Confessions of a Suicidal Man
It’s OK to talk about the bad things.
I spend my life wearing a mask. It comes in many shapes and sizes. I can be as happy or excited as you want. I can also be sad, grumpy, or furious. Underneath it all is a mind that never stops spinning. I live with Bipolar Disorder and every interaction or decision I make requires a second level of thought so that I adhere to social norms that were created in a world not built for me.
Unless you live with the disorder (or perhaps a major depressive disorder) you’ll never understand how I feel — it is actually biologically impossible. Imagine if you could only see the world in black and white and I tried to explain the color blue — it would equally be impossible.
Yes, everyone does have their ups and downs but not everyone imagines several different scenarios for how they will end their life and how their partner will find the body.
Do I want my husband to find me in a pool of blood? Probably not. Perhaps a nice warm bubble bath accompanied by an entire bottle of pills? At least it would be cozy at the start.
We don’t talk about these dark places that exist in our minds, and because of this, I have felt isolated and strange for 15 years. The first time I was suicidal was at the age of 16. I was hospitalized for a brief period. I had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder the year before.
[For me] The thought of suicide creeps in slowly. I wake up one morning exhausted. The world looks a bit duller — as if someone has lowered the saturation levels on it. It’s easy enough to explain away at first — maybe I stayed up too late, perhaps I had one too many beers, or maybe I’ve just been working too hard. I go to bed that first night and hope to feel better in the morning.
Unfortunately, each day I wake up more tired, more drained. I begin to lose motor function — everything I do is delayed, it’s like my body moves in slow motion. My problem-solving and critical thinking skills begin to diminish. Simple everyday tasks become impossible — not because I don’t want to do them, simply because I can’t. Days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months — each day worse than the day before.
This entire time I still have responsibilities. There are dates to plan, chores to complete, and deadlines to meet. I wear a smile and laugh — I make jokes and give everyone in the room something to enjoy and laugh about. I try my best to work, even though I know that I don’t have the capacity to. I sprinkle beauty and joy over everything I touch so that no one can see the truth. No one wants to talk about bad things, and when your body shuts down on you, YOU become the bad thing. After all, who wants to be around someone that is miserable or dull? People only want to be around pretty things.
I want nothing more than to be like everyone else. I have cried myself to sleep an infinite amount of times because I couldn’t do something stupidly simple. I have numbed myself to the point where sometimes I don’t understand how I’m feeling — I’ve spent my entire life “feeling” what society expects me to and learning what reactions are normal and which are “bad”.
The craving for death does not arise from wanting to be dead, it comes from the desire to want to end a lifetime of ensured intermittent misery.