She shot herself that March. At 14, whatever pain clawed inside her, my cousin believed hunting it down, releasing it with a bullet from the chamber, was her answer. Our family and her friends were left behind to grieve. We took on her hurt and let it explode in anger or confusion. Some still say she was selfish … that suicide is the most selfish thing anyone can do; but she was young and must’ve truly believed there was no end, except to create her own.
I know what it feels like to paint yourself in a tight, dark corner so when you look down, all you see are thick spirals of injured agony, a deep sadness, the abyss. You think all there is left to do is let yourself fall. You hope there will be freedom from the ache that gnaws and chews your bones. In desperation, you’re unsure if you have a heart left. And if you did – it surely would be charcoal.
The word – sadness – doesn’t cut it. It’s an all-encompassing pain that ties and wraps around your muscles and bones, pulling tighter, stringing you to the edge where you feel trapped. Alone. Without choice. Exhausted. So tired from feeling so much, that you just want it to stop. You don’t know what to do.
If you suffer from mental illness or if you don’t have the skills to cope with disappointment – the knowledge that things don’t always stay so bleak – and if you don’t talk to anyone, get help, you won’t see yourself anymore. All your bones will have been squeezed so tightly, that they become scarred and wrung out. You believe you’re crumbling. That even your skeleton won’t hold.
After she died, someone made me promise I would never do the same; I knew I wouldn’t keep it. Then I was asked when I would get back to normal, be my regular, happy self. People needed me to be happy for them, they said.
You don’t get oversomeone killing themselves. It stays with you. It’s a story that belongs to those left behind. At Thanksgiving when we gather, we see photos of her on the wall. During weddings, we know she should be there. Her life was not supposed to end the way it did: She is supposed to be with us. There was much more she was meant to give to this lovely world. This beautiful world that can sometimes, yes, feel ugly.
At 17, I made a promise I intended to keep. I promised to pay attention. To recognize the dimness that others get in their eyes, the sound of cracking bones. To remember what it looks like to get that close. I promised to remember the crocus, so resilient, budding with snow kissing its petals. It survived and pushed through winter, ushered in spring. In just one afternoon, the sun can shine enough, the temperatures rise enough, to allow for new growth. That fast. That fast. Things change. Nothing, nothing, nothing stays the same. Not even an abyss. And I promised to live like that, breathing, with new perspective, noticing the smallest piece of beauty. To become a collector of moments and keep them wrapped safely in my heart.
You learn that feelings are not necessarily the truth of a matter. They ebb and flow. Wash out to the mighty sea, and are released there. Yes, you will hurt sometimes. You will experience pain that brings you to your knees. You will feel you’ve already died. Your stomach will cut you up; but after awhile, that terrible pain fades.
This is when you choose to paint over that corner you painted yourself in: and it is just a corner. It’s not the whole room, let alone the whole house or the whole neighborhood, the entire world, your life in full: It’s justa corner. There is more beyond it. Look. Step over the edge. Paint it white.
That invisible rope that has scratched you to the bone … kiss it off you. Look at your delicate mortality. You have skin. You are not desolate. You are here. You exist. You belong. There are people who love you. And sometimes, that doesn’t feel like enough. So you look in. What do you love? You know you love something. There are things you would miss if you were not here. Music. The stars. The sea. The taste of salt on your tongue. Old oaks growing and all the storms they have weathered. They didn’t stop. They kept growing and now give you oxygen.
This is the thing: You have to save yourself. You have to believe that there’s something worth it. Because there is. There is no one else like you. The world needs you. You need you.
So here you are. You’re stronger than you know. You can plant yourself, grow your own roots that spread so deep and marvelous, allowing you to stretch and bloom like a cherry tree. Sprout out from that darkness and lift your arms in the sun. Let it brush against your sweet face that is precious and rare. Put your palms out and allow it to seep in.
Life is a gift. So fragile. So miraculous. So mysterious and exquisite.
You won’t be the same. It will take time to heal, to learn new tools on how to cope with life. You’ll learn how to think differently – and that’s one of the most important things – because much of this, how you live, is in your head. You can choose how to think.
You’ll give a blessing of compassion to others because you know what it feels like to get through to the other side, that life is not black and white. (It is NOT black and white.) You will help others by not judging them – because you’ll know there is no way you have any right to judge another person. You will see despair on someone’s face when others don’t notice. You will smile at them. It may save them for one more day – and you know this. You know the kindness extended by a stranger can save a life.
Daffodils. The beach. Campfires. The smell of babies. A loved one’s touch. The wind. Walking barefoot in the grass. A full moon. These are the things that will mesmerize you for the rest of your life. You’ll know it’s simple, really. It’s not the car you drive, the kind of house you have, the job you go to, the clothes you wear, or if you had a hard day. It’s your spirit. And it’s the things that you can rely on to always be there, these stunning little gifts of magical life. Someone’s laugh. The feel, the warmth of a forehead kiss. The smell of the earth after it rains. They ground you. Remind you what a blessing it is to live.
24 years later, we still think of her. We miss the girl who rode horses in the fog; the tough country girl who scoffed at me – another country girl – for not wanting to scale a fish. She could do it with her smile. We still ask questions. There was no note. We have coffee, talk of her, and cry. We tell our children that sometimes life is hard, but it is – in equal measure, at least – splendid and captivating. We miss her. We love her.
And the best thing I can think of to do is not just exist, but to love – really love. To live – really live. To pay attention. Keep gratitude close by at all times, because that, truly, is what keeps our mind full of wonder. That wonder keeps us here, shining. And that’s what we’re meant to do. So shine.
If you or someone you know needs help, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. They will connect you to a local mental health counselor, 24/7. 1-800-273-8255
1-800-273-8255
1-800-273-8255
I've been there one too many times. I'm so sorry to hear about your cousin. Such a young age….
You explained that dark place very well. At times, it seems as though there is no way out – no back door to run out of – no escape from this encompassing demon that strangles you until you finally give up on life. For me, I turn to God. It's when I'm distant from God – my spirituality, that I get lost in the depths of this awful fog. I struggle with anxiety and depression. It's up and down for me. Some days are great, others not so much and some, ready to step up on that ledge. It's a constant battle. But if I remain close to God, close to what is truly important to me: my wife, my family, my passions in life and yes, a full moon, seeing the sun rise every morning or just having a good cup of coffee in the morning — to have appreciation for what's in my life is what keeps me going. I don't believe in antidepressants. They make us latch onto them, even if they're not clinically "addicting" — they are in a way since if we don't take them, we think that we're sad because we're off of them. I believe in energy healing, restoring our faith, healing our bodies from the inside out with natural foods and staying positive — at least trying to.
I began saying every morning, "Today's gonna be the best day of my life." And even if it isn't the "BEST" day of my life, it turned out pretty decent. It took me a long time to learn how to be calm during the storms. I learned that, even if it's hard right now, it will pass. So cliche, but so very true. I wish people who suffered like me knew that all these temporary and challenging struggles do pass. And if they don't — things like chronic pain and other things that seem to linger, it's a matter of being calm in the storm and using coping skills. But not everyone's patient enough.
Through God's strength I've made it out alive…
I love how you told your story. I don't love that you had a story to write. Writing about suicide is very difficult to put into words. 24 years ago I lost my son to suicide by use of a gun at the age of 21. I too also my made my daughter promise to never do this, and so far she has kept her promise and I believe in my heart of hearts that she will keep that promise. I remember how hard it was to believe that I would ever be able to survive the loss of a child, however I have. Whenever I feel like I can't handle a situation, I remember that I have handled the worse situation that could happen to a mother and then I can handle it.
Thank you for writing about your cousin, not to tell her story, but to tell the story of a survivor.
Thank you for sharing your story. Next week will mark sixteen years since the suicide of my estranged husband. I know one day I will share my story, but I'm not quite ready yet. Thank you for reminding me that I am not alone.
Sometimes the cliches are true. lol That can be annoying – but it's the way it is. lol Like what you said – storms are temporary, they pass, and things get better. After awhile, they may go bad again – but not for forever.
Many people have experienced that darkness, I think. It may not have taken them to death or to a suicide attempt, but it may have made them feel like there weren't many options out there. In my experience, as you pointed out, Deb, so much of it is how we choose to think.
What tends to work for me is finding a meaning, a purpose, in all my experiences. I am able to step back, and look somewhat from a detached place (after a little while of wallowing … lol), and consider the lesson. That's my version of spirituality, I think. Looking within, and even being grateful for, anything that brings a sense of disappointment, because it's teaching me something I need to learn. Sometimes those lessons hurt like a mother. lol But that's OK. It gets better. 🙂
Sending you lots of love and thank you VERY much for your beautiful words. For sharing.
Thank you for your kind words and for sharing your experience.
I'm so sorry about your son. I cannot fathom that hurt. And yes. Whenever things go pear shaped, you definitely would know you've already endured the worst pain possible – and can get through the next steps.
I'm sure your daughter will keep her promise. 🙂 And she has now watched you, learned from you, that it's possible to get through heartbreaking experiences, and then keep moving. That example is not something to take lightly. She has learned from you that things get better. <3
Much, much love to you and your heart. And your family.
leahElaine –
Thank you for your kind words and for sharing. I'm so sorry that you have had to cope with the loss of someone you loved by suicide. It's not easy. I will be thinking of you next week – as I'm sure it's one of those weeks that sort of 'hits' you each year.
You don't have to tell your story until you're ready. When it feels right. 🙂
And you're not alone.
Sending you lots of love.
Suicidal people often don't want to die; they just want out of their pain. There is an old saying, "The death of love encourages the love of death." Helping an "on-the-edge" person understand he is loved and appreciated can save a life.
This is one of the most moving and deeply touching articles I have ever read. I happened upon it while I was in a dark, horrible time in my life. I saved it to my files and have referred to it dozens of times over the past 3 years. I just want to say thank you. You have a beautiful way w/ words. <3
I recently shared your article on my FB page and in the various groups I am in. I hope that's ok. Of course I have you cited. 😉
facebook.com/nuwave79
menfindingpeace-ei.blogspot.com
Much love to you, Becky, and thank you again!
Christopher
I am truly honored and deeply touched that this writing held you in some way over the years. I am very humbled that you shared this post on FB and in various groups.
Thank you – more than I can say – for taking the time to letting me know that you were impacted in some way. I feel like as writers, we often have no idea that someone is even listening or reading … so for you to come back three years later and let me know is beyond touching.
I remember when I read your words, I could hardly breathe because I was some overcome with gratitude.
Thank you. And most importantly … I am so grateful and happy you are HERE. Sending you so much love.