Let's Talk About It

Hello and welcome back to A Writer in the Woods. This month I’m yammering about Suicidal Ideation. Yeah. It’s capitalized because for those of us that live with this shit, it’s a BIG DEAL! However, before we begin any of it let me take a moment to be responsible and accountable for all that I’m about to say.

Disclaimer: I am not, nor have I ever been a medical professional in any field. I have no background in Psychiatry, Psychology, or Neurobiology and all that I express is as a patient and a lifetime sufferer of suicidal ideation. If you are suffering as well, I strongly suggest seeking a medical professional to talk to and decide the best course for you. And when the help can’t come fast enough please call the SUICIDE HOTLINE at 1-800-273-8255 or simply text or call 988. Yes, I have called this hotline before and YES it did keep me alive.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled program, but first some updates.

Updates:

• Just kidding, there are none. I’m still in query trenches and seeking small presses. The road is long, disappointing, and frustrating, but I’m on it, so I’m going to see where it all goes.

• As always, I’d like to take a moment to appreciate you dear reader. As my subscription number grows I know that I have you to thank for it. I couldn’t and wouldn’t do this without you.

• For those not subscribed yet, you can do it here. It is free and always will be.

  All right, let’s get to it…

My first attempt was at thirteen years old. I won’t talk about where and how, because that’s not important here. What I will say is that the shit came out of nowhere. It started with flashes of traumatic memories, moments of time where I felt betrayed by someone close, or rejected by people around me. The memories morphed into a blinding blizzard that convinced my conscious brain that it had always been bad and will always be bad. Then the voice started. It sounded like me, but had a darker more ominous tone. It said shit like, “what’s the point?” or “I told you nothing changes” or the worse one, “If you do it, it’ll be done.”

That last line always gets me because it’s the only one that is true. If I take my life, my life will be done, the pain will be done, the confusion, the heartache, the frustration all done. Of course there is the opposite of all that. The love will be done, the creativity, the moments of joy and peace, the sound of a great song, the taste of a perfectly cooked steak, or a chilled Martini. The feel of a friend’s arms around me, or the touch of my partner in the middle of the night. All that would be done as well, but when I’m in the throws of darkness, the darkness is all I can see. At thirteen years old you’d think I would want to tell someone, share this with a friend or a family member, but it was the last thing I wanted to do. You see, there is a history of mental illness in my family and the stigma was like a boulder on my chest. I couldn’t tell anyone that I was the one that got it, that I was the one that would carry the genetic torch of what most people perceived as insanity. (I’m not insane, psychotic, or sociopathic. I know because I’ve been tested.) So, I kept it to myself. Lived with it, until the SI returned years later.

At this point I had begun to romanticize taking my own life. I would make plans, write notes and then tear them up again. I wasn’t self-medicating yet because I was in college, trying to find a way out of the small town that I had called home. Unfortunately, the stress of classes plus keeping a job and being a single mother wasn’t the best combination. I guess, in hindsight, I was using progress and education to self-medicate instead of drugs. I tried to keep myself busy so that I didn’t have to think about the dark thoughts rolling around my head, beckoning me toward an ultimate end. Spoiler. It didn’t work. I went too far, and my secret was revealed.

It was for the best. I was forced to get help, to talk to a professional and seek pathways toward life instead of death. I started to understand that none of this was my fault. I had a genetic condition that would never be cured or healed, but I could find ways to live with it. I just turned 49 this year, so I think I can safely say that what I learned has been working.

(Reality break. I am really freaking out about telling you this dear reader. There are tears in my eyes because this level of vulnerability is scaring the shit out of me. But I know I’m not alone in this, and I refuse to let my fear stop me from helping someone who may be going through this same type of shit.)

Okay. Breathe.

Every day of my life is spent with this reality. Most days I don’t have to think about it. My life is simple. Then there are the days, and sometimes whole weeks where it’s not. I wake up with that voice nagging me, with those memories swirling into a tornado of pain. Medications help, so does meditation, exercise and reading, but I still have to navigate it. Remember, as I stated, there is no known cure for Suicidal Ideation, though as I understand, there are people working to find the root of it. Because of this, I have to be honest with myself in these moments. I have to sit with the memories, sit with the dark emotions that pull me into an abyss that could take me days or weeks to climb out of. I’m not talking depression here, this is something different, a whole new monster with fangs and teeth so sharp that they can tear through my damn soul. But still I endure.

I have lived with that monster for 36 years now. I know the contours of its faceless form, the timbre of its ominous whisper, the painful touch of its sharp claws. We are not friends, but in a strange and unexplainable way, we are family. And that’s okay.

You see dear reader, sometimes in this world, especially right now, there are moments where people will forget about those of us that live with silent killers; whether it be PTSD, Chronic Depression, or the many other little devils that threaten our happiness. But that doesn’t mean we can’t talk about it. It doesn’t mean that it should be considered a triggering subject because in the end it’s not the awareness that triggers anything, it’s the thing itself and damn it, it should be okay to say: I AM NOT OKAY!

It’s a long grueling road, and to be honest, I don’t know if I will win. I know I will fight every time, that I will not give in willingly, that I am worth it. And if you haven’t heard this before or lately, YOU ARE WORTH THE FIGHT. No matter what society is spatting at you in its ignorance, no matter what your brain is trying to convince you of, they are all wrong. You are the prize, that smile you see in the mirror, that hug that you gave to a friend. This is why we fight. It’s not the end game that keeps us motivated, it’s the little moments. This is what keeps us strong, what keeps us here and our existence is important! I know in the deepest parts of my soul, the parts that the monster can’t reach, that this is true.

Anyway, thanks for hanging for the rant. I’m sorry I don’t have any answers for those of you going through this like me. I swear, if I find them I will share. For now, I can only beg you to fight, reach out, believe in yourself, and then fight again and I promise I will continue to do the same.

Until next time,

Millie