Tuesday, October 1, 2013

An uncomfortable subject...suicide

When I was fifteen a friend of mine took his own life.  I remember the last conversation I had with him.  It was Friday October 2, 1998.  We talked on the phone for a little while and everything seemed normal.  Nothing he said raised any suspicion about what he was going to do.  He ended our conversation with "I'll see you Monday".  But I wouldn't see him Monday.  On Sunday, October 4th I got a phone call telling me that my friend had died.  He committed suicide.  How was this possible?  I had just talked to him, everything was fine.  It didn't make sense to me or to anyone else that was friends with him.  There was no note written.  So we were just left with questions.  Monday morning all of us who were close to him were brought into the school counselors office.  They asked us questions that we had no answers to. Did he seem depressed? Did he talk about death or dying? Was there anything happening at school that we knew about?  Did he mention anything about his life at home?  All I could answer with was no.  I couldn't understand what would cause a kid who was making good grades, had friends, and seemed happy take his own life.  What was so bad?  It wasn't until my own thoughts of suicide years later that I would somewhat understand.

When I was suicidal all I could think about was death.  I would drive down the road fantasizing about my car crashing into a tree or running head on into a pole.  I would think about what would be the best way to die.  I read about suicide online.  Looked up different ways to do it.  I had lost the fear of dying.
But I was also really good at hiding how I felt.  Years of practice allowed me to appear normal to those around me.  Even if someone asked me if I was ok or if something was wrong, I would answer with "I'm fine" or "There's nothing wrong".  Eventually the thoughts of suicide turned into actual plans.  I became so desperate for relief that dying seemed like the best option.  I could find no pleasure in anything that I once enjoyed. The night I overdosed on the Klonopin I was at the lowest I had ever been in my life.  I remember taking the pills without hesitation.  There was almost an excitement about it.  Like I was finally going to have some peace.  I thought about my kids and my mom, but they weren't thoughts about how my death would affect them.  They were thoughts of how better off everyone would be without me.  My depression had pushed me over the edge.  I was a failure and a burden on my family, I didn't deserve to live.  Fortunately I had not taken enough Klonopin to actually die from it.  But it was a wake up call.  I finally realized the severity of my situation, and the impact this had on my loved ones.  It was time for me to start taking this seriously and get help.  

        

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