What I Need From Loved Ones When I’m Suicidal

I’ll get right to the point. I’m suicidal. And not only, like, in an I want to die kind of way. Like, in an I want to kill myself kind of way. Like, in an I have a plan kind of way and an I asked my husband to hide his gun kind of way and an I’ve written my obituary kind of way.

The truth is that I am very sick. These days, my very good brain is very good at being broken. My life feels like an imposition, my too-big feelings are too-big a burden to everyone. They are a burden to me. And I can’t help it. It’s infuriating and debilitating and demoralizing. If this will be my forever, I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.

And the darkness is warm like velvet. Heavy, enticing. It whispers to me soo soooftly, the tether plucking its deadly cord, singing as surely as a siren. A banshee, keening the loss of me.

I crave it. Fantasize about it. Fixate on it. I need to claw my skin away. Rip great shreds of flesh from the structure of my muscles and my fat and my bones. Tear myself down to the barest essentials. Rebuild bionically. Throw my brain out with the bath water. Sanitized. Cleansed. Antiseptic.

I want to feel the thunderous crunch when my bones split into pieces, hear the deafening roar as my heart pumps life from my veins, taste the spicy iron of my blood on my tongue.

I want to hurt outside, for once. Cracked open as crudely as a lobster claw. Mere viscera. Eviscerated. Visceral. The blood eagle of my brain on gruesome display for a culture which craves spectacle, my emotional gore spread wide around me. Here I am, I gasp. I am. I am ravaged, hollowed out. A rotten, desiccated thing.

And I am drowning — in my responsibilities and my fear and my failures and my flaws. Inadequate for this life. My lungs burn constantly. I haven’t taken a real breath in months. My pulse races, my teeth clench, the muscles in my jaw spasming unrelentingly from overwork, overwrought.

So here’s what I want to say about suicide. It is not selfish or weak, and if you think so, fuck right off. That is shaming language, and if you think you can shame me better than I shame myself, you’ve got another thing coming and it’s my white Keds up your self righteous ass. The only thing someone will accomplish by shaming a suicidal person is shaming her into silence about her thoughts, shaming her right to death. They are so very scary. We know it’s not healthy to feel this way. Not a one of us wants to.

And that terror is paralyzing. All we want is someone to whom we can turn. Someone to listen without judgment. Someone to tell us we aren’t nearly as “crazy” as we feel. Because I feel crazy. Someone to tell us we are loved, we have purpose, we are worthy to occupy this space in place of another more important. Because I feel worthless.

When I’m clutching my pill bottle for dear death with clammy, shaking hands, popping and unpopping the cap, when my brain is screaming at me to just do it already, just do it. You failure, you scourge, you parasite. Too weak to even do this right. Just. Fucking. Do it. Coiled jaw. Furious heartbeat. Mechanics firing, valves fluttering, neurons chattering — cacophonous, a chorus. Every single breath becomes a choice, every heartbeat, conscious. Fight or flight. A fight.

In those moments, you cannot even conceive of how strong I’ve been, how diligently I value my life. Because I have made the harder choice, every time. So many, many times. Every day.

And it’s not funny. It’s not funny to see the fear for me — of me — on the faces of people I love when I tell them. It’s not funny that my brain tells me lies. It’s not funny to hear that I’m selfish or silly or psychotic. Because I am sick. And it’s goddamn devastating.

So here’s what I need to say about suicide. Suicide is quirky and coiffed. It is giddy and gregarious and funny and smart. Suicide laughs with abandon and loves with purpose.

And suicide is shame and loneliness and despair so deeply hidden, we hardly dare to show it to ourselves. It is withdrawn and broken and sad. Suicide is no one and everyone and all iterations in between.

And we need your support. We need you.

In the throes of my illness, I need to hear that you love me, and we are in this together. Yes, you are scared for me. This is scary. But that fear won’t keep you from asking the uncomfortable questions, because you want to keep me alive.

I need to hear that, yes, everything hurts, and it’s hard. It’s so hard. And no, you don’t really understand. But you’re doing your very best. Sometimes that won’t look the way it should, but it always comes from a place of love and care. You will try, because I am important.

Most crucially, I need to hear I am not alone, that we are a team in this fight. You know it feels impossible; you know I just want the pain to stop. But, together, we’ll find a better way. It may take time, but we’ll get there. You will fight for me — with me — because I am worth fighting for.

And to anyone who knows the absolute torment of suicidality, I’m so very sorry. It’s excruciating. And debilitatingly lonely. But we’re in this together, and we can do hard things. Because you are worth fighting for. We are all worth fighting for.