Suicide: definition…is an act of willfully ending one’s life.
Males die much more often than females by suicide, while females attempt suicide more often. U.S. Caucasians commit suicide more often than African Americans do.
People commit suicide more often during spring and summer.
Suicidal ideation produces the perilous side of mental illness, acting as both a friend and seducer. Even though thoughts of dying encapsulate our mind on one hand, we yearn to remain living on the other. We desire just to feel better.
“Depression, best known of all the mental illnesses, is difficult to endure and treat. It renders one feeling hopeless and helpless. Experiencing a sort of wintry solitude, completely immobilized with any light of optimism dimming. It creates emotional and financial fallout, coupled with a horrible emptiness and black death-like existence. Life tastes sour“.
My Journal entries (10 years ago):
Wednesday 7:30 am
I am seated in my corner by the window again. I like it here, even though it is a hospital room, it allows me to believe in the plan. Should I proceed with the plan today? I’m sort of frightened, yet energized at the same time. Each day that I plan, gets me through the darkness. This hole of depression is certainly swallowing me up and I’m drowning. Effortless tasks take major energy. Heaviness and hollow sadness are with me daily.
I feel geared up. Today is the day. I am positive that this is the answer, why question, why live one more day in this black subsistence. What did I do that was so wrong to deserve this?
Wednesday 11:00 am
My pass is approved. One bus ticket home. One to make it back? Who cares, I’m not returning to the hospital. The bus ride home is excruciating. Crowded. Countless stops. I am irritated. Finally – home.
Casey greeted me at the door, his tail wagging. I’ve missed him since my admission last month. I plopped down on the couch, left the coat on and just stared. Stared and stared for what seemed like hours.
Wednesday 2:30 pm
The stash was still in the closet. A whole bunch of pills & colors, mostly white. They are large, small, round, oval – all still in their bottles. I chose the white ones. Seems as if they will be the most effective. With a huge glass of water, I ingested a handful. Difficult to swallow, but they went down.
I returned to the couch and sat and waited for death to come. I feel like I accomplished something today. I’m proud. I am in somewhat of a dreamlike state now, breaking free from the demons of depression, free of the shackles around my ankles. All of a sudden I feel panicky. Perspiring. What have I done, I am not supposed to experience this. This isn’t in the plan, which was so well thought out. Oh my god, what do I do now. I do not feel sleepy, however, a bit nauseous and my brain muddled. Who should I call? Minutes pass and I am pacing the living room. Ok, 911.
The ambulance arrives. Here I lay on a stretcher. I am berating myself. You are such a loser, can’t even get this right, why did you have to call, back to square one again, you had the chance, you blew it, another disappointment, a huge loser. You planned this for weeks, how everything would be so easy, you are such a cop out, you deserve to be sick. Audrey went through with her plan, you admired her so much for being so brave, you said you wanted to be with her; well you are stuck now among the living. Loser.
Wednesday 6:00 pm
So, the plan was a failure. Ingested a huge quantity of charcoal, which felt like black paint going down. Terrible stuff, spreads between your teeth. They said this is to prevent the meds from doing damage. Most people vomit, but not I. And here I sit once again, in my corner, in the hospital, in my depressive darkness. Imagine blaming oneself for having an illness. Imagine having to apologize for having an illness. That is the cruelty of depression.
Fortunately, there are effectual prescription medications on the market to treat my major depression. It’s not a cure, and it allowed me to climb out of the basement rung by rung up the ladder out of the blackness. It took me years though to get over that longing, sometimes craving of wanting to end it all. Unless you have experienced the horrid blackness of depression, and that feeling of being swallowed up by an illness, you have not walked a mile in my shoes. A knowledgeable, attentive psychiatrist is also key in recovery.
Be kind to us – no one would wish to end one’s life.
(Reposting from 2010) Just adding that, when I attempted suicide, some people told my husband I was being selfish, however, they weren’t there for me for comfort and help when I needed them most. Afterwards, they really shunned me, I suppose an embarrassment, not relieved I was still alive! Did they truly think that I would choose death over life if things were going so fantastic? Don’t judge, this is an example of Stigma.