Suicide Is No Plot Point of Mine

Going to funerals makes me think about mortality and the sweetness of death. Such an odd thing, but to some of us mentally variable, death, once upon a time, seemed like a sweet release valve.

I’ve known deep depression. I’ve written that last letter once or twice, years ago. I’ve fantasized about that day, about who would be sad, who would miss me. It’s a curious circumstance, to fantasize about dying, about the funeral. It’s not necessarily a healthy thing, but it always felt so good.

It’s the filter, the veil over the eyes that distorts the view of everyone surrounding us. The fantasy of the funeral becomes that microcosm of regret and grief. It’s borne of the deep seated impression in our minds that no one would indeed miss us under normal circumstances. It’s the deep seated impression that no one cares. 

Depression is thrown around as a term, to define a certain set of behavioral characteristics, but really it’s an entire lifestyle. It’s not just sad feelings and a lack of energy. Depression rewires the functions of the entire brain, creating pathways that are in no way logical or productive, pathways that are self-destruction.

They don’t lead to self-destruction. They are self-destruction.

Depression sometimes offers up suicide not only as a way to end the pain, but as the salvation of the character traits inherent in the depressed mind. Suicide, in the perverse ideal, is the structural lynch pin that ties the whole story together. Without it, my depressive pathways have no purpose. Just as happy, productive energies lead to a fulfilled life, horrific depressive tendencies logically lead to suicide ideology. This ideology crafts the story, the ruse that covers the life of the depressed individual in a dense fog, allowing only perverted snippets of reality to penetrate through.

This is why it’s so hard to counteract a suicidal person. Taking away suicide as the finality, as the pervasive punctuation point, now presents these thoughts and tendencies as without purpose, without a story line. The movie’s plot now has no substance. This ignites a slow avalanche of confusion and anger, perhaps just a scent of resentment. The world makes no sense. Such a distortion naturally causes difficulties within even minor depression.

This idea of suicide as the duality of release valve/lynch pin is something that can hover, just millimeters beyond the grasp of the conscious mind, ready to reinsert itself should the occasion of circumstances arise again. It’s a different time, a different mind, a different line in the sand that runs deeper than the tide. Only experience and true soul searching can spell the difference.

I’ve found the only way to outgrow this character trait, the only way to be growth, is to steel the self. Know the difference between sadness and those self-destructive patterns. I can’t tell you the difference. It’s something that must be learned.

So, learn. Box. Be vigilant of negative thought processes. Strive to see the patterning in the alluring pull of deep seated depressive story lines. Never, ever give an ounce of grey matter to the seductive tastes of the poison apples.

I convinced myself years ago that suicide is no plot point of mine. I have never looked back.

The Mighty is asking the following: For someone who doesn’t understand what it’s like to have your mental illness, describe what it’s like to be in your head for a day. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.