Suicide is not rational – no self-harm is. It’s a hijacking of the brain.
I would rather not talk about it. I would prefer to keep this skeleton in the closet, but, unfortunately, if I do I may become a skeleton myself. My therapist once said something that has impacted me: “Its important to talk about it. It’s the ones who don’t that don’t survive.”
I don’t want to die . . . I’m just stuck. There’s a monster in me that is quicksand sucking me down further into the lie that is Suicide. It does not care about the after-effects – the void left by my absence. It does not care that I have three small children who need me and bring me joy. It does not care that I have people who love me and would be profoundly affected for the rest of their lives if I were to take mine. It does not care about me and how I feel: how I don’t want to miss my children growing up, how I want to see if my marriage heals and grows, how I want to plant things in the garden and start playing music again and how I want to write and help people. It. Does. Not. Care. It wants all of me and I am scared and angry.
Thank God I am not alone. If I were alone I’d be dead. I have six (SIX!) people who are helping me keep my head above water. I have two who are in the trenches with me pretty much daily and one in particular who is going above and beyond to keep me safe. The importance of this is not lost on me. I am extremely blessed and am painfully aware that many don’t have a support system like this.
I am reading a helpful book that is giving me a sliver of hope that I can make it.
Every day that I turn my back on the monster is a victory. Every day that I do things to help myself and rely on others when it’s hard is another day I am living. Sooner rather than later I will be breathing a sigh of relief at the end of this . . . right now even breathing is a struggle.
Each day I keep breathing is a day I defy the monster, Suicide. Each day I keep breathing I am living. I am living.