Suicide. Most people don’t want to talk about it, especially me. I’ve not actually attempted suicide, though it has weighed heavy on my soul more than once in my life. The closest I came was 4am sometime in 1986, when I was walking the nation’s capital alone, wearing denim and carrying a knife. I believe at that time DC was also beating out Detroit for title of Murder Capital of America. I don’t know how many people died that night, but I wasn’t one of them. I’ve never logged this anywhere till now, but one surreal moment that early morning sealed the memory for me.
It really happened.
That was perhaps the last time self-destruction was seriously considered until I lost my job in early 2009. If you were to ask any of my friends if they considered me suicidal, pardon the cliché, but they would looked shocked and start making statements about how he would be the last person that would do that, etc, etc.
That’s how well most of us hide it.
Oddly enough, suicide didn’t occupy as much of my time as simply wanting to crawl into a hole and die. I visualized this, but came to the sad conclusion that someone would most likely rescue me before I was able to waste away. Such is the disadvantage of living among decent people. I would either have to kill myself, or face myself.
I am writing this because I would like to encourage people who feel like killing themselves not to.
I am recovering from mental illness after having received several months of therapy. I cannot claim a happy ending to my story, and even if I could, I doubt my happy ending would help you.
Your happy story wouldn’t have made any positive impression on me when I was in the depths of despair, so why should I be presumptuous that my sappy story would help you.
What I am hoping for though, is enough encouragement for you to seek professional help. They may not be able to talk you out of it, but they’ll do a far better job than I will.
You see, I’m a lousy conversationalist.
That’s why I didn’t think talking to a shrink would help.
Fortunately, my wife and daughter thought differently, and took me to see a shrink.
A friend drove me in: my wife couldn’t drive, and didn’t trust me to drive safely. (I had cashed in my life insurance policy a few days before for two reasons: in case I did kill myself, or in case I died accidentally and someone argued that I did kill myself.)
It felt really weird sitting in the back seat like a helpless child (I’m approaching 60).
I think my wife sat in with me for a while, then left; I can’t remember. I do remember the therapist encouraged the participation of my wife and daughter anytime, and that in the third session or so, everyone was outlining my recovery while I was in the room listening. I kicked off my shoes and sat cross-legged on the couch, totally disbelieving their timetable.
I could barely drive and my hands were shaking so badly that I could barely sign a check legibly. How could I possibly fill out a job application? I immediately visualized myself in an employment office, taking 3-4 hours to fill out an app.
The first few sessions seemed to go nowhere fast. I had once believed strongly in professional help, but now that I was on the receiving end of it, I felt like apologizing to everyone I had ever recommended it to.
But I kept at it every week. While I was in therapy, I was carefully monitoring and adjusting medication. (I had started medication before therapy, but fell so fast into mental illness, that I couldn’t wait the 4-6 weeks the meds would become effective.) Side effects of any medication suck, which is why I generally avoid meds any way. When the side effects of the medication that you are taking to alleviate symptoms of an illness, begin to mimic the symptoms of that illness, they double-suck.
I asked my shrink if it was possible that the effects of the medication might be making me feel worse than the symptoms of my illness. She answered, “It’s possible.”
Great.
In the long run, and with other people aiding the shrink, notably my wife and daughter, friends in faith, friends, members of a work-search group, and ATH, I began my ascent out of mental illness.
What has this got to do with suicide when I’ve already told you that my case was marginal?
In November 2009, I was well enough to discontinue my meds so I could tip back a few beers at my good friend’s 50th birthday party. My friend, surrounded by all of his very best friends, calmly related that 5 years ago, when he had been unemployed for 16 months, he had seriously considered suicide.
None of us even blinked. I don’t think that we were ignoring him as much as silently acknowledging that we had all been there.
We know that it’s possible for anyone, anytime, to make an offering of his life to the Savage God.
In January 2010, as a year rapidly approaches the loss of my job, I learned that an ATH reader killed himself. Never in my wildest dreams would the thought of my very positive friend, or an ATH reader wanting to kill themselves.
Myself, yes, because I’m rather intense most of the time—but not “normal” people.
I never thought that I would fall into mental illness. I’ve had friends and relatives, and even my wife fall into it. Until I experienced it myself, I used to crack jokes about those people and make fun of the medication I thought was overused.
When I began therapy, I swear I heard words from one of my favorite SNL characters, Stuart Smalley, come out of the mouth of my therapist.
But I don’t belittle that process any more. (Though I still keep many of the cartoons I’ve clipped on the subject.)
If I had not begun therapy when I did, I would not have been able to respond to an opportunity for re-employment that came along November 2009.
I am employed and too busy for therapy at the moment, but I am not cured. Symptoms return out of the blue, and a congenital physical defect proved to be more of a hindrance than I thought it would be upon my return to work, which undermines my confidence to stay employed.
But I could not have had a better re-entry opportunity. My story doesn’t have a happy ending, but it does have a very happy beginning.
I can’t guarantee that you will stop wanting to kill yourself if you get professional help.
I can guarantee that you’ll lessen the odds considerably.
The guilt, shame, and utter uselessness that I felt when I lost my job are probably among the things you are feeling at the moment. I totally believed that I would never find work again. I totally believed that I would never be able to learn new skills that would allow me to function in the workplace again.
Slowly, I proved myself wrong, but not without a lot of help.
Because of the stigma of both mental illness and unemployment, I’m undercover at the moment. But one day, I’ll come out.
I might even talk to my friend about his dark moments.
If you are in darkness, or have a friend who is, help really does help.
You might as well get some.
Getting help really does hurt less than the despair you’re in.
But not at first.
