September Ends

Every September for the past several years I have watched the days creep by and mused on the idea of “increased awareness for suicide prevention.” I see friends of mine who suffer put up copy-pasted messages to spread the word about suicidality and resources for those suffering similarly. Yearly, I am sent swirling back again on my own ideations. I question my sanity and my worth. I second-guess my life in every facet.

The truth is there is a very small list of people I know who have met me on a day I haven’t thought of taking my life. For the past fifteen years, I have considered suicide at least once a day, about five to seven days a week. At the peak of intensity, I thought about killing myself so many times I would lose count before the end of the day.

I can confidently say that it was unsettling for a while. It was whispers. The so-called “intrusive thoughts.”

Only once in my suicidal career have I felt so genuinely unsafe in my own presence that I sought refuge elsewhere. As much as I tamp down that memory — as unremarkable as it seems in hindsight — the details blaze brilliantly.

I can tell you what color blouse the woman was wearing who told me “we don’t have anyone to see you, you’ll have to make an appointment for next week.”

She wore teal. She wore it well.

I can tell you the minute I stepped in an office where I didn’t feel safe. But I knew I was safer than I’d be on my own.

I’m not there.

I’m not that person anymore. But I am suicidal. And every September I watch as awareness is touted as a crusade against a bogeyman.

I do get it. Death is hard. Loss in any form seems difficult.

I can’t sit here and argue that. And I can’t sit here and spew out lies like “but life is hard, too.”

Maybe it’s me, but life does not seem hard.

Tedious, petty, small.

Absolutely.

But I’m pretty confident that I *could* do this for another forty to fifty years. And with my privilege, and the routines I’ve built into my life I wouldn’t even need luck to get that far — aside from whatever fresh hell is coming soon to a reality near you.

I don’t want to. I’m not interested.

Same, cat. Super same.

That is not everyone’s suicidality. There are those at the ends of their ropes. They’re scrabbling for resources, love, any shred of kindness in their moments of acute despair.

Suicide awareness is best held for those people. Because they *DO* seem to want to be here.

I struggle a lot trying to get that nuance across.

I don’t want to be here, and it’s beginning to get weird.

I don’t want to be human anymore. My limbs feel like they don’t belong to me, and my skin feels like it’s never the right shape.

I don’t want to feel human anymore. The various flavors of love don’t linger with me. The human experience feels really banal and petulant.

I don’t want to know humans anymore. This part comes and goes more than the others (though they all flicker). The stories have become hackneyed, and I worry that I’m losing my ability to indulge in the human delusion.

I don’t feel less sane. And while I can admit to my chronic depression that might come with a sense of overwhelming numbness, I haven’t experienced a loss of sensation.

The sensations feel wrong, or perhaps borrowed.

I’ve spent a lot of time this September thinking about how I got here. I’ve looked at my life for holes any number of times over the years and humanly I’ve found plenty.

I wanted for resources; by my own hand (and often by others’) they were there.

I wanted for stability; I’ve tasted it several times and turned from it enough to know I crave adventure far more. I know it.

I wanted for belonging; despite feeling exceptionally alone I can easily name my “family.” I am loved. I know it.

I wanted for myself; with time and an actual fuck ton of work I am become the hero I have always needed most. I’m incredible. I know it.

I wanted for my dreams; in review I have had them, samples at an ice cream counter. More crazily, I’ve been paid for all of them.

I dream in sea-salt caramel and darkest chocolate.

I feel stuck now dreaming for others. I’ve thrown my husk at that wall several times over the years. Most often I find I can only ever dream for others; the work is still theirs to do.

This work is still yours to do. I’ve been writing down my dreams for you though; in case you want to know.

This isn’t goodbye.

I’m just tired of holding it in.

Whether or not the idea is overly anachronistic; it’s there now. My life has been delight and disdain, and I would change very little. All the same, I would erase it all without hesitation. What I hear the voices say most now is just “you don’t have to do it; it’s only ever always been a choice.”

So, at some point I’ll choose otherwise.

I’m long past the point of bargaining. I struck a deal years ago frankly — it would be an act of love to end my story.

I guess my hope for you here is to consider me and this statement as something to digest. I know the reflex.

I get it.

You’ve met me. You know me. I’ve only ever always been myself.

It’s me. Genuinely happy and depressed.

Please try to appreciate the nuance here.

I’m “in pain” and “in peace” most days. Not torn; just something else that’s both simultaneously.

I used to dream I could say goodbye to people and have it be something lovely.

I think I still do.