i’ve always thought suicide was weak. i thought it was cowardly and selfish. how could you do that to your parents? siblings? friends? people need you in their lives. you are loved whether you feel it or not.
but then i became depressed. and slowly i understood why killing yourself feels like the only way out. when you have a depressive episode, there is no way out. the weight of the world pushes down on you so hard you can’t breathe. there’s no light at the end of the tunnel. there is no countdown. time stops.
you kill yourself because you would rather die than live one more day under the weight of despair.
you’re not thinking of the aftermath. in those moments, you don’t see any other way out. you don’t have the words to articulate the terrorizing numbness and fear. nothing you do will calm the storm in your head. so you do it.
one day I went to the gym. as soon as i got there i could tell something was wrong. i wasn’t able to work out as hard, i was tiring faster, i didn’t have any motivation. so after a few minutes i went back home. and it was a good thing i did.
when I walked in the door, i lost it. and i mean i really lost it. i started sobbing uncontrollably. the weight of my pain and depression literally brought me to my knees. it was in those moments that i realized i wanted to die. i needed to die. because reality had become the nightmare and death the only way out.
i started thinking about how i could do it. sleeping pills in the cabinet, razors in the shower, guns in the closet, narcotics in the drawer. i calmly thought about which would be the easiest to clean up for my parents. i figured a gun would scar the minds of my parents and siblings, so i crossed that off the list. i knew sleeping pills would lead to a stomach pump, and that would lead to institutionalization. i didn’t want a cry for help. i wanted to succeed. so sleeping pills were out.
as i crouched on the ground, tears flowing down my face and sobs ripping through my chest, all i could picture was my razor hanging on the wall of the shower. i could see it so clearly in my mind. it almost seemed sacred, knowing that it was the tool that would lead me to peace.
i didn’t move from my place on the ground for an hour and twenty minutes. i knew that if i showered, i wouldn’t be able to avoid the temptation of that bloody salvation. so i crawled, slowly, meticulously, to my room. one careless step and i’d be closer to the death that called to me. i called a friend, finally able to calm my shaking body.
hours later, i was fine. as fine as you can be after something like that. depression is a temperamental storm.
can you even imagine? can you imagine a pain so crushing, so completely soul-breaking, that you would rather die than live another day? because that’s what depression is.
so maybe suicide really is a selfish act. but when your soul is all but being torn to shreds by your own consciousness, it seems the only way out.