The Friday Confessional : Romancing Suicide


 

 

Though I confess the things that are most intimate to me, I don’t know if I am accurately painting the picture of the real me.  To everyone here, I am Lulu Stark, the writer, the mother, the wife, and most importantly, the woman who bares herself in the name of mental health and disorder awareness and advocacy.  But, I wanted to put some truths out there.  The uglier side.  The real side.

I only Lulu Stark in the persona.  The one that you read about.  The antihero, the antagonist, protagonist, the victim, the perpetrator, the survivor and occasionally, the hero.

What I don’t talk typically talk about is one of my darkest, sickest secrets of all.

 

Suicide.  I regularly have suicidal thoughts and occasionally ideation.  The little voice goes through the back of my mind, sometimes as an unintelligible whisper and other times as clear as a bell, I want to die.  I want to kill myself.  It would be so easy.  No one would miss me.

I imagine ways it would play out.  I idealize all of the scenarios of suicide.  In a way, it seems I’m under it’s spell.  It seems like the only way out of this torturous world of disorder and dysfunction.  I am more crippled by my illness than I let on.  I feel pathetic in my bones, and I desperately search for my solace in this place of distress and despair.  An endless string of hopeless days and bottomless pits.

I fall deeper, clinging to my last shreds of hope.  I am flirting with suicide, with his silver tongue, soft, familiar caresses, and honey sweet kisses on my neck.

I see a sturdy rope swung around a rafter in my basement, tied with a tidy slipknot instead of an impossible noose.  I stand on a rickety chair, dressed in my Sunday best, leaving a pretty, cold, lifeless corpse behind.  The shell of a woman who never really existed.

I stand with a glass of juice and a bottle’s worth of blue pills in my hand.  I am ready, stripped to nothing but a bathrobe.  Down the hatch, the medication leaves a bitter aftertaste.  I draw myself a hot bath and arm myself with a razor.  And then, I wait.  I wait until I am almost seeing double, and world starts to blue around the edges.  I dig the razor into my wrist and drag it with all of the force I can up to my the bend of my elbow.

Or, I just await death.  I lie in the tub, feeling myself slip away under the surface of the water.  In my mind, I imagine all of the people that would be thankful that I am finally gone.  How in a year or two, I will become a distant memory that only leaves the tiniest pang.  How my sullen face starts to fade from everyone’s mind and any trace of me begins to disappear.  I think of how easy the clean up would be.

Or maybe, I would clean myself up to begin with.  I would be powder fresh in a pretty pastel little girl dress I bought for the occasion.  I would empty all of the contents of my medicine into my stomach, washed down with an entire bottle of vodka.  I would tuck myself into a warm bed, and swaddle myself in blankets.  It would look like sleep at first.  My final sleep.  My resting place.  The only place in my life where I ever felt warm and safe.

 

For the record, I’d never do it.  There is an uglier side to suicide that I’m painfully aware of.  It could possibly be the most selfish act I could ever commit.  The finality of it all is too much for me to even wrap my head around.

My son asks where I went when I am gone for an hour for class.  I imagine his confusion and sadness when he comes to see that his mother will never return. I imagine the possibilities of who would raise him if I were to be gone for good.  He would likely fall into the hands of my own parents, and I would be sentencing him to a similar fate that I experienced.

There would never be enough of an apology for my Xan.  A piece of him would die inside, and he might go mad himself.  There wouldn’t be another out there for him.  He couldn’t possibly recover.  Leaving him to his own devices at work, cutting off communication, it’s too much for him to bear for a few hours.  What if I were to be gone for the rest of his lifetime?

And then there’s the matter of the afterlife.  What comes after death?  Through my Christian upbringing, I fear the day of judgement and the sentencing to an eternity of hell, separated from my friends and family, endlessly tortured in unimaginable ways.  Ways that are beyond my comprehension.

But, what if there is nothing?  What if I sacrificed my life for a world of nothingness?  What if a person just dies and there is nothing behind?  What if I am condemned to walk this Earth as a true ethereal being, and not just the kind I feel as a flesh and blood person?  I stand there and watch as people file in for my funeral.  I see my family overlooking my lifeless body, consumed with grief.  Then, I get to watch my family and friends mourn the loss, as someone irreplaceable that met a tragic and unfair end at my own hand.

Sometimes, I feel as if I am condemned to life.  Sometimes, I feel like I’ve chosen life over the alternatives.  Sometimes, it’s for the sake of my family and friends.  And there are those brief shining moments where I live life as the gift it was meant to be with the promise of tomorrow.

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29 thoughts on “The Friday Confessional : Romancing Suicide

  1. I went through a period of “daydreaming” about suicide. I was always thinking up ways that I could do it the would be the least messy ect. But never in a romantic way. I never thought of making it pretty or posing myself or anything. When it came to my kids, I had no choice, and I knew it. Even my animals are one reason I wouldn’t do it. I, as well, can’t help but to think of the after-life. What I believe to be true is that suicide is murder of oness self. Where would that leave me. But there have been times when whatever happened in the after-life, even if it meant hell, it was better than living. But I can not see myself ever looking at it in a “romantic” light. I know many do this and I am not judging. It is just something that I haven’t come to understand yet. I know that even if you do think about it, you wouldn’t leave Xan and Beast to live without you. Just as I wouldn’t leave my children or even my parents and put them through that. Even if they have a weird way of showing it sometimes, when it comes down to it, they love me and need me to be here.
    It has been a long time since I have even given thought to it. But I don’t want to ever stop understanding the feeling of wanting to die.

    • I’ve had over a decade to think on this. Maybe that’s not a long time in comparison to others. But, there becomes a certain point where a person has to pine for release. And like any release, it has to be kind of beautiful in a way. Like, the way it would feel to jump off a building with no fear of splatting on the ground. There has to be a liberating feel to it.

      For me, it’s not the results of the act. Not completely anyway. It’s a ritualized thing. First, before I get into this, I want to put a disclaimer on all of it. I do not advocate for suicide or suicidal behavior. I do not condemn it either. I don’t know how I feel, because it’s one of those things that is unique to everyone.

      Back in the days of old, suicide was a honorable way to die. We’re talking Ancient Greece. When a death sentence was given, it was carried out by suicide. And it was a ritualized thing that everyone came to accept as something good, and a hell of a lot better than being executed. Executing yourself came with honor.

      And it was ritualized. All of your family and friends came to see you off to the other world. Death, even in that state, was a celebrated thing. It was the end to a torturous life, and the beginning of something new.

      I don’t know why or how it ended up so romanticized in my mind. Yes, I think of ways to minimize the cleanup. I think of putting new sheets on a bed covered in plastic. As if that would matter. That bed, and probably all of the contents of the room would likely go up in a bonfire in the backyard. If only it were legal to have my body burn with them. Of course, in the non-living form. That would be a tidy way to clean up.

      I have to stop myself there, because I can go into the dozens of ideas I’ve had that seem feasible under different circumstances. That’s how sick this fantasy is.

      And i don’t mean fantasy in the way that I would like to do this someday. It’s just something I think about. I have no urges to do it, though there are days that I would maybe say something to the contrary.

      Is it sick and wrong that I think about these things?

      • I am not condemning you for having these feelings, I can not condemn something that I have never experienced. I know from reading other blogs that many people do it, so please don’t think Im judging at all.

        • Oh, I know you’re not condemning me. I’m just insecure about it is all. And I’m sure that I have good reason to be. It’s not really a pleasant thing, and is probably absolutely despicable to suicide survivors. I don’t blame them.

          At the very least, I can put it up there without the looming threat that any of this is at all possible. It’s not. I wouldn’t dream of a world that would allow me to do it. And I don’t even think I would even have the stones anyway.

          These are things I just think about from time to time. And like I said before, this might be the deepest, darkest thing that could ever come out of me.

        • I am glad you shared it because I know there are others in the blogsphere who Have the same iealizations.

  2. I have at least one suicidal thought a day. What would happen if I jumped in front of the bus? That kind of stuff. I wouldn’t do it but I’m always curious.

    Thank you for sharing this with us 🙂

    • When I used to commute on foot and by bus and train and such, I used to have all of these fleeting ideas. Especially when I was particularly manic. I never walked too close to the platform edge. Not because I was afraid I would fall. More because I was afraid that I’d give in to that strange urge to jump. And even if the train stopped, or the third rail didn’t get me, I would probably be able to scale the fence and plunge four stories onto solid pavement beneath me. Would four stories be enough to kill me? Probably…

      It might be the darkest part of me. I’m glad I brought it to the surface. Thank you for reading and relating, because now I feel like way less of a monster or a freak.

      • I find the darkest part of us is just as important to talk about.

        I for when get very tired of sharing with people “how” I started recovering when it was my darkness that made people hate me. People need to know about that side or else they will never truly begin to understand.

        That’s just how I see it though.

        I wouldn’t be surprised if most people have thoughts of suicide or death. What would happen to them, how would they do it, what would people think, that kind of stuff.

  3. Thank you for sharing. You are One Tough Broad and the Beast needs you. xoxoxo

    • Every time I get to this subject, once I get past the talk of suicide, I get to the part of that dangerous way of thinking. That’s the kind of thinking that could do me in. I don’t think it would. These are fleeting ideas. They are almost consoling when I’m in the pit. Like I have options or something.

      Anyway, once I get to the consequences of those actions, I see Beast’s sweet little face. It’s hard for anyone not to look at him and not see his father. I see that face, and I think of him living the rest of the life without a mother. Maybe even without a father, because I don’t know if Xan would check out or not. Probably. I don’t know if that’s damage that any spouse could sustain and keep on moving. Even in the round, pink little face.

      I think of Xan. I think of how he would probably go completely insane with grief. I don’t say this out of arrogance. I know how fragile he is when it comes to me. He lies, but I know. In the more tender moments, he admits it with incredible emotion.

      My parents, they’re not perfect. But I know they would somehow take on the incredible burden of responsibility once the anger dissolved.

      It’s a haunting thing that would follow everyone for the rest of their lives. I don’t think that I could condemn people I love into that kind of fate, even in my worst, darkest moment.

  4. I’ve struggled with this on a daily basis since childhood too. When I think about the way it has become almost an obsessive thought in my mind, the quote from Girl, Interrupted always comes to mind – “You see once it’s in your head though, you become this strange new breed, a life form that loves to fantasize about its own demise. Make a stupid remark; kill yourself. You like the movie; you live. You miss the train; kill yourself.” I’ve learnt over the last few years that the fantasy became a coping mechanism for the times that seemed impossible to tolerate – an escape from the painful times that seemed inescapable. It works but it’s not a helpful emotion regulation tool, nor are any of the things we tell ourselves in these fantasies true… I’m glad that you are able to see the flip side – people would be deeply, deeply devastated (forever), AND it would be a tragic loss of your potentials and contributions to life. No one deserves to go through the struggles you experience to cause you to idealize your death, but there’s a way out other than suicide. There always is as awfully hard as it may be.

    • That is so beautifully written.

      I wish I could say something else right now. I wish I could say that I’m feeling the hope. But, that’s not the truth at the moment. I will hopefully cling to this and make it through.

      • I know it’s almost impossible to be hopeful when you’re not hopeful. Now’s the time to trust in the people around you – they will hold on to your hope for you and see you through to a time when you can hope for yourself again… because believe it or not, there is hope and you will see it again… And hopefully soon.

        Thinking of you… hang in there xo

        • You guys are the only people pulling for me right now. It doesn’t seem as if anyone in my real life seems to get it. And I do trust everyone here that writes to me. Thank you for helping me out here. It’s so hard to see things when I’m just blinded by my own depression.

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