10. There is nothing, I mean fucking NOTHING scarier than that moment you feel that rifle barrel go into your mouth.
Let me tell you something about suicide. Nobody wants to do it. Few people wake up one morning and plan their day around it, have some breakfast, stop at the gun store, maybe grab some coffee. It is a spontaneous urge, one that ignored for even the briefest second might go away for the time being (and still come back stronger if not addressed.)
I used to think people who committed suicide were weak until I dabbled myself. There is nothing, I mean fucking NOTHING scarier than that moment you feel that rifle barrel go into your mouth, because you know the person who put it there isn’t the person who’s supposed to be in control of your body.
Suicide is a horrible, frightening thing, and it isn’t something the people who commit it have much control of, which makes it that much worse in my opinion.
11. Envision what awesome power would be necessary to transform you into someone simply indifferent to leaving those you love behind.
Suicide caused by mental illness isn’t cowardice: it is death resulting from a disease that’s only different from cancer or a ravaging virus because of the mechanism by which it ultimately takes your life and the fact you will receive measurably less sympathy for waging war against it and losing, because the battles being fought are only completely apparent to and understood by you.
Suicide caused by mental illness can be likened to a host-controlling parasite that guides you to a gun then forces you to pick it up and pull the trigger. If you haven’t lived with depression or mental illness, you might find this hyperbolic. That’s understandable, yet seeing those who have never suffered with a disease like this describe suicide as the result of simple weakness or cowardice is hyperbolic, painful and misguided to everyone who has.
I suffer from bipolar depression, anxiety disorders, and borderline personality disorder and have been hospitalized and on the verge of suicide many times. There’s a long line of mental illness on my father’s side of the family and I didn’t exactly win the genetic lottery in this regard. While I am not suffering from depression, I am a completely different person who is rational with periods of intense clarity: the real me. Most importantly, I want to live as much as anyone else and fight hard to do so.
When I say depression, I do not refer to the sadness we have all experienced, caused by badly hurt feelings or a broken promise. Depression affects everyone differently and to tell you it is categorically a persistent and crushing despair and hopelessness is still to do it a disservice. Each individual must do his own personal war with depression justice as I will try to do now.
While I’m not depressed, I am a best friend to my mother and little sister. I am always there for them, without fail, to talk with them whenever they need me, to listen to their problems and provide support, to physically be present on a whim because it’s what you do for those you love. I occasionally think about what life would be like without them, if I were to lose them someday, and those are thoughts that cause me intense anxiety and worry as they would for anyone who loves their family. I try to cherish the time I have with them. I am a thoughtful person who remembers birthdays and anniversaries and will put a lot of time and effort into small things that may brighten up someone’s day.