I Survived Suicide - World Suicide Prevention Day

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day. Today, we going to read all sorts of facts and figures and hear many people proclaim the importance of suicide awareness.

But today we should share stories. Stories of survival and why suicide became the best most reasonable choice.

So here's mine.

I had gone through another manic period followed by the inevitable crash into depression. The depression was crushing. I stayed in one corner of my bed for months it seemed. By rights, I should have been in hospital.

I became obsessed with the idea that if I could just be gone, all this would end, i would be relieved and undoubtedly everyone around me would be very relieved.

It was believing that I was just burdening people that was the deciding factor. Everyone would be better off. No one would have to worry about me. All I had to do was swallow a bunch of pills.

And I had a bunch of pills. A wide colourful variety of geometric shapes. I have no idea what combination of medications I took that night. I don't know how many. I know it was a cocktail of death that I could hold in my fist.

I sat on the edge of my bed, thinking. Do I have the courage to do this? Turns out, you don't need courage. You just need to say fuck it and swallow and swallow and swallow. Then...I guess you just wait.

After this I don't remember very much for maybe a week. I don't remember if I was hospitalized. I have flashes of wandering and banging on doors and windows opening. When I came back to life, I was still where I was and nothing had changed.

But I failed. Sometimes I'm happy about that. Sometimes I'm truly ambivalent. I'm not sure how anyone else feels about this.

Why I Don't Hope

One thing, as I go through the world of bipolarity, I've tried to avoid is hope.

Hope. I don't like it. I don't want it. And I actively avoid it.

It seems ridiculous not to hope. How do you go through life without hope?

It's a matter of perspective. Most people look at hope as a positive. Sometime, somewhere things will get better. That's good.

I look at hope with skepticism bordering on paranoia. To me, hope is not hope. It's a danger sign.

This summer, I decided I was ready to go back to school. Counselling. My doctor and I worked it out and all seemed positive.

Throughout the summer, I became increasingly aware that I was feeling the mania building. I started feeling powerful and that I already knew everything there is to know and of course this is what I'm meant to do. And of course, I'm going to save people from living the same life I have. I don't even need these classes to know what to do.

Not too much to hope for.

It's way too much to hope for. It's not realistic and it's a fantasy.

The irony is that I felt what was happening, I knew at points. I wrote that I was thinking in super grandiose terms. I also knew it wouldn't last.

But it felt so great. That feeling that everything is small and I'm expansive, creative, visionary, and a healer. I am the conquerer. I'm on top.

It's so intoxicating that even though I was well aware, this mania lasted months in varying degrees. And I pushed it to last, to be honest.

I wanted the mania to be the new me. I thought this time I could avoid the cliff.

I let myself hope. Fell off the cliff and I crashed hard. I'm still crashing.

Hope is killed and it feels like hope is killing me.

I Won't Apologize

These have been sombre days lately. I should talk to my dr. but I wrote this instead

i won't apologize                      

i won’t die on your terms
my small rebellion will
be a pool of blood
or scattered pill bottles

i won’t leave behind soothing words
of remorse or apology
i won’t let you believe
there was nothing you could have done
i will die angry at your apathy

i won’t be a silent shadow
you will know why
i made a decision

i won’t be a whispering pen
a note and ink splotted by tears
telling you i wished for a better way
than pills or a knife or a syringe
why would i lie
at the perfect moment
when being nothing takes hold

i won’t apologize
and you won’t grieve
my last words
will not be
i’m sorry

Still Here

After many years, living struggling and breathing with bipolar disorder, I often feel like I did long ago and wonder if anything can change. This is how I feel still, it's depressing to consider.

I’m here when I know I shouldn’t be. There are no good reasons for my life to have continued this long. I’ve found ways not to die. To breath. It’s just reflex now.

It’s a fluke of nature. I’m a freak of nature

I’m here, again and still.

But I remember. 25 years ago, I was introduced to myself. Hello, crazy man meet bipolar disorder.
 
Hello, crazy man, it’s all the rage and depression and elation and creation.

Hello crazy man.

Welcome to yourself. You aren’t going to happy about what you see. You aren’t going to happy for a long time

25 years ago became 10 years ago. Became 5 years ago. Became now.

Hello crazy man. Look at what has happened.

Look at what hasn't happened.

Truth is a vacancy, dream, panic

last night, i fell into a deep sleep. i didn't wake up for a long time. when i did, i was confronted by this great vacancy i have become. i am so keenly aware of fragility at this moment.

this is what i remember today.

truth is a vacancy, dream, panic

i dream in panic
afraid that I will wake up

i dream of falling
as panic spills out of my pores
in relief
i have a nightmare
that i don’t wake up from

i live with thoughts of
beginnings becoming endings
transforming the panic of indecision
with the final choice
of surrender

i cannot wait

for a revolution of clarity
or resolution of the ache
for the right time

we all knew it would come to this
we shared a secret, violent in its silence
no believes circumstantial evidence
people want ‘show-me-the-scars’ truth

my truth is a vacancy
i’ve never been in a place i should be
the search has been bitter and bloody
my era of trying to be seen is over
everything has broken
as casually as closing
a bank account
there’s no interest
in saving a life
already declared lost

Plans don't mean shit...

This summer I did something I've not done in a very long time - I made a plan. I dared to look into the future and visualize something happening. Something that I made happen.

Plans are dangerous. Each plan I make has to be put into context. With bipolar disorder, plans can be rockets to the sun or as dreary as grey laundry.

I'm hyper-aware of this and know from the past that most plans I make have little grounding in what can actually be accomplished or not accomplished.

I know better than to make plans. But this summer I talked myself into a plan for the future, or at least the next few months. I planned to go back to school full time but the plan was crushed by the reality of limitations.

Now, my plans have disintegrated and I have disintegrated along with them.

I let myself hope and hope has played its usual hand. I lost as usual. I should have been cautious and more realistic. All this summer, I told myself this was possible but I was stronger now. I guess that was a lie. I guess I'm not that strong.

Everything feels brutal and hard and too much.

And tomorrow I'll wake up and this will all feel the same.

Collecting Pills

this was a difficult poem to write. i wrote it many times. i started more times than that. sometimes you write something that's so true to you that it opens wounds. sometimes writing a post like is dangerous and subject to hospitalization

collecting pills                        

i’m collecting pills again
still; hiding them like land mines               
i never stop:
i don’t know why that’s hard to admit

right now,
i’m sorting the pink-orange hexagons
anti-psychotic and boring;
psychosis is a matter of perspective
sometimes
no one asks for my opinion
anymore

anti-psychotics are slow,
i sleep on the edge of coma;
i’m not interested in sleep;
my attention is fixed
on the mortal side effects
of the pink-orange hexagons;

i keep a variety of pills;
they comfort me, wait for me, always ready
valuable multi-coloured pills, still unopened,
any reputable collector would be envious,
i collect them to eat them;
all pills are made to be consumed

the cabinet in my bathroom
is a storage facility for lost pharmaceuticals,
pills i don’t talk about,
these lovely creatures aren’t my call for help
they are my last hope for resolution;

if i reveal this secret
i can already see admitting papers
smell the acrid hospitals halls,
i’m already wearing the bracelet
that tells people my name