Today, September 10, is World Suicide Prevention Day. I’ve been debating about whether to write about this here, but what the hell. I’ve known people who have killed themselves. My Brownie troop leader committed suicide when I was in third grade. I was friends with her daughter, and I had slept over there the Saturday night before the Monday of her suicide. She made us chocolate chip pancakes on Sunday morning. On Monday, she inhaled the exhaust from her car, and her son found her dead. Their family moved away, and I never heard from them again.
I understand the mindset that considers suicide. It’s a mind that is seriously mentally ill, that can’t see the joy and happiness in life–that just wants to end the pain. This mindset can’t see the hurt that suicide would spread to everyone in that person’s life. It really is a pit of despair, of feeling unworthy of love. If you’ve never felt that way, it’s hard to understand. If you have, you know what I’m talking about.
When I hear about a person succeeding in their determination to kill themselves (and I live in a college town–it happens fairly regularly), I always, always, always wish they could have met with a counselor or been on meds or had their intentions thwarted in some way. Obviously, right? But what I really want to tell them is that the feeling goes away, it’s possible to be happy again, there will come a time when you won’t believe you ever wanted to die. But it’s just too late.