Dear Suicide

Dear Suicide,

Hey, Bud. It’s been a while since we talked but I think of you often. Truth is, I probably think about you more in a day than most people do in their lifetimes and it’s been that way for as long as I can remember.

I do remember when I first learned about you. It was in second grade. I’m pretty sure it was the day we came back from Spring Break*. My teacher, Miss Nielson, gathered the class to the floor at the front of the room and told us that over the break, one of the older kids in our school had died. She was light on the details but, in talking with my older siblings and parents that night over dinner, I found out what happened. That’s when I learned your name. To be fair, I had a notion of you even before that. I remember at a very young age (5? 6?) fervently wishing I was dead but not really having any notion of how that would be possible aside from wishing and praying for it. That day in second grade, you became a real thing and, frankly, I may have fallen a little bit in love.

As much as I resent my religious upbringing, and as much as it drove me into your arms again and again, it was also probably the thing that kept us from ever really getting together when I was young. I was told that you were a sin – along with so many of the other things in my heart. And, of course, you were the worst of all sins – to throw away what God had given, and to do so in a way that made it impossible to ask for forgiveness meant that you were the only sin that I could never be redeemed from. And that meant Hell. And, “if you think you’re miserable in life,” they warned, “imagine that but a million times worse and lasting forever.” So as much as I was drawn to you, I could never give in.

Of course, around the time I shed those beliefs, I also lost my attraction to you. Sorry if that hurts to hear. I found out life could be more than I had imagined and I didn’t have to live out of fear, but could live in hope. You just didn’t do it for me like you had before. Which, of course, is not to say that I forgot about you. I don’t think I could ever do that. 

And that’s the thing. You’ve been a part of my life for so long, you’re wired into my brain. Just like I could never go a day without thinking about books – you’re just a part of my life. We’ve been off and on, hot and cold for decades. We got real close again this last summer. Probably closer than ever. And it felt really good. It felt like peace. You stopped being an intrusive thought and just became reality. Things were so much calmer then. I’ve rarely felt so relaxed. You are so seductive, you know that? I know not everyone finds you as attractive as I do, but goddamn, I was so drawn to you like a first love come back into my life.

And that’s why I got help. 

In case I haven’t been clear yet: this is a break up letter.

My brain is a mess and going over thirty years without doing anything to improve that means that you, like a lot of bad habits, will always keep residence there. Yes, you’ll always be with me. I will probably think of you every day. But having the right medications has sure quieted you down. DBT has been really great for me and really bad for you. Now, when you pop up to say: “Hey, remember me?” I can say, “Of course I do, but I’m just not that into you.” You and I are not a thing anymore and as the bard wrote: “We are never, ever, ever getting back together.”   

And I don’t mean to make that sound like everything’s great and I’m the picture of mental health. Things are far from great and I am far from mentally healthy. And that’s why I’m so sure that we’re done. When things are great it’s easy to ignore you but when things fucking suck and I’m still able to turn you down it’s a bad sign for you. So, I guess what I’m saying is: good-bye. I don’t want you, I don’t need you. Fuck off.

Sincerely,

DF

*She then went on to tell us that over the break she had also gotten engaged. I don’t know if it was the juxtaposition of those two pieces of news that made it stick so firmly in my mind or what, but I’ll always remember it.