Life is harder than a sack of wet cement. Harder than a swan dive into an empty swimming pool. Harder than….well, something really hard. It occurred to me today that the fact that I was contemplating suicide probably means something. But what exactly, I don’t know. Now, don’t flip your lid, Martha. I wasn’t seriously considering it. In fact, my consideration was really about the fact that suicide seems like such an easy thing. (I can already feel the paper cuts from the hate mail.) I don’t mean to demean anyone’s suffering. I’m just riffing on a thought that suicide is a means to an end...an end to a known pain and suffering and easing int...something else. What exactly I don’t know, and the folk who do, I don’t want to mess with. But if you’ve ever heard the saying, better the devil you know..., you might understand where I’m going with this. Who is to say that there is something better out there than this? (Ok, you with the King James edition, we’re not talking to you. Or anyone else with “The Word”. We all know that the bird, bird, bird, the bird is the word. So shut it.) I guess my thinking is, if all roads lead to “Rome”, what’s the rush? But believe it or not, I do understand the kind of despair that could lead to thinking, “Boy, wouldn’t be nice to just end it all.” Don’t believe me? How about you and I have a talk sometime about the “right” way to kill yourself? I’ve done extensive research and have a few ideas you might try. (Yeah, you first. ) I have experienced despair (and don’t you disparage it or me), but in the end I decided one simple thing. I had to believe that everything I suffered had a purpose, and that it would all be ok in the end. (Cliché Alert!) To quote a wise old refrigerator magnet,
“Everything will be ok in the end,
if it’s not okay...
it’s not the end.”
Strangely enough,(or not, if you know me) I believe the refrigerator magnet, where I don't always give credence to the wise men of old. (Hey, were talking about first born son sacrificers here!) Despite years of wet pillows, and muffled sobs, years of sleeping on couches, too depressed to sleep in a bed, years of panic attacks, and years on Zoloft (that’s good sh**t, people! Like being smothered in cotton.), I still truly believed that if I just made it through one more night, things might get better. Didn’t say they would, but when you’re dead all possibility of change goes out the window. The day I decided I wanted to be happy, took place ten years after my first panic attack and seven years after I finally realized that I suffered from depression. I didn’t begin to heal until recently, and will spend the rest of my life in the process. But at least for now...I have the time. One day ten years ago, could have been my last, if I had decided to use what I know about sharp objects. (Never run with scissors, folks, and always cut with the grain.) But I didn’t, and I haven’t and...well, I still won’t say I won’t. That’s tempting fate. There is no cure for suicidal tendencies, other than living. There is no cure for life, bad or otherwise, other than to keep living...and make it better. Because the other option..well, let's just say there are some diseases where the cure is worse than the disease. If you want to be done with it, be done. But as for me, no matter how bad the prognosis is today, as long as there is a tomorrow, there is hope. It's a thin enough line to cling to, this I know, but if it's all the same to you (and even if it's not), I'll keep clinging till my grubby little fingers can't hold no more.