Before; After

Working Through: Essay 1

I am no poet. At least, I don't have a keen sense for rhythm and sound, though I do love a well-constructed sentence and an artfully designed poetic line as much as anyone else who loves such things.

And my storytelling could use some work, I know.

What's collected here is more of a journal. Rough and personal. A journal of me working through some dark spots in my emotional life. The stories and poems that follow were sparked by a revelatory and terrifying moment in my life, specifically, the moment when I wanted to die, and I drove recklessly north from Irving, TX, heading to Oklahoma, hoping that I wouldn't make it across the border.

It wasn't the first time I'd thought of killing myself or wishing that someone or something else would do the work for me. I'd definitely had what psychologists call active and passive suicidal ideations.

Although I'd had moments as a kid when I wondered what it would be like to die, going so far as to imagine how everyone would react at my funeral, I can't say those moments really fit the active/passive categories of suicidal thoughts. To me, they were merely the products of a curious child who loved to feel emotions I can't possibly ever experience. (These memories are probably something I should bring up in one my future therapy sessions.)

The first time I remember having a real suicidal thought occurred in the most banal of places: doing the dishes after dinner.

I can't remember why I felt it, other than guessing that it stemmed from some long-held irritation with my husband (now ex-). Maybe that irritation was fair, but maybe it wasn't. All I remember is that it was powerful. So powerful that it scared me. I wanted to die. Not because of some desire to see how others might react—you know, to see who my real friends are, or some such nonsense. No, because I wanted to die, and I felt that death was the only escape available.

This wave crashed into me when I was washing my 8-inch chef's knife. The image of that knife's razor-sharp edge piercing the skin of my inner wrist invaded my thoughts. There was no premeditated thought behind the image. It was just there, with the full force of the thought that I needed to die. Not wanted. Not wished. I say "need" because, in that moment, it felt like death was my only way out.

There was no thought about the consequences, about what would happen after. All that mattered was that moment and the need for that knife to sever an artery.

The moment passed. I finished cleaning the knife, dried it, and placed it back in its drawer. I don't think I used that knife again for a while without being reminded of what had occurred.

I recount this moment in my life because, yes, it was terrifying in its power, but mostly because it was I moment I should have paid more attention to. I wish I hadn't just calmly walked to the couch and sat down for the usual evening of TV-watching and ignoring our problems. I should have done more. But, at the time, I didn't know any better. I didn't know what to do with those emotions. Basically, I just wanted to deny that the moment had ever happened. To, in effect, keep it to myself and never tell anyone about it. Ever.

Obviously, I've broken that promise to myself since I have just typed it out here. My reasoning is this: I hope that re-visiting the worst moments in my life will give others some sort of hope, a feeling of belonging, or even the spark to seek help.

While that is a good reason, there's another: That was not the only suicidal thought I was to have; there have been so many more. See, suicidal thoughts multiply, exponentially. They don't go away. They breed. Each one, after being dealt, leads to another and to another. With each new or returned suicidal thought, the pressure builds.

Suicidal ideation is not a one-and-done kind of emotional experience. By the time someone falls victim to those thoughts, the dam has already been under pressure for years, decades in many cases. The pressure valves a person constructs to deal with the pressure start weakening and then fail. Without persistent work, those personal valves to stave off a rupture will inevitably break.

That is, they will if nothing is done to reinforce the support systems we have to combat suicidal ideation.

I have been extremely lucky in my support systems. First, I have a family that loves and supports me. Second, I obtained a full-time job with insurance that includes coverage for mental health. And third, I started to write about my issues, the darkest stuff that I typically avoid when writing, the writings I usually hide from people.

And that's exactly what this collection contains. Here are the writings I used to work through my own issues: my depression, my anxiety, my suicidal thoughts.

They are not meant to be works of Art. Whatfollows is proof of work, the work I used to better understand and to bettermanage the powerful darkness within my own imagination.