Welcome to Suicide on Suicide Prevention Night

I haven't been there in 15 years. That moment where I don't want to see the next day.  But I was there last night. I crashed and burned

And this is not a story about anyone's effect on me. This is my story about dealing with the after effects of a hysterectomy to save me from cancer. This is about not being a person I recognize anymore.

After the surgery, the doctor told me it was going to be difficult because I can take no hormones or supplements to help me. Apparently, it would somehow encourage the cancer to return. Before the surgery, although I struggled with panic attacks, I was more evenly balanced. Not perfectly, but much better than now.  I could function day to day.

I look back in my writings and see a great deal of difference. Some of them are so raw I don't even publish them on Whisper Creek because I don't want anyone who comes here seeking peace and love to have to experience them. 

Last night was the rawest of the raw. It was ironic because it was Suicide Prevention Day. I had written a piece not long ago called The Suicide Project in an effort to help stop others from doing that final act. It told of my experience of 15 years ago and what kept me from completing it myself. Last night, it didn't matter. 

I can't tell what are my feelings anymore and what are raging, out of control, hormones. All I know, is I broke hard last night. I sat before my prayer altar, on the floor, weeping. And I don't mean crying...I mean weeping. I leaned against the wall, I rocked back and forth. I prayed hard, spilling it all out to God. And forgive me for my honesty, but I cried, "Why did you even fucking make me knowing I would be this way?" I asked, "When are you going to make the hurt go away? Its been almost 40 fucking years God...WHEN?" 

My dogs didn't know what to do. Pastor Panda came out from under the bed, and crawled onto my lap kissing away my tears. I hugged him and then let him go, because I was afraid of my own self. Mr. Blue and Miss Ruby sat on the bed watching me in concern.

I kept thinking of the gun that lay by my bed. I was afraid to go near it, not because I was afraid of the gun, but because I was afraid of me. Thank God, I had taken images of what my parents might find while writing The Suicide Project, because the thought of what my parents might find, kept me away from the gun. 

I had promised my parents that if I ever came to that point of suicidal tendencies again, I would call. So in my desperation, I picked up the phone and said through my tears "Momma, come get the gun." My parents live 30 minutes away and I promised I would hang on. The only way I knew how was to keep praying and to focus as I often do in my pain by forcing a dull knife into my thumb. The knife is too dull to cut me, it can only hurt me. And I realize that it is not healthy and it is destructive, but it saved my life last night.

So, I continued to cry, I continued to pray, and I forced the knife down nearly to the bone, begging God to have mercy on me. I repeated the 23rd Psalm as I recalled it..."The Lord is my shepard, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside still waters, he restoreth my soul. Yea though I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me...." I paced the floor. I sat weeping in my chair beside my altar. 

I knew that my tranquilizer, my klonopin, lay in my drawer. I knew I could take them and it would be over, but I told myself to hold on a little longer. I looked at my dogs and worked through the pain. As I knew my parents were getting closer, I started to feel my old friend Panic. I took one pill to calm down, then I took two. I wasn't going to overdose, I was going to make it. The knife still pressed into my thumb. 

By the time my parents arrived, I had settled a bit. I'm sure I looked like shit and I still was rocking back and forth and I do when I am troubled. Dad got the gun and took it away. And Ms Ruby, when she saw my Mom, showed such relief as I have never seen before. My little Ruby feels the burden of caring for me. She feels the responsibility of me. She has stopped me from cutting myself before and gives me hugs when I need it most. But tonight, she didn't know what to do. For her, it was as if help had finally arrived.

My parents talked to me until the klonopin kicked in and I feel asleep. I hadn't slept except one hour in 48 hours. Another effect of sudden menopause. Dad took the gun home, and mom slept beside me on the recliner. 

And the sun rose again. And here I am with a hell of a headache and a klonopin, but I am here. And for right now, I guess that's good enough.

And I ask myself if I should even share this on Whisper Creek. It is not encouraging, its raw and painful. But it is honesty that few people will share and I hope by sharing it, others will see that they are not alone. If I pretend to be the perfect encourager, the healthy guru, I will be dishonest, and you will not connect with me. We all need connection. The desperate person needs to know others feel desperation. The suicidal person needs to know others have been there and survived. So in my honesty connect with me. In my pain, find healing. In my survival, find hope. 

And for now, if being alive is all I have, I'll take it, for I know it will get better.