Suicide. It’s such a sad thing. You can almost feel the helplessness in the choice.
And wish you could have done something to change it.
Then you wonder, what was so bad that they couldn’t go on? Immediately you think depression, guilt or shame.
Brought on by financial trouble, maybe? Addiction? Disease?
Nope, none of that.
It’s brought on by something different. Something you wouldn’t guess.
Suicide is exhaustion.
Mental fatigue; and those who commit suicide are tired. They’re tired of trying. Trying to feel ok, be ok, act ok.
They’ve tried long enough, and thought they could keep dodging, until one day they don’t.
Right up to the minute of that fateful decision, there are choices that attempt to overcome the struggle and conquer the fear. A life led to the best of their ability, just in case. A life led more for others than themselves.
Suicide is clutter undetected. Clutter unmanaged. Neglected.
Misleading and deceptive, suicide is the absence of clarity. Clarity to see that this too shall pass. Whatever this is.
Clarity that you’re worth it, the ups and downs, and it’s a roller coaster to be embraced. The knowing that everything is just part of the ride.
And in not seeing clearly, it’s possible to get bulldozed by the circumstances. By appearances, and coulda, woulda, shouldas.
People own their suicide attempts like a badge of honor, or dishonor. Whichever serves at the time.
A badge of respect amongst those who didn’t do it. A scarlet letter for those that one day might.
I know because suicide hits closer to home than I care to admit. From being close to it myself as a young girl, to having loved ones who finally chose that way out.
The pain feels bigger than you. It’s enough to want to turn the lights off for good.
But that’s just it, the lights are already off when we feel that way. We’ve turned them off and decided there’s no more sunshine.
Then living turns pointless. Torture almost.
For those left to watch and wonder, the what-ifs are endless.
There’s a black cloud over suicide, something we didn’t see coming. Proof that we can’t begin to know what someone’s going through. The stuff they cling to inside.
So it’s not for us to judge, the person or the act. And as much as you might want to dub yourself the juror, it’s not about you. Your understanding or approval.
Only your love.
Human life brings its share of challenges and sometimes it feels like you just don’t want to deal anymore. Like you’ve depleted all available resources, or at least considered them all, and, in your mind, they all end up failing to lift you up.
Even if they did lift you up, would they hold you up?
The repercussions of not getting life “right” seem too great, too much to handle if you never figure out a fix.
Until you decide that it isn’t all that serious—that none of it makes you who you are, that there is nothing to solve—then it will always feel like a problem with only one solution.
Until you decide that nothing is insurmountable—that your power is not something stolen away—checking out at your own hand seems like the best option for everyone.
But life isn’t to be taken so seriously. You, not so seriously.
Everything ebbs and flows. Nothing’s permanent, regardless of age. There’s opportunity in everything.
From the standpoint of clarity, you can see other options.
And even then, in the end, none of it matters. How you came, how you went. Only that you lived, loved, and enjoyed the ride.
I’d like to believe that’s the option we all try and exhaust first.
Dedicated to BJF.
**Please reach out for a helping hand if you have thoughts of suicide. Your mental health is worth paying attention to.**