Sometimes life is too much. Too much stress, too many things going wrong, too many unpleasant feelings.
One of my dearest friends killed himself just over one year ago. He chose to release himself from life's pain on a chilly October evening in his friend's backyard, hanging from a tree.
I get it, I accept it, and I am happy he is no longer suffering.
It's been one year, yet I sometimes forget he's gone. But he is gone. Forever. Never again will I hear his voice. Never again will he create art or make music. Andy is nothing but a memory now. I see the impact his death has had on everyone in his life: his parents, cousins, friends, and me. When he tied that rope around his neck and jumped, he created a hole in everyone's life who knew him. No one can fill that hole. It's there now. Forever.
Losing someone to suicide allowed me to view life, death, and personal choice in a very unique way. Andy voluntarily removed himself from life. He made the decision he no longer wanted to participate in consciousness. I think it's morbidly beautiful. Still, I wish I could go back in time, grab him by the shoulders, look into his eyes and have him focus on nothing but me, and make him understand that he could get through this. That I would help him. That life is worth it, he is worth it, and there is always another option. If only he had held on a little bit longer...
And yet, I sometimes find myself wanting to do it too, however fleetingly.
The rational mind knows these feelings aren't permanent, that happiness will be felt again, that a reason to exist will present itself. But in the moments when suicide seems appealing, none of that matters. The mind has a way of making you believe that life just isn't worth it. That you aren't worth it. That even though you will be happy again... that won't be permanent either. The depression will always return. Always.
Depression will always be a part of me. I've been on antidepressants for 15 years. I've tried twice to come off them, and both times were unsuccessful, resulting in catastrophic failure on a huge scale. Turned-my-world-upside-down type of failure. I created massive messes and had to pick up the pieces with the help of those I fall on when I can't hold myself up any longer. Both attempts to live medication-free were awful experiences I'd rather not repeat. I have accepted that I will always need antidepressants, especially in the moments when I feel like I don't (that means they're working). I get that now.
Many know about my struggles with mental illness... so why does it feel so isolating? When I'm happy, I have no problem letting the world know. There is no shame with happiness. I don't feel like a burden when I am loving life. I don't worry that people won't understand my happiness or that they will judge me for it. What makes depression so very different?
One of my dearest friends killed himself just over one year ago. He chose to release himself from life's pain on a chilly October evening in his friend's backyard, hanging from a tree.
I get it, I accept it, and I am happy he is no longer suffering.
It's been one year, yet I sometimes forget he's gone. But he is gone. Forever. Never again will I hear his voice. Never again will he create art or make music. Andy is nothing but a memory now. I see the impact his death has had on everyone in his life: his parents, cousins, friends, and me. When he tied that rope around his neck and jumped, he created a hole in everyone's life who knew him. No one can fill that hole. It's there now. Forever.
Losing someone to suicide allowed me to view life, death, and personal choice in a very unique way. Andy voluntarily removed himself from life. He made the decision he no longer wanted to participate in consciousness. I think it's morbidly beautiful. Still, I wish I could go back in time, grab him by the shoulders, look into his eyes and have him focus on nothing but me, and make him understand that he could get through this. That I would help him. That life is worth it, he is worth it, and there is always another option. If only he had held on a little bit longer...
And yet, I sometimes find myself wanting to do it too, however fleetingly.
The rational mind knows these feelings aren't permanent, that happiness will be felt again, that a reason to exist will present itself. But in the moments when suicide seems appealing, none of that matters. The mind has a way of making you believe that life just isn't worth it. That you aren't worth it. That even though you will be happy again... that won't be permanent either. The depression will always return. Always.
Many know about my struggles with mental illness... so why does it feel so isolating? When I'm happy, I have no problem letting the world know. There is no shame with happiness. I don't feel like a burden when I am loving life. I don't worry that people won't understand my happiness or that they will judge me for it. What makes depression so very different?
