Mind Bomb Hokey-Pokey

I'm going to preface this post by acknowledging I am attempting to let go of my comma splice, sentence structure, mechanics/grammar obsession in order to write this post less 'hindered' by the English teacher who is alive and well within and constantly choking my thoughts with her red pen. 

I can't remember a time when suicide was not an option. The idea has been with me since elementary school, approximately 40 of my 47 years. It has either lurked quietly in the shadows, ready to spring forth and 'save the day' or held center stage causing me to feel like a wussy failure for not following through with it. That some people go through life without ever, even once, thinking like this is nearly unfathomable to me. I don't get it; I wish I did. I do TOTALLY GET how sick this sounds, how sick it is that these thoughts take up so much space in my mind. And it isn't as if I've done nothing about this demon and what sometimes seems aa battalion of others: Therapy, lotsa therapy, treatment for addiction(s), 12 step recovery, more therapy, trauma work. This list is endless. And yet, here I am and here IT is, lurking or looming daily. There has to be something else out there I've missed somehow. One psychiatrist I worked with is convinced suicidal ideation is an addiction in and of itself. I don't know. What I do know is I would like to be rid of it.

I don't remember the first time I thought about it. I do not remember an incident or situation that helped conjure up such an idea. I just know I can only vaguely remember a time it wasn't in my mind. And I am ashamed. Ashamed that the thoughts are such a part of my life and take up so much space in what is already a chaotic area. I can and have filled reams of paper with gratitude lists. None of this makes sense.

I follow two blogs written by women facing serious issues that affect every aspect of their lives on a daily basis. The blog Queen of Spain's objective at its beginning provided social media strategist Erin Kotecki Vest's a wide-reaching resource upon which to make "the most impact in  the quickly-evolving new media landscape." The last couple of years, however,  Erin's primary topic has been her continuing struggle with lupus and the effects this horrific disease has on her life and the life of her family, friends, and career. I'm not sure how I came upon her blog, but in one of the first entries I read, she finds herself trying on bathing suits in the department store dressing room as she deals with the weight-gain caused by the very medicine meant to help save her life. She is exhausted and She has had enough.  Tears for her loss, her struggle, and for my own shame at being someone in good enough health and facing issues only brought about by my own actions overwhelmed me as she spoke of the body she had had only months before and how it had changed, and of her own sense of shame at the feelings she considered vain and not so relevant in light of her health. I read every entry in her blog that night and am still reading each time she posts. Her primary concern is her family and her ability to be the mom/wife they deserve. And when I read Erin's words, I am able to recognize how skewed my thinking is and I pray for some degree, no matter how small, of the courage she must summon every day. Her insight and her fight are incredible.

Yet, I still fight this self-destructive voice in my head determined to remind me just how bad I am, how defective is my very soul.

A couple of months ago, I followed a twitter link to Diary of a Mad Woman, a blog started by a 43 year old widow raising 3 young children after her husband's suicide. Her honest posts filled with the pain and confusion of her family's loss and her struggle to get through each day with both tears and laughter landed me right on my ass. Here is the perspective, the world, that is left behind after suicide.  There is nothing more sobering. Again, I read the entire blog in one sitting. I sent it to my friends to read. I read it to my oldest daughter. I put it out there on every social media site I know. And to the degree I know how, I've settled her words next to that voice in my head, that destructive voice that lurks and lunges with words of condemnation and self-hate.

I don't know why this seemed important enough that I write it down. I only know it has been rattling in and around my mind for days now. Sometimes just putting it out there will take away some of the power. And regarding my fear my red ink pen will be triggered, I refuse to do anything other than a spell check before posting, regardless who else, if anyone, readcs it.