I think about suicide and death a lot. Like, a lot a lot. And I have for a very long time. My list for killing myself goes something like this:
- I’m overwhelmingly sad and it never goes away
- I feel hopeless, convinced that nothing will ever change or get better
- I feel really stressed and panicked, waiting for the other shoe to drop, even though I’m not particularly sure when the first shoe even fell
- I am overwhelmed and little things make me feel like I need to find a way to escape
- I’m exhausted, and death seems like this incredibly comfortable absence of thought and being — death compels me
- I don’t like myself, so I don’t have a fear of missing myself if I didn’t exist
- No one cares about me — which seems pouty, but I just mean that it wouldn’t affect anyone else if I died, in fact it would likely make some lives better if I weren’t around
I try to never talk about suicidal thoughts with my shrink. I wouldn’t lie if he asked, but he doesn’t ask; it’s just a very, very quiet elephant standing in the corner. Last winter, when things were particularly horrible for me, there was this miserable power struggle — I guess that’s how I would define it, although he probably wouldn’t — when I expressed that I was planning to kill myself. I think in the end, although my memory of it is surprisingly a bit fuzzy, he decided to keep seeing me if I didn’t let on to him that I was suicidal, or if I did, that I would consent to having him call the police or hospitalize me or something awful and terrifying like that. I understand the liability question, but at the end of the day, I try to avoid talking about suicide with him unless it is just seeping out of me.
The moral of the story: like most everyone else, I am very alone when it comes to working through suicidal thoughts…
But, I am still alive.