The most surprising thing about not wanting to be alive is how matter-of-fact it feels.
When I was 19 I tried to kill myself. These words conjure the image of an angst-ridden teenager penning a lengthy suicide note. "Farewell, cruel world!", she moans dramatically. And after dabbing away one final tear she ends it all.
Instead, I made sandwiches. And did some organizing. And when I encountered some over-the-counter medications I thought, "yeah, that would work" and proceeded to compile everything I could find in the house. I did cry a little, looking into the mirror as I downed everything I could, but for the most part this felt like a pretty normal day.
During the next few weeks, I spent my days at an outpatient mental health and detox facility, participating in group therapy with addicts and other suicidal depressives. It was refreshing to hang out with people from all walks of life, enjoying the freedom to discuss some pretty dark topics without fear of making someone uncomfortable. We cracked grim jokes, compared prescriptions, and reveled in the absurdity of trying to become whole again by decorating a trivet in occupational therapy. It was a beautiful time, and if any of us had the capacity to stay in touch, we'd all be lifelong friends.
Group therapy was a blast, but the real task at hand was patching me up and sending me on my way. During the course of the next 3 months, I was shifted from one antidepressent to another, changing medications every two weeks if I demonstrated side effects or failed to show progress.
After a rotation of five different medications it was decided that Prozac was the least unhelpful. My insurance plan granted me a six-session time window with a psychotherapist. She was empathetic and efficient, and it was her job to figure out how this particular teenager broke down and use whatever mechanics were necessary to get her back on the road. She quickly assessed that I was in a toxic situation and needed to work my way out. I was to get a job and achieve financial autonomy.
So I got a job and achieved financial autonomy. I worked so hard that I didn't have time for school, and I eventually dropped out. But it didn't matter because I felt valuable at my job, often working more than 95 hours per week as I climbed the retail management ladder. My group therapy posse had all moved on, my 6 alloted psychotherapy sessions had long since run out, and I quit taking the Prozac as soon as my prescription expired. Work was my reason and my means to keep moving forward. I never felt like I wanted - or deserved - to continue being alive. But no matter how matter-of-fact this feels to me, people absolutely do not want to hear about it.
Describing these feelings this will result in awkward silence or perhaps a derisive comment like "well that's just stupid." The subject will be changed immediately. Perhaps later you'll be given a pep talk or encouraged to get out and enjoy things a little more. Y'know, to cheer up.
While I am capable of enjoying things, I'd often like to quietly disappear if I could. For a long time I fantasized about emptying my apartment so that nobody had to deal with the aftermath. I calculated how many days or weeks I could go before anyone noticed I was missing, and I turned my mind over the most effective way to take my own life while minimizing the "ick factor" for the poor someone who would find my body.
From all outward appearances I was perfectly healthy. Dynamic, assertive, a spitfire. I rarely drank, I worked my ass off, learned everything I could about my field, and I built a reputation. I struck this deal with myself: the goal was to do more good than harm. I would build certain things, reach certain acheivements, and help certain people. And when I was done I could finally, simply, cease. And I could do it in good conscience if I had a positive cosmic balance.
But "Let me get some shit done so I can die properly" is a terrible motivator. And the part of me wants to live never fully bought into the plan. What I was really doing was establishing obligations and those obligations were keeping me around. "I can't just let 400 websites go offline", I'd say as I pulled it together for another day. I made progress, but it was the kind of progress that kept me hanging on - not the kind of progress that gave me satisfaction.
Meanwhile, an intrepid boy convinced me to marry him and I'm now seven months pregnant with our first child. The option to "just vanish" is no longer on the table, but I no longer have the time or the motivation to work as hard as I did when I was outrunning something. And because it's never been acceptable to discuss what's really going through my mind, I don't know how to state my needs - and I certainly don't know how to address them.
Today I was blown away by this and this. It's so refreshing to see such taboo thoughts expressed so elequently. If I knew all along that I had the option of speaking openly, I would be a very different person today. Perhaps instead of constructing rickety scaffolding around my existential issues I can find like-minded allies and build a way forward?
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