TheBanyanTree: Understanding Suicide

[Monique Colver]

The other day I said to Mr C, “Remember when I used to be funny?”

“You’re still funny sometimes,” he replied, being the proper husband that
he is, always supportive.

I miss me being funny. I miss me being on top of my game. So far this year
I haven’t been particularly funny, except for the odd moment now and then,
and I haven’t been on top of my game. I’ve been underneath it, crawling
around in the sub-basement. I can barely see the stairs from here
sometimes. It’s frustrating because they’re right there, over on the right,
around the corner, and there’s light at the top of the stairs. But I can’t
get my fat ass over to the bottom of the stairs to start the climb up.

And I think I can climb up. I think if I can reach the bottom, I can pull
myself up the stairs.

But damn. This year.

I’m not suicidal. For one thing, I don’t have a plan. For another thing, it
seems like a lot of work. For another thing, I couldn’t do that to Mr C and
Ash, because they didn’t ask for this, and they are here for me, every day,
even when I’m not.

But I understand it. I understand the pain that allows someone to think
there is no other option, and I understand the depths of the isolation,
isolation that may not be real. It is in our minds, but in our minds can be
a terrible place to be when it’s not functioning properly.

When I read of a suicide I also, inevitably, read a comment (I do try not
to go there, because if there’s one thing that can make me lose hope in
humanity, the comments section can do it) that says how selfish suicide is,
how stupidly selfish.

And I am happy that the person who wrote that doesn’t know the pain that
comes with that sort of mind numbing depression, and I am angry that they
are so callous. It is a deep deep pain that brings about suicide, and
solving it isn’t like a jigsaw puzzle where you can just put the pieces
together and have a whole because some of the pieces are missing, and no
matter where you look, you can’t find them.

Anyway, what’s wrong with being selfish? I’ve been told that I’m selfish
because I don’t have children, which is just silly because me with children
would be totally selfish. Who would do that to a child? I like children too
much for that.

That may be beside the point, but you see that little kernel of truth lying
in there?

Look, I would love to stop talking about myself. I would love to have my
moments of happiness, my moments of work, my moments of connection, my
moments of making a difference. I know all the words, I know how I’m
supposed to feel, and I know the problem is with me. I would love to talk
about you, and not have a thought for me and my depression and my panic.
That bad feeling in my chest, the sort-of achy, sort of ice in my veins
feeling that ties me up in knots so I can’t think properly are seriously
things I can do without. They do not add to my quality of life and they do
not get me invited to parties.

“It’s a choice,” some people say, as if we hadn’t thought of that, as if
this is somehow intentional, and if only we were better at not being so
selfish we would do that. Oh, yes, we hadn’t thought of that. We have
techniques to keep the darkness away, but sometimes it slips past our
defenses and settles in, like a cat finding a sunny spot to sleep in, but
it’s not as easy to dislodge as a sleeping cat. A cat I could nudge, and it
would stretch, and maybe move. (I don’t have cats so I don’t know exactly
what it would do. I imagine it depends on the cat.) I keep nudging the
darkness and telling it to go away, that I don’t have time for this. I’m so
not in the mood for the darkness. Sometimes I push at it really hard, and
it acts as if it’s going away, but it doesn’t go far enough away.

I want to be funny again. I want to be smart again. Or at least reasonably
intelligent. Look, I don’t need to be a genius. I have a great life, and
I’m really pissed that I’m not enjoying it a lot more. My husband deserves
better than this. (This is the slippery slope that can lead one to consider
suicide as an option by the way – we might think we’re doing our loved ones
a favor. We’re wrong, of course, but we don’t know that when we’re thinking
it.)

I’m sick of talking about myself and my damn feelings. Please talk about
you. Tell me what you’re doing, how the kids are, what the family’s up to,
how work’s going. Tell me all your stories, fill up that empty space with
your words, help me regain my connection to a world that I feel I’ve lost
touch with. Help me back from the abyss.

And I swear I’ll make you laugh again.

M