Letting Go

Sometimes I wonder, "Do 'normal' people ever think about or get that compelling feeling to just...end it all?" Thinking back over my last 30 some odd years it's funny what I can and cannot, or maybe even choose not, to remember. One thing that is pretty clear though is the times that I actually attempted, or seriously considered letting go. Over time I have heard many people, some professionals, say that if a person truly desires to end their life, they will. Period. They add that otherwise the 'attempt' and or the 'talk' is really just a call for help. I'm curious how you, my reader, may conceive this. Speaking purely from experience in regards to this 'taboo' topic, I've determined this to be true.
I say taboo as more times than not the topic of suicide, let alone mental illness, is still considered to be in bad taste. In fact, just a few minutes ago, I responded to a post on a forum from someone who was against my allowing this blog to be seen by others. Again, I point out that there are still so many out there who feel that mental illness should be kept a secret, hidden away like the 'lepers' of the past. What we have is not catching. It cannot directly hurt others either, but is so incredibly misunderstood and such a remarkably vague subject matter that the only ones who seem to have any understanding is the doctors to whom we are treated by; and even then I tend to question their knowledge at times as their analysis' can change quite regularly. Maybe, for this reason, the fact that I have had to conceal my own feelings, to consistently hide away in my box and never speak of my desolate existence, that I see it now as a time to 'let go' of our stigma put onto ourselves by mankind as a whole. Sometimes though the truth is not only hard to admit, and face head on, but can also be rather embarrassing; not just for ourselves, but for the people around us, who love us, care for us and whom want to protect us. Well, I'm calling shenanigans! If I can stare it in the eye, straight on, then so can you. Here, as best as I can recall, is my personal fight with the demons we so quietly and secretly managed to label: Suicidal Tendencies.
I can recall, as a young teen, I learned rather quickly that talk of suicide raised not only eyebrows, but red flags for those around me. Did I ever use this to what some might unabashedly call, my advantage? I think, I believe, I did, yes. Not in a way that I feel should be looked down on though. When things would get wonky in my mind, when I could no longer see the forest for the trees, when the word 'cope' held no more meaning to me than just another 'four letter word' then yes, I would, at times, mention to a friend or a counsellor that I was having suicidal thoughts. The hope being that maybe they could for once understand what I clearly could not; this being the random, uncontrollable muddled thoughts that I could find no way in which to make sense of, which brought on astronomical amounts of anxiety and that were beginning to possess my every waking moment. A call for help? I'd say so, most definitely. Who wouldn't at this so obvious an invasion and loss of control over ones mind? Did I ever reach the point of no return though? Yes, a couple of times actually. One being much more of a close call than the other, but still, not such a good day I would say. At around the age of 15, after already being hospitalized for lengthy periods of time for depression, I was ready to give up the fight. By this point what seemed like everyone that knew me or of me had labeled me as 'crazy.' I couldn't even walk down the halls of my high school without the whispered comments behind covered mouths accompanied by not so well covered up pointing in my direction. Or for those not so shy, there was the loud heckling, catcalling and outright jeering. I had been living in what was considered a shelter for teens, a place to hopefully keep them off the street. I didn't have my own room, few did. Instead I occupied a couch, one that you wouldn't even dare put in your cabin at the lake, in a room full of similar couches and mattress's along with their current inhabitants. Having been born with Asthma, I had numerous medications, one being a pill called Theo-Dur in which the caring pharmacist had given me 200 of, to save me the trouble of having to return soon. After grabbing a can of 7up I calmly, quietly and with no outward signs of anxiety, slipped away into the girls washroom and proceeded to empty the bottle, sometimes swallowing a handful at a time. Throwing away the empty can of pop, pocketing the empty bottle of pills, I walked back to my couch, said G'night to those close by, closed my eyes and went to sleep. I remember very little of that night, and what I do is just quick flashes of what may or may not be real. What I do know is that I was not expected to live. I had done what I set out to do well and to this day no one knows why or how my bodied rallied. But it did and here I am. Many times over the last almost 30 years since that day I have questioned why I didn't die. I have been almost what you could call saddened by the fact that I didn't do it somewhere else, somewhere more private, so that when the convulsions and arrhythmia kicked in, I would have been alone. Regardless, I have survived. Only one other time would I come close to tempting fate, but never so close as too actually act on my thoughts. One thing that is predominate in my mind though, especially late at night when I cannot sleep, is this: Standing out on the balcony, feeling the cool breeze on my too warm skin, I look towards the stars. Not understanding whats up there, not knowing if anything at all can hear me, ever so quietly I admit, " I'm tired, please, let it end now...I don't want to play anymore.."