When I Killed Myself And No One Cared

Suicide is a topic that seems to spin around in my head pretty often. It’s not that I’m suicidal often - I don’t even have depression – but I’ve published an entire trilogy that’s based around the dramas of a suicide pact. That requires research. That, for me, requires method-writing. I’ve written essays for the American Association of Suicidology, I’ve made videos about the mechanics of suicide. My close friend even got me the second edition of their textbook! I’m in love with it. And I have a few close friends who dwell on darker topics as well.

So we collaborate. We exchange ideas. We know we’d creep others out by being so candid about these topics. My facebook is full of little conversations that would get me committed. But, one day, I told a nazi who came on my page he should off himself.

I was banned. He was not.

During this ban, which lasted a week, the aforementioned close friend, F, told me our other friend passed away. This friend was a co-writer and had a very common interest with me, which she displayed with much more fervor and enthusiasm than I do in my more clinical approaches. Serial killers. Weapons. A little gore. True crime, baby!

Since F and I run a group together for people on the autistic spectrum, he posted about the death and tagged me while I was banned. This was all well and good, except the wording somehow lead everyone to believe I’d died by suicide. At a cursory glance I could see why they thought that, but his post included “struggle with addiction” and the overall gist was that she took her life.

Everyone thought that not only I had an addiction issue and accepted this with no question (I’ve never had this specific demon,) they accepted I’d killed myself in a very blasé’ way. No one was shocked I’d killed myself. These are people who don’t even know about the one attempt I did make in 2013.

The only person who really seemed concerned was a non-native English speaking friend who I’d actually confided in the past when I felt very, very poorly. He sent me an Instagram message asking if I was okay and was relieved when he saw I’d posted a photo that day.

Days go by, F cleared up the misunderstanding, the ban ends. I log on and I read the knee-jerk comments in response to “my” untimely death.

Not a single shocked response. Not one. It was viewed as unfortunate, sure, and a few people seemed like they’d miss my posts, but otherwise? Nothing. No one called me to see if I was alive. No one really asked for details or showed concern for my kid.

I’ve seen many suicide responses. I have a tattoo on my back dedicated to a teenage friend who stepped in front of a train in 2014. I read the news articles, but more than that, I pay attention to the accidental overdoses and suicides of friends and friends of friends. I watch the reactions.

“I can’t believe it!”

Well, everyone believed it without even fully reading F’s post. So I tried to examine why. I remember my ex getting me to watch Full Metal Jacket because I reminded him of that guy. Yeah, that guy. I also wondered, more recently as I head into a severe life change and divorce, who would it hurt if I did it?

My kid, yes. My dad.

And that may be it. I confide in very few people when I’ve got suicide on my heart – not just on my mind. When it’s on my mind, I’m writing. I’m making it into art. It’s a starry-eyed free-fall on a crisp evening in which I hit the concrete and my pain is absorbed by cracks in the concrete, never to be felt again by me.

That’s suicide on my mind. Suicide on my heart is tying tiny nooses out of ribbon to be sure I still know how. Suicide on my heart is examining the ceiling to see if it’s tall enough and sturdy enough for a noose to be worth it. Suicide on my heart is googling how to get a rope properly tied around a tree that’d be tall enough to work, without attracting attention. It’s wondering which box I packed my rope in. It’s deciding maybe that’s not the method for me, and toying with the realities of other ones.

All of which I’m well versed in, because of suicide being on the mind, career-wise. Writing-wise. My last time to make a google search at all, and how terribly unhelpful it was by telling me exactly what I wanted to know. See? On the mind, it’s a piece of a story. When it crawls into my heart, I’m careful who I speak to about it. Because hauling me off to the ward won’t help.

But the realization that people may be kind of expecting it? That was weird. I’m usually a fairly upbeat albeit sardonic person. I can be pretty mean, but I do so eloquently and with energy. I preach passion for life above all else. I’ve spent my entire 20’s helping suicidal and otherwise ill or compromised people via youtube and other social media avenues. They come to me, I don’t go to them.

Because I’m not the suicidal one.

Stigma be damned, if everyone thinks suicide is how I’m going to die, why hasn’t anyone tried to help me? This is a life. I know, I know, it’s just mine, but it’s a life, and if you think I’m going to take it from myself, the least you could do is check in on me. No, I am not owed care and no one should feel obligated to concern themselves with my life. But if I was someone else, they would've. It's got an aching sting to it. My photos and posts don’t usually reflect my current emotional state because I don’t always have an emotional state. Sometimes I’m just in my mind.

But if it’s creeped into my heart… just remember, you could’ve checked in. On your friends, your parents, and maybe even me.

Dizzy