I am getting my mind around a piece for ‘healing.me‘ that needs to be written about when I tried to kill myself. It feels like it is an important piece to write; that it needs to be written…but I am not sure why or for whom. People have such strong opinions on suicide – it is a taboo subject, and often used by the emotionally retarded to get sympathy. But there is something very important that needs to be told about suicide, about when a soul is in such pain that the only way out of the hole they have dug themselves into seems to be death, and oblivion.
“Selfish!” and “Stupid” and “If you want to die, we don’t want you around!” are often the angry responses suicide elicits; the raw and aggressive emotion they’re made with proving that suicide is certainly not just about the person who wants to kill themselves.
I sat by the lakeside, meditating on how to write the piece. It has been about a year, since my attempt. I can’t remember the exact date. There are clouds, overhead, and a strong wind. Psychotropic environment, Terry Pratchett would say – because the dark, moody sky pays the right tribute to the suicidal sentiment.
It has been 239 days since I took my last drink, snorted my last line.
I am alive.
© Dave Luis 2012.