Tag Archive: Suicidal ideation


After many years of being in therapy off and on I am so happy that I have found such a good therapist. He has been helping me clarify my relationship problems and I am seeing things in a new light. I have also been spending a great deal of time thinking about things (one thing that being disabled gives you is plenty of time to think! That can be good or bad).

The fact is that people scare the crap out of me. I don’t make friends easily. You see I think I am going to ruin their lives. From an early age I was always “making” my mother cry or get mad, but I never knew quite what I did that would cause that extreme reaction.  Mostly what I did was simply talk at the wrong time.

I also have an almost clear memory of her putting me and my sister to bed, and I was talking to her while she tucked me in. I don’t remember what I said, but she got this shocked look on her face and started crying and ran out of the room. My sister said “See what you did!”

Perhaps guilt is why I do not remember what I said, I have blocked out some childhood memories where I only remember parts of what happened. All I know is that I wasn’t saying anything with an intent to upset her and her reaction mystified me.

My mother obviously had problems, but having gone through bipolar depression myself I do not believe that she suffered from depression. Overall her moods were okay, except when it came to dealing with me.

When I started school I would not talk to anyone because I figured that they would hate me, because if I was not good enough for my family how could I be good enough for anyone else? Of course that was a self-fulfilling prophecy and I got the label “retard.”

My fear of people is now 100% worse because of having bipolar disorder. I have created my share of havoc with it although I am dealing with it better now.

It doesn’t help when my brother-in-law chimes in “No wonder you have no friends!”

Ironically when he said that I had done nothing to him but that is a story for another day. The point is that it hurt, badly.

The reason I have few friends is not because I don’t care about others, as he implied. It is just the opposite. I often feel like all I have to offer to others is pain and misery. And that is also why I have not dated in years. And now I am  disabled with fibromyalgia/chronic fatigue so somehow I doubt that I would be a fun date.

I know, at least intellectually, that I am more than my illness and more than my worst qualities. But that has not reached my heart yet.

My therapist says that I remind him of a sun-burnt person who is always desperately trying to make sure no one touches her in a crowd of people.

However he is helping me to understand what went on in my family and the ironic fact that my mother actually loved me, but did not know how to show it. I will write about that in another post. The point is that hopefully I can learn to let go of the shame that I have accumulated. Shame is actually different from guilt in a very subtle way. Guilt says “I did a bad thing but I can correct it”. Shame says “I am a bad person and nothing I can do will ever change that.”

It is the shame that leads me into suicidal ideation, although I have promised myself to not go down that road again, mainly for my father’s sake. He spent so much time listening and helping me during the bad times and it would be a betrayal to him to do myself in. He is also proof that I am lovable, even when I don’t feel it myself. His love has sustained me.

I wonder how many of you identify will what I have said. Please share. 🙂

 

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This inspiring story is from www.deeperstory.com/your-story-worth-finishing

Your Story is Worth Finishing

by Luke

Content Warning: This post speaks candidly of suicide and suicidal ideations.

The purpose of this post is to raise awareness for National Suicide Prevention Week. Know the signs. Be involved. Be a safe place. Go to the NSPW website to learn more.

I. The Wound.

Two years ago, I was sitting alone on the floor of my closet at 2 in the morning with the cold, metallic heft of release resting in my lap. I can still remember what it felt like. It was heavy and awkward in my clammy hands as my fingers traced the letters etched into the slide:

9mm

It wasn’t the first time in my life I’d been down this road, but it was definitely the farthest I’d ever ventured down it. There had been thoughts in the past, even some rough plans, but never this detailed. I was ready, except I hadn’t written a note.
_____

I’ve struggled with depression my whole life. I self-medicated with whatever I could – adrenaline, food, a little pot, more than a little alcohol and a lot of prescription drugs. But you probably never would’ve known. My family and friends didn’t know while I was growing up. I was an athlete, an honor student, a musician. I was involved in church. I had some genuinely great friends. On the outside I looked like the kid that had it all together, while on the inside, I was fighting just to hold on.

And so the charade continued.

Two years ago, I was “successful.” Two years ago I was “happy.” Two years ago, I had a good job and a wonderful family and all of those things that let us know that we’ve made it.

But I was broken. The birth of our second son marked the break in the walls of compartmentalization I had so carefully and painstakingly built, and years of repressed psychological and emotional damage came flooding in. I was out of control. I needed to regain control, and this, I reasoned, was one way to do it.
_____

But I still needed to write a note.

I sat contemplating how to frame the end of my story, trying to find the words to make sure my wife didn’t blame herself, as my thumb involuntarily stroked the safety. How could I make her understand, make them all understand that it would be better this way, that they would be better off this way?

But I waited too long. My oldest son cried out in his sleep with a night terror. Instinct took over, and before I knew what I was doing, the gun was back in the safe and the boy was in my arms, body racked with sobs of terror and tears streaming down his face.

At some point, I’m not sure when, I realized that he’d stopped crying, and that the sobs were mine.

The tears were mine.

Some day I’ll tell him that he saved my life. Some day I’ll tell him that his tiny hand on my face that night was the first thing I’d really felt in almost a decade. Some day I’ll tell him that it was at that moment in his bedroom in the middle of the night that I realized there was a different way to take control.

I started thinking about a new note, one to reach out for help instead of offering premature goodbyes.

II. To the Wounded

You think that you don’t matter. You think you’re invisible. You think you’re alone, that your life has no value. You think that not being alive is better than being in whatever hellish reality you’re living in. You need to control something, and you think this is the only way to do it.

But you do matter. Maybe you don’t have a two year old with impeccable timing to let you know that you matter, so this is me telling you that you do. You matter to you. You matter to people around you that you don’t even realize. You matter to me because I see you on the same road that I was on, and this is me going right back down that road to get you.

This is me opening doors that I’ve never dared to open publicly because the fact that you’re reading this means maybe you’re looking for a reason not to and I’m telling you that this is it. This is me, jumping up and down, waving my arms and screaming that I see you, that you’re not alone, that your life has value. This is me telling you all of the things that I wish someone would have told me when I started down that road. It is worth it. You’re worth it. You are loved, you are loved, you are loved.

If you close the book now, when the drama in the story is at its most fevered and the pain most intense, you’ll never know how the hero of your story would’ve turned out.

Your story matters, and it’s worth finishing.

The world is full of people who’ve been to those dark places but who came out the other side and discovered a better way to take control: by re-writing their own stories.

Reaching out for help was one of the hardest, most painful things that I’ve ever done. Healing is ugly and it’s messy and it takes a long time and there will always be scars, but what matters is that our stories go on. My story could have ended with a widow wondering what she possibly could have done and two boys growing up wondering why their dad left them alone, but instead, it’s still being written. The pages are dog-eared and highlihgted with words and lines and whole paragraphs crossed out in some places, but in spite of all the edits, it’s a story that’s worth finishing.

And so is yours.

“Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Do not be afraid.” – Frederick Buechner

If you or someone you know is contemplating suicide, please seek help. The National Suicide Prevention Hotline has trained counselors available 24/7 at 1-800-273-TALK (8255). If you don’t want to talk to a stranger, reach out to a family member or a friend. Talk to a pastor or priest. Talk to someone, anyone. If you’re tooo scared or embarrassed to talk to anyone else, you can talk to me. You can @ me or DM me on twitter @lukeharms or email me at luke (dot) a (dot) harms (at) gmail (dot) com. Take control by reaching out and deciding to heal.