 May 2012