a hundred indecisions

Story time: I was passively suicidal for a long time, sometimes more actively. I never attempted it, but I had one particularly bad six-month stretch when I couldn’t find a job and I was living in a shitty apartment, and there were times when the bottle of Ambien in my medicine cabinet terrified me because I could imagine how easy it would be to hit a low enough point and obey the impulse to take the whole thing. (I remember being relieved every time my supply got low, because the fewer pills were in there, the less potential danger it represented and the less of a scary temptation it was–but I kept refilling the prescription anyway, because I needed it at the time just to sleep…and bad insomnia, of course, just worsened my depression.) 

There were…a number of reasons I didn’t, ultimately. But the thing is, I didn’t tell anybody at the time. A few friends who were paying attention could see I was doing bad, but I don’t think anybody knew how the thought of that bottle haunted me. For that matter, I don’t think anybody else knew about that specific detail until…well, today, years later.

I especially didn’t tell family. I knew they wouldn’t get it. I remember years ago my maternal grandma talking about the selfishness of someone who died by suicide, and that was long before I knew I was depressed, but I argued a little and she brushed off my objections. So…to some extent, I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want anyone to worry. But the real reason was, I didn’t want to deal with anyone’s worry. (I didn’t want to risk having my Ambien taken away, either.) 

I already hated myself, already felt guilty for not being better. Imagining reactions to saying “I want to be dead”? How people would be horrified, and confused, and I’d have to find words to explain and somehow reassure them? It was…crushing. It was one more thing I didn’t have the resources to deal with—and that made being dead sound even better. 

The idea that suicide was selfish, that it would hurt people—oh, and that a failed attempt requiring medical care would cost money I couldn’t afford because a lack of health insurance was one of my biggest stressors—didn’t make me less suicidal. It just meant that if I was going to kill myself, I would have to do it right. Make sure I wasn’t around to have to deal with the unbearable consequences of a failed attempt. 

A suicidal person is suicidal because they’re in too much pain to keep existing that way. Telling them suicide is selfish doesn’t fucking help—all it does is pile one more burden on an already crushing pile and make escape through death seem even more appealing. If your response to suicide is to loudly talk about how selfish and awful it was, just…I can’t make you have compassion or empathy. But you should know that you’re actively making things worse. 

Saying the right thing is hard. Shutting up so you don’t harm people—that’s easy. If you can’t do the former, you can at least shut up.