Other Ideations, Other Attempts

I'm not having suicidal thoughts. I'm just thinking about the nature of suicidal ideation. For me, it has come, at least on one occasion, completely unbidden. Just images that I couldn't shut out, images I didn't ask to see, images I didn't feel the need to see. That was the first time I went to the hospital. I was afraid the ideation might stop just being an intrusive thought. I was afraid it might become directive, as it did the second time I went.

I didn't hear physical voices. It wasn't psychosis...at least not that kind. I do believe that one has to be psychotic to attempt suicide. I think it's psychotic to hold your breath until you pass out. I believe every healthy thought reaches for light and life, even in grief or pain. Hope springs...unless it doesn't. Then, you need help. I needed help. A whisper in my mind--again, not like hearing voices but also not like myself--told me what steps to take and what to write. It soothed me, told me how much better the world, their worlds, their lives would be without me there. Such lies. 

I may be an inconvenience regularly to a lot of people. People may get tired of hearing/reading me.  My husband sometimes wants to get away from me, wants some other voice, some other face as comfort. I can be impatient or numb with my son. But my death would rip a hole in the world. Some people would say, "Oh, her? That's sad." Some people would hate me. I've felt that hate. Sometimes, I hate myself for those selfish, deluded minutes when I listened to what I can only guess was the persuasive voice of evil, of absolute darkness. Not beautiful, intriguing darkness, though it can appear that way at first. It promises a cessation, a rest, a nap, an eternal sleeping in. And even if it hurts others, you won't be there to feel guilty, to see the pain. Some people would grow from my loss. But I'd chop them down first, and they'd lose so much height. Better new growth from existing branches, I think.

But I'm not having suicidal thoughts. I haven't at all in the last few days. No coercion, no intrusion, no desperation. Those are the three forms, I think. I've written about intrusion and coercion. Desperation is more automatic, the feeling that comes when you feel shockingly horrible or horribly shocked, in need of instant (and eternal) escape. I haven't felt that lately either, though I did have some of that about a month ago, the discovery. The unbearable that feels like it will last, in this tenor and shade and angle, forever unless you do something to stop it. 

It doesn't last, not with that intensity. But if pain automatically leads to plans, that's a problem. A sickness. Even if they're positive plans. The first step of dealing with pain is feeling it, acknowledging that it has changed you forever. I think of the Evita lyrics:

I'm not that ill

Bad moments come

But then they go.

I think of this less in the context of feeling pain than in the context of suicidal ideation. We say, hey, everybody feels that way sometimes, which I think is probably true...though I can't imagine it for some people. But it is a problem, a kink in the wiring. Those thoughts shouldn't lurk at the edges, waiting for an in. It can get that way if you ever think about it, if you ever have, especially if you've done more than think. It creates a pathway. 

So what do you do about that?

I think you clear other paths and make them more inviting, more...in practice. More trodden, more traveled. Other ideation. Other attempts, as weak as they may sometimes be.

Today, I can't see a good path ahead of me, but I have my back to the one I created, probably as a young teenager, when I hated myself--really, a black hole, and not in a cool way.

I'm feeling in the dirt. I'm dropping seeds. They're tiny, and right now, I have no faith that they'll grow. It's a drought: no sun, no water. But maybe I can cultivate the edges of these paths. These trails. Maybe I can dig up some rocks. All I've written may be senseless, obsessive, or self-indulgent. I'm terribly self-indulgent in my writing. But it's not just Shakespeare's whirling words. Here's what I've done in the last 24 hours.

• I switched from an ugly ink in a skipping pen to a silver-blue ink in my best pen.
• I've written through every mood swing, my way of holding onto myself as I change forms, snake and bull.
• I took a shower.
• I took a bath when I was cold. I didn't use bubbles, but wouldn't that be expecting too much?
• I lay still in the dark of my son's room because I didn't feel that I could move. When I felt like I could move, I moved.
• I cuddled the blanket I've slept with since I was a baby, even as I left my journal downstairs and my phone on the bathroom floor (after the bath).
• I filled my pill boxes, mechanically, but it was necessary.
• I made Oliver's lunch even if I forgot to put more Gatorade in the fridge.
• I put marshmallows, cups, and cookies in Oliver's backpack for his hot chocolate party at school.
• I took a Xanax when the fizzing in my chest got intense, like hydrogen peroxide in a wound that's really dirty.
• I took my afternoon meds even though I was late. I took my night meds.
• I took NyQuil.
• I didn't vaguebook. I'm actually not sure if that's good or not--I kind of shut down to others.
• I wrote a blog post and shared it with three people who aren't on FB and don't check my blogs.
• I wrote on this blog, acknowledging the shift.
• I didn't unplug the fairy lights.
• I told Josh I had the impulse to take down all my art, and I didn't do it.
• I ate a doughnut. Josh had brought them home, and I hadn't eaten dinner.
• I ate another doughnut for breakfast. 
• I took my morning meds. And ibuprofen. And Mucinex.
• I retrieved my phone when the alarm went off.
• I read my text messages and responded to them even though I wanted to ghost everyone. 
• I stayed awake to see Josh.
• I gave some guidance.
• I read my journal aloud to Josh even though I knew some sentences would sting him. I wanted him to see the progression of my mood.
• I drove Josh to work. I listened to "Chandelier" on the way home.
• I ate a Christmas tree cake. 
• I resisted another day of hypergraphia. Too much may be too much.
• I graded one class's rough drafts with plenty of revision notes even though I didn't feel like I could.
• I sent out an announcement to guide my students through these last days of the semester.
• I plugged in the tree in our room. 
• I lit a candle even though I'm too congested to smell it.
• I opened the shutters and let in some sunlight.
• I told Josh I had the urge to carry all my journals down to the trash, to have bare shelves. I didn't do it, not even when he was at work.
• I forgave my belly.
• I wore my favorite coatigan.
• I ate a turkey, gouda, and pesto sandwich.
• I made myself an ice peppermint mocha with whipped cream.
• I took my afternoon meds on time.
• I opened the blinds in the study.
• I skipped a shower and donned a bejeweled beanie without guilt.
• I listened to my December playlist, the songs of which I realized express my thoughts and feelings toward myself...or used to.
• I listened to Josh's December playlist, which is much more positive than usual, and read the lyrics.
• I asked questions about the songs.
• I chatted with Oliver's teacher at pickup.
• I sent Bruce a funny photo.
• I opened two used books that came in the mail.
• I told Josh I had the impulse to delete my blogs. I didn't do it.
• I left a message for my PA even though I have an appointment next week.
• I didn't expect anything, which could be good or bad.
• I wrote another blog post.

I consciously thought through what small actions I could take, like a person who has lost their faith but still practices the rituals of Judaism...because maybe they do mean something.