Starless, 4.10.18

Today. Tuesday April 10,  2018. The day I began to write about my struggle in earnest. I’m somewhat lucky that things have played out as they have; had I begun even a week prior, I’d be telling a different story.

***

The thoughts have come back. I thought I’d never feel them again. Sure, they typically stop by around this time of year, when kids are forced into doing well in school when their motivation has dropped to an all time low. But now I’m a senior. Graduation is coming up soon and I’m about to leave for college. I can let my grades slip a little bit if I’m so inclined. I should be on top of the world, but all I can think about is how I want out of it.

Suicide has taken over my conscience. I can’t stop thinking about it. Thoughts of when and how I could take my own life have drifted into my thoughts, finding a place among the daily reminders I keep in my head.

“Be sure to stop by the bank on your way home!”
“Submit that paper before midnight!”
“Do it. Kill yourself. It’s not that hard.”
“Don’t forget to put coffee on the grocery list!”

I’ve gone from hopeful to hopeless. From normal to numb. From sane to starless.

***

Looking back on my childhood, it seems as though my suicidal thoughts and urges have been with me subconsciously since I was at least 7 or 8 years old. At that point, I was grateful for the life I was living, and I couldn’t have been happier with who I was. But one day as I sat at the computer, I drew a picture of my parents crying over my dead body. I didn’t think twice about it--it was just one picture out of the 5 or so I drew that afternoon. My parents were shocked. I was scolded and told how much I was cared for. It was then when I learned how scary it was to lose a family member and realized the magnitude of what I have done.

I first truly had suicidal thoughts in 5th grade. They’ve returned sporadically ever since then, especially during the spring of freshman and sophomore year. There isn’t one individual cause of these thoughts, but rather several. Sometimes it can be as small as a bad grade on a test; other times it can be a huge life event. It doesn’t help that I’m weird, and being a perfectionist certainly doesn’t help either. But strangely, growing up as a twin has been a major contributor to my mental health struggle.

Don’t get me wrong: I love my brother, and he has done a hell of a lot more for me than I ever have for him. But it seems to me that I can’t live a day without being compared to my twin. I always worry that I can’t hold a candle to him and that my friends feel the same way.

Sometimes they innocently joke about how Zach’s a better athlete, student, or person than I am. “What have you got to show?” they’ve said.  They might never understand how hard their silly little laugh hits. It’s the lowest thing I could ever be told. It just reinforces my recurring belief that there might as well be one King, and not two.


Eventually, something good will occur in my life, banishing my suicidal thoughts to a dark corner for a few months. I’ll forget about how much they hurt me. How inescapable they were. How much they frightened me.  I’ll cleanse my mind only for it to be swept back into the dirt again. I’m living in an unbreakable cycle that, although predictable, still manages to shock and scare me.

***

In writing about my suicidal thoughts, I feel a bit out of place, as I have never truly attempted suicide. One night, however, I got awful close. After a series of events--most of them trivial--over the previous few weeks, I felt like I had no place in my family, my group of friends, and in this world. I felt like a 5th wheel holding everyone else back. “The world will go on without me,” I concluded.

I loved my parents, but I felt that staying with them meant being roped into all of the situations and stressors that I could no longer bear. So I ran away. On a kayak. On a protected part of Lake Erie. The lake was rough that evening, and had I not visited this particular neck of the lake, I probably would have capsized. I felt like I was accomplishing something as I paddled further and further away from my life, but around 11:30 P.M., I suddenly had a strange urge. This “I have to eat my nightly bowl of popcorn and go to bed” kind of urge. So I turned back.

I will never forget the scene I encountered as I returned home: The released anguish in my mother’s voice as she realized that I was safe. The instant shock that I felt as I paddled to the dock, seeing that people were actually concerned about me. The kitchen, the war zone of a frantic search for all of the flashlights and batteries that we had.

My dad had called the Coast Guard. My mom had formed a search party among all the neighbors. Flashlights and car lights lined the chaussee leading from the east end of the Cedar Point Peninsula to mainland Ohio. My brother expected I’d come back dead, if at all. All of this because I didn’t feel welcome on this earth in spite of all that I had going for me.

Soon after I had tied up the boat, I was sobbing on my couch, unable to express the guilt and regret over what I had just done. When my parents offered to take me to a professional for help, all I could manage was a shake of the head as I stared blankly at the wall. I felt like I couldn’t seek help without my friends seeing me as an invalid. My emotions permanently internalized, I went right to bed.

***

I once tried to convince myself that the right to take my life at any time for any reason has been a right that I needed to reserve. To seek help, in my suicidal view, would be to give away freedom and power. Damn was I nuts. In times like these, I am, in fact, further from freedom than at any other time in my life.

Suicide had its hands wrung around my neck.
It was a monster. It caused me to lose trust in everybody I was close to. It coerced me to assume that everybody was talking to me behind my back. It kept me in bed on days my friends were out enjoying their young lives. And, worst of all, it tricked me into giving up in all facets of life:

“I don’t need to pass that calc test.”
“I don’t need to ask that girl to prom.”
“I don’t need to decide on a college.”
“I won’t be here come June, so none of it will matter. Why bother?”

I needed to break away.

***

Today. Wednesday April 11,  2018.  I awoke feeling slightly relieved. My dad walked into my room, turned on the news, and told me that he had breakfast and coffee waiting for me. Things were looking a lot better than they did the night before. I fell asleep numb and arose feeling...fine?

“This isn’t right,” I told myself. “Stop that right now. You can’t be happy. You know the thoughts are going to come back soon.”

This morning, I had an epiphany: I might not realize it now, but to some degree, I am in control of my thoughts, feelings, and self esteem. It sounds absolutely crazy, I know, but I can attest. The problem is that sometimes, suicide, depression, and stress seem inescapable. They’re like toxic drugs that won’t leave your veins, leaving you to be manipulated like a rag doll. You despise them, yet your thoughts and emotions can only help but cling to them. So much, in fact, that many of your life decisions are made based on suicidal urges. You may feel like you’ve lost the power to be happy, but if you think about it long enough, it’s still there, begging to crawl out of the clouds in your head.

However, for most people in situations like these, coming to that realization can’t be done alone. Sometimes, seeking out help from a professional is what’s needed to conquer your demons and free your mind from its chains. Don’t be afraid to do so. I know that I always worried about seeking help because I feared being a “coward”. I’ve come to realize that getting the assistance that you need is actually one of the bravest things that a person can do. You have to let out all of the darkness harbored within you and it feels far from natural. However, it’s only then that your soul can feel freedom and joy again.

Regardless of what you’ve encountered in life, you can live in happiness. It’s just your call.

Alex King ‘18