Suicide Love Notes

I never heard about suicide pride until today.

I guess I’ve kinda just not seen these thoughts as my enemies but instead of trying to fight these thoughts, that actually makes them more painful, i acknowledge them as they are and recognize that they aren’t the totality of who i am, even if I have carried these thoughts with me for the majority of my life. but it’s hard to find anybody to talk about it with that understands and doesn’t try to pathologize me, so i usually don’t talk about it.

I wrote a poem about death as a way to process these feelings. October 25, 2018 7:53 am

I welcome her embrace with open arms 
She calls to me lovingly with a Whisper
I hear her singing a melody. 
beautiful, haunting, chilling and soothing. 
every day I long for her - not lustfully 
but for our deep, deep, deep connection. Each day we're pulled closer together yet torn so far apart. 
and yet I long daily for her embrace. 
for the sweet nothingness and the painful bliss I'll feel when our souls and energies intertwine. 
An exquisite contradiction. 
A lover's kiss is said to be the sweetest feeling. 
Eternally and tearfully, I wait for her, 
Her name is...

Death

Honestly, I don't accept my suicidality. Or, I do and I don't. For me, accepting that I feel this way means staying constantly vigilant & angry about what I've been through and what I continue to go through. I shouldn't feel this way, I shouldn't have to, I didn't choose this. I grew up in an abusive household that I still live in to this day, they're my 'carers' so I have limited options for getting out, at least according to the people that encourage me to just wait it out & pull myself up by my bootstraps; 'all I have to do is' earn more money which means working more even though my disabled self actually needs more rest, and the last time I tried asking my boss for more hours she said no anyway, I've endured this for decades and tried to leave for years and at this point I feel the whole world is against me - except for a beautiful, bright few. These are the people I have the most solidarity with; E, R, A, T, and more, I'm referring to them by their initials for privacy's sake but these are the people that ironically inspire me to live. I'm fueled by the promises I've made other people. And myself. - B

I aim to not be afraid of my parts that yearn for the end now. When she feels she cannot breathe unless its to sing that the unmet needs are too painful to bear any longer, instead of pushing her away, searching for places to lock her up, and saying we cannot trust her, I aim too hold her and hear out her deathsong. I want to hear about how painful it is and to share in her pain. I want to hear what unmet needs she has and why there is no other way out. I want to tell her she is strong and together we can hold this pain and sing the deathsong, forever if we need too. I want to make her a comfortable nest to cry in and hold her while she screams until there is nothing left. I am not afraid of her deathsong. I trust her now, and she trusts me. 

Accepting suicidality, to me, means coming to myself knowing and understanding that dreaming of death is part of my experience and part of the collective human experience I share with others who have suicidal ideations. To me, this acceptance comes from a place of care and love, and of wanting peace and knowing I can have it any time, I just need to let my thoughts drift on and let me feelings come join me.

My acceptance and pride is basically through memes and stickers and being able to talk about my funeral and how I want it to be in a relaxed way with people who are not scared of it.

My suicidal ideation has given me a love for life itself. Some of my thoughts of killing myself are based on the hatred I have for oppressors and how they have the nerve to look at anything valuable and exploit it. I have a lot of privilege as a cis white able-bodied autistic male, and that’s what drives the suicidal thoughts. There was a period of time where I would send mutual aid requests to people and put them on my Insta stories, and the only thing that I got back was people saying they were fake. It was the thing that made my brain snap, but it also made me realize the love that I have for people. I’ve been figuring out how to give out mutual aid more often but finding a stable job has been extremely challenging. What’s been insane for me to realize that a lot of this self-realization wouldn’t have happened if I took some leering steps down the road of suicidal ideation. My mind and body have been hurting for 2 years. It feels like I spaz more, I still hyperfixate on the negativity and it feels like these thoughts will not go away. But there’s a thought in me that’s saying if the negativity goes away does that change my ideals? Without my negativity, I wouldn’t think about the necessary downfall of Amerikkka and Turtle Island’s necessary restoration. I feel like my mind state would be devoid of reality. My suicidal ideation has helped me realize that the systems that made me get there. Capitalist ways of thought that must be done away with. The truest forms of evil that take importance over the risk of taking my life. My main dream in life is to create, to act, write, direct, and perform. I now realize that what I create must help with throwing away the lies that Western society has thrown at us. The rigid structures that I was once told to believe in do not serve me, or anybody else purpose.

Dear social media or whoever is reading I think I can finally say I’m done hiding. I have had to hide too fucking much and if I’ll be honest in a way I am not normally I really resent that I have had to hide everything. Whenever I talk about growing up as a trans woman in an all guys catholic school and how depressed I was everyone always feels bad for me and I can tell they can all imagine themselves doing better. But when i talk about how I wanted to kill myself or that surviving was a fluke all my friends who haven’t experienced suicidal thoughts generally get freaked out. My question for the class is how the fuck do you think you would be better when you can’t take the retrospective? A large part of my problems were from not just suffering with these issues but from not feeling like I could go to anyone with it, and now that I wear my problems far too loudly people will shy away. YOU ARE THE SAME PEOPLE WHO I HAD TO AVOID SO I DIDN’T GET PUT IN A FACILITY, DO YOU KNOW THE HISTORY OF TRANS WOMEN AND PSYCH FACILITIES? Over this semester I have made a promise to be as annoying as I want but to stop hiding and maybe this is just another step. As always Be Gay, Hate Cops, love you all.

I’ve talked forever about making an art piece using all my old antidepressant pill bottles. I’d make a smiley face. It would be called “I’m tired and sad.” I’ve been on and off antidepressants since I was 16. I’m 26 now. And I am. Tired and sad, I mean. I’ve been tired and sad for over a decade. And that art piece was based on the idea, the hope, that the anti-depressants would help. That through the medicine and the therapy and the terrible effort of holding on, of trying harder, I would find the happiness. And it’s not like there’s none. It finds me sometimes. But the sadness, the nothingness, is much stronger. 

I remember the first time I made a plan. I walked to the top of a tall parking garage. And then I called my mom. I didn’t tell her where I was or what I was doing. I don’t think she knows to this day. We just talked like everything was normal. And then I walked home. I remember the second time. I threw away everything I had written about being queer so my parents wouldn’t find out. So I wouldn’t shame them when I was gone. And then I sat in my car for an hour. And then I went inside and fell asleep. 

And now every time a doctor asks if I have a plan, I tell them the same thing. Once you’ve had one, it doesn’t just go away. Once that voice has made a home in your mind, it can’t just be evicted. And I quickly learned to talk like this. To obfuscate exactly what I mean. Because I know what happens when people say what they mean. And I’m good at this. I’ve never been hospitalized. But I want to say it.

I am suicidal. I have been for half of my life. Sometimes passively, sometimes actively. The soundtrack to my life is a painful, repetitive chorus of “I’m going to kill myself.” The worst broken record. It’s scary to write out. Even now I can’t help wanting to explain that away. I’m not going to kill myself. I’m ok. I’m doing better than I have been in a long time. And that’s all true. But that voice is always here. I am suicidal.

And I don’t know why I hold on to most of the things I hold on to. I cling to most things with a desperate strength. And that includes my life. I can’t say where that strength comes from. My mom would probably say God, but I’m not giving him the credit. Because I am so tired. I live in fear that my strength will fail me. But it is nice to at least fear that now. I guess there is no resolution. I keep living, and I keep living in pain, and I keep living.

Maybe I’ll finally make that art piece, and put the pill bottles I’ve been hoarding to use. I could probably make a pretty big smiley face. Or maybe I should let it frown.

Accepting my suicidality means honoring the tender, tiny human inside who has mourned since childhood for the pain of humanity, the ways the world has tried to fray Mother Earth's sweetgrass braids, and the reign of greed. Suicidality tells me in a twinkling, shimmering tone: "little one, you are connected, you see others, you hold space, you desire for all that is good and equitable." My suicidality tells me manifestos of justice. My suicidality, when unrepressed, offers a range of dark humor to connect with others also tender. I will step into Suipride with a sense of fearlessness; knowing the iridescence of my angel wings allow those seeking to force a narrative of "all is well" to reflect in the mirror of my wings.

I have come a long way to accept my suicidality, and I think that I still have a long way ahead to be able to balance my suicidality and my will to live.

I first starting having suicidal thoughts at the age of 14. I’m 30 now so I’ve been suicidal for half of my life. At the beginning, I was scared as I didn’t understand what was happening to me, why life hurt so much. My suicide plans scared me. I couldn’t share my fears and pain with anyone as I grow up in a dysfunctional household and I was bullied at school so I had no friends to talk to.

At age 24 I decided to give myself the last chance to stay alive. I contacted a new psychologist that, by chance, has been the most supportive, respectful and insightful professional I’ve ever seen. He has accompanied me every step of my way accepting my suicidality, my plans to live and my plans to die, my good and bad moments. He helped me to accept suicide and dead as a valid decision that I can make at any time, and at the same time he encourages me and guides me when I have decided to live.

It’s shame that professionals that accept suicidality as a valid choice have to hide so that they don’t loose their license and have problems with the law. Last year everything in my life went wrong: my job, my family, the few friends I had, the place where I lived… I couldn’t bear it anymore. I decided that on May 19th, 2024 I would jump from the 7th floor of the building where I lived and end my life.
I felt very lonely with my decision because I had to hide it from everyone in order to avoid coercive measures. Nobody would have understood and accepted my decision. I said goodbye to everyone without them knowing that I was saying goodbye. It is the loneliest I have ever felt.

My psychologist knew about my plan and accepted it. He accompanied me in my process and focused on giving me tools so that I made the best decision for myself and to help me die in peace, without rage or anger but as a relief from life. He never pathologized me, or infantilized me or threatened my autonomy. I’ll never be able to thank him enough for this. Nobody knew that I was in therapy and nobody knew about him, so in order to protect his identity I had to delete all our messages and correspondence, as if we were hiding a crime. How can someone be criminalized for respecting people’s autonomy over themselves?

For several reasons, I decided not to end my life that day, and I’m still here. One of the reasons is definitely the support of my psychologist and his acceptance of my suicide decision. I know that it was a very hard process for him too and I really appreciate that he stayed and didn’t betray me or abandon me. If he had broken my trust and send the emergency services to me, they would have gotten me locked up and caused me a trauma greater that I could have handled. It’d have been the end of my faith in humanity and in this world. I’d have killed myself at the first chance. It is so important that people learn to accompany the decision of suicide and that they’re willing to accept any final outcome.

Right now, I’m trying to give myself a chance to learn to live in a different way, to find a place where I belong or people that I belong with. It’s a very difficult task and I don’t know if I will succeed. I feel very lonely and misunderstood in this world.

Sometimes, it slaps me hard in the face that I was supposed to die 4 months ago, that right now I shouldn’t be existing anymore.
Sometimes, I marvel at a beautiful sunset, an impressive piece of art, a picturesque town, a delicious flavour or a delightful smell, and I find myself thinking “I almost wouldn’t have experienced any of this”.
Sometimes, I’m hard with myself, I tell myself that I shouldn’t be giving myself a break, I shouldn’t be traveling, I shouldn’t be trying to enjoy, I shouldn’t get that ice cream, I shouldn’t be so understanding and flexible with myself. Then I remember that I almost wouldn’t have had the chance to be on that trip
or to eat that ice cream and I think “go ahead and do it, you deserve it, be nicer to yourself, it’s your gift for deciding to stay around a bit longer”.

Sometimes, I struggle with life, I feel guilty about something, I don’t know what decision to make, I don’t know which path to take… I feel overwhelmed and lost, and I think “4 months ago I would have died against the concrete floor, I still can die at any time that I decide, so is this matter worth worrying for? It doesn’t matter that much.

Sometimes, I see the ugliest side of the world. So much loneliness, selfishness, exploitation. I do my best to connect with others and I fail. I don’t find a place in the world where I can fit in. I notice that still I’m never the first choice, I’m still plan B, C or Z. I get tired of trying. I find no hope. I see no way to a better way of living. 

Loneliness hurts. Life hurts. And I wonder why I didn’t jump from the 7th floor on May, 19th. I feel disappointed for pushing me to keep going through this hell. I get angry at myself for having chosen life. I plan in detail how can I kill myself next. I wish with every cell of my body to be dead.

It's a lonely path to be alive after I put an end date to my own life. Nothing is the same for me since May 19th but nobody knows it and I have to keep it hidden. I questioned everything that I had believed all my life, I questioned my decisions, my values, my priorities. 

Everything staggered, many of it crumbled, some of it is still standing but damaged. An earthquake occurred inside of me, very deep-down, and I don’t know how to deal with its aftermaths. Such a big disaster for me that is completely invisible for others.

My experience is not pathological, it is a normal reaction to the circumstances and events that I’ve gone through during my life. It’s a normal reaction to my current context in the world we live in, a world that spins faster and faster, that doesn’t allow me to pause, that is too harsh and cruel to be able to live in it all by myself. It’s a normal reaction to living in a society that grows lonelier each day, where nobody wants to be alone but also nobody wants to truly care about others. It’s a normal reaction to a system that makes us believe that precarious working conditions are normal, that being exploited is something that we have to get used to. I won’t allow any psychiatric label to pathologize my lived experience nor my personal reactions to my own context. My experience is real and is valid.

Love,
Y.

I often have suicidal thoughts during my severe mast cell activation disease reactions. Stepping into suicide pride means being open about my plans for assisted suicide at a later point in Austria, trying to see it as part of human life, whether it is more rational or not, but still focus on my feelings long term. All people, whether they may have the privilege to access to assisted suicide or not, have a human right, as suicide is a privilege of the humane. This is what I try to convey with understanding, and in talking to people: instead of seeing it as an illness, it can be seen as an integral part of existence.

I first tried to kill myself when I was eight. I was really hurting and the adults in my life continued to fail me. What I would say to my kid self now is "what you're feeling doesn't make you bad." Suicide runs in my family. My grandmother and her dad both died by suicide. I never got the chance to meet them. This is hard for me to hold

Accepting my suicidality is accepting all of my humanness-- my wide range of experiences and emotions. I don't want to judge my pain. I dont want to bottle my pain. I want to celebrate it. 

I want what medical and carceral practices don't give you, a choice. I want the autonomy to die when and how I want. I reclaim my suicidality through this choice. Having a good death for myself is my right. Accepting death is reclamation. As a disabled person, I often think about my death. I think: "i can't even afford to die." Even if there was an option near me, i'm broke. 

Criminalizing suicide and shaming suicidal people makes their situation  exponentially worse. Speaking about suicidality often comes with the fear of carceral punishment, getting the cops called on you, or being put in a inpatient facility. Lots of people have to keep it in, feeling shame and guilt. Understanding some of the causes for suicide is also important: being poor, homeless, and much more systemic violence.

I'm stepping into suicide pride by joining groups that welcome my suicidal pain, and by giving myself space to express how I feel. Sometimes, this is too heartbreaking to me to hold alone. Having understanding friends and community is freeing 

About a year ago i had a therapist who i was trying to tell about my lack of motivation. i was trying to explain how i have for a very long time felt a desire to not exist its kept me from progressing in life. he responded by asking me if i was suicidal. i couldn't help but laugh because i obviously wasnt going to say yes. 

he got offended by my laughing and it turned into and argument. that argument turned into me no longer having a therapist

i just wish he could've been able to hear what i was actually saying for what it was rather than just hearing a cue to ask if i needed to be institutionalized. i wish we could explored those feelings without me dancing around words out of fear of being locked up somewhere.

15 September 2024

I don’t remember a moment or any age when I stopped trying to block out or run from thoughts of suicide. When I was 7 or 8 I’d come home from school most days and run upstairs, lock my door, and emote violently. Screaming, crying, gasping for air and convulsing in bed, teeth knocking hard, and the only thought of mine was escaping into nothingness or death. I’d eventually quiet enough to breathe (that stifling sobs with a pillow thing ran a fine line between trying to suffocate my child-self and trying to turn down the noise and reduce emotional confrontations.)

At age nine or ten or eleven or maybe up to twelve I tried to pray for mental peace. I begged God nightly to make things not so hard, promised to do better to gain the reward of a mind that didn’t find death a greater source of comfort than life. Eventually, I learned that suicide was a sin. Eventually, I tried to hide my suicidality away from people, away from myself, away from God, the omnipresent and omnipotent and grace-filled one from my momma’s Lutheran Church. 

Teenagehood brought quicker and quieter emotions. A few cuts on my legs at bedtime, a few more in the shower the next day, legs too full of open sores & scabs to cut my thighs. Belly next, pull the lines on my legs open - don’t heal, then cuts on my shoulders, my ribs, my chest. CUts to hide in the girl’s locker room. (What is a girl anyway?) Cuts a friend sees and tells “trusted adult” about. Lying to an offputting balding man- Mr. Groves? - the school’s guidance counselor. A friend telling me that people who cut or want to die go to therapy. 

“Mom, I want to go to therapy.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
 
Then 14 & 15, trying to build “healthy coping skills” and cognitive-behavioral responses to any emotion. Learning to avoid cutting, not knowing I pull out hair and claw nail marks in my skin and bite my cheek leaving scars. 

Fifteen. Leaving a class for lunch and sitting with the same 3 boys. One is a gay satire. One I don’t recall at all. One playfully stole the “safe food” I’d leave on the table too long because I was clawing my arms under my hoodie sleeves. 

Sixteen, more dedication to recovery. More stress about grades & college. More realizations that thought adjustment didn’t keep suicidal thought gone often enough. Maybe a few weeks of their absence, but only because my mind was over engaged elsewhere. Mania where “I can’t slow down unless I die” becomes a core thought. Seventeen. My sister goes to college. 

My buffer from my parents is gone. I want to die. Most days, though that gets down during the panic attacks and shakiness. FIghts with my dad because if I’d listen and exercise and eat meat I wouldn’t “act that way.” (Guess he didn’t want to know the genetic links to madness - depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, even the “quirky” dysfunctional autism. Certainly those weren’t influenced by his DNA… oh wait.) Painting literature reviews & papers on SSRI efficacy. Trying not to say “the increased risk of suicide with a constantly suicidal person might actually BE NOTICED and the meds could change until “die, sleep, cease to exist” leaves my inner self in peace.” That’d give away power. The boy at school dismissing my anxiety as “lack of professionalism” until I showed up for debate team so emotionally lost my mutism was fucking up the words in my head so not even writing helped.

Meds. Magical SSRIs (but not enough oversight for a teen w/ trauma and bipolar disorder to stay sane for long.)

18, 19, 20 - college chaos, no booze, no cigs. Weed to try to ease mania & suicidality. (caught my hair on fire. “This tool is no longer safe.”) Nights fighting my mind to stop racing, stop thinking, stop feeling, stop remembering, stop, stop, STOP. Then the impulse to die. Run into traffic, mix meds & booze, jump out of the tallest building on campus. But wait. Someone else will be traumatized. Quieter softer deaths. Maybe a lake and a slab of limestone. 

Twenty- four. Bouncing between cities to care for the terminally ill woman with 6-10 weeks to live (based on every study I’d read on metastatic brain cancer.) who refused to accept death. Could I trade her? She could continue a more balanced life and I would leave with less chaos in my head. Just bacteria then dust. 

Death. Grief. Trauma. Everything losing sense and meaning. Two queer friends (with benefits?) drinking a bottle of wine each and trying to find a phantom called “comfort.”

And somewhere in the haze death stopped being the boogieman. Between 24-28 suicidality became a place to pause and think. Let’s list possible and impossible and fantasized futures. I certainly cannot manifest into being an oak in a nameless forest (all of the forests have names now) but maybe I can say something to make someone laugh. Maybe I could get a big snuggly dog. (Not yet.) Maybe I could fall in love or learn to be more trusting of others to care for me without oversharing in a way that makes them feel stuck as a support person. (Not yet.) Maybe warm golden sunshine of spring and autumn will make me close my eyes, smile, and feel a moment or two of genuine peace. Maybe there’s space to die, too, but does it bring that hopefullness? 

Or, when I’m exhausted and want to die I know it’s time to rest. Uncommit (from work or friends or volunteering) to stay out of trouble. Sleep more. Rest until you wake up curious and not angry. Remember prolonged exhaustion can flip you into mania…

Rest. 

The manic suicidality I still run from. The “maybe I should die right now or in 20 minutes or at least start the process and be dead before I can take it back” suicidality. The “grab your pills then drive to nowhere and take em all and die” urge, pressing pressing pressing POP! Do I cry or act? (Let’s hope cry. But impulsivity’s a bitch.

Anyway, I’ll refocus. I don’t try to hide the “crazy” or “not normalness or madness from everyone anymore. Letting myself trust my own thoughts to keep me safe means letting people in. It means asking my roommate to keep watch of my med box so I won’t mix Lamotrigine and Lumateperone at high doses and fry the shit outta my brain. Embracing my suicidal mind, feelings, thoughts gives me a safe place to regroup. “Do I need rest? Do I need systemic change? Do I need more hugs?” Can I feel better this week or next month or in two years? Decades from now? Even if I can’t, can I entice myself with hope.

I think, for now, I can. Even with the impulse and exhausted manic suicidality. I think I can hold onto a little hope.