A few days ago, I heard a poem written by one who was left behind. Even before I heard the entire poem, the title, “The Other Side of Suicide,” struck a nerve, and felt a piece click into place.
I sort of knew. But not really. The other side was not visible from within the abyss.
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That deep black pit held nothing but my viewpoint, my misery and hopelessness, my pain. I felt I had nothing to bring to the world—I was a needy taker, a burden on humanity.
The world would be better off without me.
I didn’t want to die; the thought was terrifying. I had to be strong, I wanted to be strong. My struggle was draining. But I kept fighting, until I felt I had nothing left. I believed there was no choice—the hopelessness was all consuming, a deep dark nightmare that completely obliterated the other side–the pain, suffering, and anger of those left behind no longer existed. Except that even at my worst, I was lucky enough to stumble upon a brief glimmer, something that helped me find my wayout of that pit.
I felt ashamed of my thoughts. And my shame isolated me. I it weren’t for that shame, I probably would have sought help sooner. I would’ve admitted to my suicidal ideation long before I toppled over the edge into the abyss. And maybe I wouldn’t have fallen back into it again and again over the years. Maybe.
I am alive. I have hope. I can’t speak for the future.