My first suicide attempt seemed to simply happen to me.
I write that it happened to me, because that’s what it felt like: an urge that swept down on me and instantly spurred me to action: I fled to the bathroom and swallowed half a bottle of aspirin, hoping it would be enough.
I was 14 years old. My mother and her boyfriend were at it again, fighting over me. I’d had it. Clearly, I wasn’t thinking very logically because, on the one hand, I wanted out, but on the other, I was afraid that if I swallowed the whole bottle of aspirin instead of just half, and didn’t die . . . then I’d really be in trouble with my mother, who was one scary beast.
The next thing I knew was my mother waking me up to peel potatoes. Sitting on the pantry stool, I looked down at her scrubbing the floor and saw her through a thick mesh of dappled light and tangled leaves and a high-pitched whining noise. A potato rolled off my hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. My mother, utterly disgusted with me, told me to go back to bed if I was going to be that useless.
I woke up again at midnight, still hearing the high-pitched whine, but clearly not on the verge of death. I looked up my dosage and symptoms in our PDR (Physician’s Desk Reference) and concluded I’d be fine with more sleep. I slept until 4 p.m. the next day. When I woke up, I knew it had been a half-hearted attempt. I also recognized that no one seemed to notice or care.
Suicidal, Again
The next attempt was about a decade later in New York City. I’d just lost my job and was living off my credit cards and spending most of my time buying, eating and throwing up junk food, mostly ice cream. I also spent time counting all my pills to see if they’d be enough. In between gorging myself and counting pills, I also was reading, first Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, a semi-autobiographical tale of her own descent into suicidal depression.
The Bell Jar put me in such a self-pitying mode that I needed a break. Then I saw a book in a local bookshop entitled The Savage God: A Study of Suicide, another semi-autobiographical book by a poet who’d survived his own suicide attempt. I couldn’t possibly resist buying it. I read it.
Rather, I devoured it – and, I swear, this book saved my life. It gave me some perspective that I’d been missing, with its blend of first-person narrative and well-researched exploration of suicide on a national and international level. Besides that, the author A. Alvarez’s self-portrayal was bracingly honest, absolutely free of self-pity and seemed, at times, to be addressing me personally.
For instance, addressing the myth that writing about your suicidal ideation may be therapeutic, he writes, that, on the contrary:
“For the artist himself art is not necessarily therapeutic; he is not automatically relieved of his fantasies by expressing them. Instead, by some perverse logic of creation, the act of formal expressions may simply make the dredged-up material more readily available to him.”
Those words brought to mind Plath’s courageous, and seemingly endless, exploration of her own death obsession in her poetry and the tragic end of that exploration. Alvarez goes on to say:
“The result of [an artist] handling it in his work may well be that he finds himself living it out. For the artist, in short, nature often imitates art. Or, to change the cliché, when an artist holds a mirror up to nature he finds out who and what he is; but the knowledge may change him irredeemably so that he becomes that image.”
In other words, the writer may actually be talking themselves into that closed, dead-end land of suicidal ideation. But as the saying goes, “Don’t believe everything you think.” And if you think you can’t reason your way out of suicide, consider the possibility that you reasoned yourself into it.
Feelings Aren’t Facts
As another example of why you shouldn’t believe everything you think, there’s the concept of “perceived burdensomeness.” Thomas Joiner, Ph.D., the psychologist who coined the term, writes:
“Perceived burdensomeness is the view that one’s existence burdens family, friends, and/or society. This view produces the idea that ‘my death will be worth more than my life to family, friends, society, etc.’ – a view, it is important to emphasize, that represents a potentially fatal misperception. Past research . . . has documented an association between higher levels of perceived burdensomeness and suicidal ideation.”
It’s notable that many survivors of suicide attempts are relieved to be alive, after all. Shannon Parkin describes her gratitude for her survival in her post on this site, Learning to Hope after 30 Years of Depression and a Suicide Attempt. A surgeon who survived his own attempt concludes his story in The Guardian:
“Five years on, I am grateful to be alive. It took a few years before I could say that. I still have bad days, but I live a full life and it doesn’t hurt to be alive anymore. I’ve learned that when times are tough, I need to talk about how I’m feeling.”
From my own perspective, I’ve read the responses of suffering people on this website Speaking of Suicide. Many people have written comments saying they know talking to someone will not help. Again, I am reminded of the warning to not believe everything you think. Find help, even if you think you know it won’t help.
Consider the possibility that you could be wrong. In my own case, I was 100% positive that therapy wouldn’t help me. And then, guess what? Therapy has helped me.
Suicidal Thoughts: A Habit, and a Comfort
Still, in the decades that have passed since my teen years, those suicidal thoughts have never completely left me. If I’m fighting with my husband or have had another poem rejected, or am feeling that I have failed at something important to me, those ideas come sweeping down on me and I remember the hoard of muscle relaxers left over from my last surgery and I wonder . . .
I know, however, that I don’t really mean it, that these thoughts are the dregs left over from a lousy, truly soul-crushing upbringing and I remind myself that nothing . . . nothing, not my disastrous first marriage, not my first and second battles with cancer . . . nothing was ever as bad as the evil I’d already survived.
I chalk those suicidal thoughts up to a habit of thought, now, a weirdly comforting concept of an exit door, an escape from everything and anything that may come my way. Those thoughts console me, just as they console other people, as well. Thinking of suicide places an absolute limit on how much I anticipate that I will need to endure in the years to come, however dire things may be.
Perhaps the world runs out of water and civilization collapses entirely, or perhaps my personal world falls apart and there’s nothing left for me but endless pain. It’s only in contemplating life’s worst possible scenario that acting on these suicidal impulses seems even remotely possible. By mindfully observing suicidal thoughts, I let them pass through me like the memories of a nightmare that flicker through my mind and then dissolve into the plain light of day.
Advice for My Suicidal Self
If I could go back in time to that desperately unhappy 14-year-old girl, I would avoid the standard clichéd advice. I would not remind her that others have had it worse than she. To one who is suffering, that is useless. I would avoid telling her to buck up and be strong – how can one know in the midst of that dark mindset that strength is even possible?
Instead, I would tell her to wait, that the time would come when she would have more control over her life. And what if I went back to visit that twenty-something, miserable over her failures, you may well ask? I think I would tell her that failures happen but they are not permanent. Suicide, however, is permanent.
I am 72 now, in a much more loving and manageable marriage, a retired college professor in a comfortable house with a paid-off mortgage. In addition to the memories of miserable times, I have my achievements to look back on: my Ph.D., my career as a professor, and my trips to far-off cities and countries, thanks to my university.
I recall my casual stroll through Rome’s narrow streets to its magnificent Coliseum, and my visit to the Vatican museums and being awestruck by Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam and crying joyful tears standing before his transcendent Pietà. I savor my memories of my solo flights as a student pilot, my two skydiving experiences, and my ride on one of Costa Rica’s longest ziplines over a valley and through its fantastical rain forest.
As I relish memories of the places I’ve been and images of unimaginable and awe-inspiring beauty I’ve witnessed, I am inexpressibly glad to have survived these dark urges.
© 2022 Linda H. Straubel, PhD. All Rights Reserved. Written for Speaking of Suicide.
Beautiful. I appreciate so much you sharing your journey with us. As a survivor you spell out the path of the spiraling thoughts into suicidal despair, and the many twists and turns we can take on our road to recovery.
“Instead, I would tell her to wait”
These words hit me like a bullet. I remember my attempt at 14.
I’m glad I waited.
I’m hopeful I can always wait.
Again, many thanks.
I pray every night i won’t wake up……. Then every morning i cry because i wake up, then i cry myself to sleep wishing i won’t wake up …. but, then i wake up ????????????.
It’s a vicious circle, i’ve practiced the law of attraction for many years in a positive manner and always end up right back here!!! I do believe however, if the untiverse attracts what you think why am i always Having the rug pulled from under my feet ?? I attract people with problems, i’m fab at helping them, why can’t i help my self…. I just want to be free.
Hi Emm, I have been where you are. I know about the law of attraction. Since you are so good at helping others, I see that as a gift. Hopefully, you can see this. Try to get away from the law of attraction for now. Help others and that should help you. There are resources for you. Remember, I have been where you are. You are not alone.
I’m one of the people who says that talking doesn’t necessarily help, or at least that it hasn’t done much for me. Let me explain that position a bit:
I still believe that there are some people and situations where talking helps and some where it doesn’t – at least not as much as is thought. Over the past 8 years I have spent THOUSANDS of hours ruminating on my situation. There is no combination of words in the English language that someone could throw at me which I have not pondered before. None. Someone talking to me, from their perspective, would be like going to a forum on a thread that is 88 pages long, just reading the last post in the thread, and trying to write an intelligent response based on that.
Also, once you say things you can’t unsay them. The default belief seems to be that if you tell someone you are severely depressed they will try to be supportive and help you. Maybe that’s generally true, but I assure you that you can’t count on that. You also can’t control who THEY tell, and in what context they tell people. For me, my wife obviously knew my condition and she told my in-laws everything. And when my in-laws found out I was seeing a psychiatrist (for depression which they had caused), they immediately went to anyone who would listen and said, “See? That guy is crazy. He’s crazy!”
And the psychiatrist? I saw her for 4 years. She gave me meds, which kept me at a semi-alive state during that time, but I never got the impression she understood me or wanted to understand me. She dismissed my concerns and stories as paranoia, and of course, once you’ve been labeled in that way you can’t say anything anymore. Because you’re crazy, an unreliable narrator. I’ve never been entirely comfortable with the power dynamic in the doctor/patient relationship for that reason. In my interactions, it never felt like I was coming to them for a service but that I’m some sort of a child whose opinions don’t matter because my brain is broken.
Another therapist story:
My wife and I were having major problems when I first got depressed. There is a therapist employed full time at her job… all the appropriate letters after her name, seemed really qualified. My wife wanted to see her, and it sounded like a good idea at the time.
So she goes in and this therapist tells her that the reason her suicidal husband, who was on 3 different kinds of meds and sleeping 3 hours a night and who should probably have been in a hospital… the reason her suicidal husband wasn’t interested in sex was because I was pulling some kind of relationship power play and I was being abusive.
So yes… I’d probably trust Stacey and there are a couple of other professionals I’ve run into online who seem alright (although I’m skeptical that they would be able to rebuild me into the person I was 15 years ago). But after my experiences I do not trust this idea that, “Just reach out and it will be OK”. I think it sends the message that once you do that, you’ve crossed the finish line and you can relax because it will be alright. But that’s far from the case.
I’m going it alone now, and being an island does have its drawbacks. I have to be careful with my mood and what I do because nothing external is stabilizing me. A bad interaction can send me into a spiral and when I get low, it takes a while to pull out. Because I am my own parachute and when I am failing my parachute is also failing, if you get what I mean. But all that said, I’d be hard pressed to say I’m not better overall now than I was when I was under care. There’s something to be said for being the driver and not being dependent and knowing that you’ve burned your ships and it’s on you. Perhaps it’s a male quality.
It could be argued that I’m not recovered, at all. In fact I’m on a low right now. But I’m also not dead, and I’m somewhat able to function in the areas I have to function in. Even people who dislike me IRL would not say I was a bad father and for some reason I’m extremely popular with the kids at my son’s school. Most therapists I’ve dealt with would consider that to be a win.
Anyway, what am I saying here? I’m not saying don’t talk to people. I’m not saying don’t go and get professional help. What I’m saying is that this is not a panacea, at all. There’s more to it than that especially if you’re extremely introverted or chronically depressed or your life outside of the depression is not going very well. Reaching out brings you to a doorway and that doorway MIGHT lead you to something helpful. Your struggle is not over when you raise your hand. In the end, recovery still has to entirely come from within. The depressed person has no choice but to find something in themselves, there is no other way around it. I’ll always believe that.
Paul, thank you for reading my commentary. It’s good to be heard and I appreciate your response. While I agree that therapy is not a panacea and it’s not an instant cure, the right outside voice can be very helpful. Otherwise, you can get so caught up in your own perspective that you can trap yourself into a vicious cycle. One of the things I tell myself constantly, as I wrote, is not to believe everything you think. Don’t get me wrong, I am not in any way saying that your brain or you are broken. What I am saying is that mistakes in our thinking can be potentially fatal. It also occurs to me that you’ve had some negative experiences with therapists. To that I’d say it’s worth it to keep shopping around until you find someone you do think wants to understand you. Finally, while I am certainly not an expert, there are aspects of your response that remind me of my first husband, who suffered miserably from addiction and depression. It was impossible for him to stay sober until he went inpatient and was finally diagnosed with a bipolar disorder. Once that chemical imbalance was treated, he was able to stay sober. I agree that the answers have to come from within, but, from my own experience, the right therapist can help you find those answers. For me, it’s like someone throwing you a life preserver; you have to be the one to catch it and use it, but, without that help, you might find yourself thrashing about, barely staying afloat and finding no joy in the effort.
Paul,
I’m honored that you’d probably trust me if we were to meet; that means a lot, given all you’ve been through. And I agree with your overall message: Getting help doesn’t automatically mean everything gets better. For many people, it takes a lot of work and time and treatment, and so on, to recover, and even then, recovery can be elusive. I grieve that some people tell others of their depression or suicidal thoughts and are met with unhelpful, even hurtful, responses.
I do also want to point out that getting help has helped many people. There are therapies that are effective — not 100%, but definitely effective for many people — such as cognitive behavior therapy, dialectical behavior therapy, and the Collaborative Assessment and Management of Suicidality.
I wish getting help had helped you, too. Whatever’s helped you to stay alive, I’m grateful. What’s the parachute you’ve constructed made of? I think you’ve said in past comments that being a dad is one reason for staying alive, if I’m remembering correctly. What else, I wonder?
Thanks for sharing here again, though I realize the answer to my last question might be for you to reflect on, not to write about here, depending on your wishes. :).
I’m glad everything has worked out well for you. And while I’m not ‘recovered’ in the way you are, I can certainly imagine that those thoughts are always going to stick with you. Once you’ve been to a certain place mentally, that place will always stay with you.
I read a quote once about drug addiction… that either you were a ‘normie’, an addict, or a recovering addict. And that once you became an addict you could never become a normie again. And so I think it is with depression if it was severe enough.
Art straddles a certain danger zone. They say that people most at risk of suicide are not those who have debilitating depression but those who are either coming out of it or going in. Because people who are on a low don’t have the energy to follow through, but people who are transitioning can both get those thoughts and carry them out. So an artist has to access those dark places in order to generate their best work, but at the same time they need to have enough energy to produce the art. They spend a lot of time in that transitional area. It’s holding both gasoline and a lit match.
Anyway, thanks for writing. It’s always good to hear a story of recovery.
Paul, Thank you for your response. I especially love the way you describe the dark places an artist visits. My favorite character in my published novel and the one I’m now working on is a psychopath. It’s terrifying how easy it is for me to find that dark place in my own psyche. I try to shake it off and not dwell on it, but it is like “holding both gasoline and a match.” Some people, like Sylvia Plath, whose art I’ve always admired, just can’t create enough distance between the two. I’m pretty confident that I can. I agree with you, also, on the normies-addict-recovering-addict continuum. As far as addiction, I was born lucky enough, but, when it comes to depression, not so much. You’re also right that those thoughts will always be with me, but I never take them seriously enough to act on them. You write beautifully about our mutual struggles. I hope you appreciate yourself enough to get help, if you still need it, and live the best life that you can and that you deserve. Be well, and, again, thank you.
Paul,
Very powerful metaphor about artists experiencing suffering and needing energy to make art from it — they are “holding both gasoline and a lit match.” I’ve definitely observed that in some cases, artists in this context are playing with fire. It’s hard to know, though, if making art from their pain will make an artist worse, because I’m also familiar with artists who suffer because they do not make their art. No matter the pain it entails, sometimes creating art (whether visual, writing, music, etc.) is itself therapeutic.
Thank you, Dr. Straubel, for sharing your story. I resonate particularly with the advice you would give to your younger self. “I would tell her to wait, that the time would come when she would have more control over her life. And what if I went back to visit that twenty-something, miserable over her failures, you may well ask? I think I would tell her that failures happen but they are not permanent. Suicide, however, is permanent.”
Thank you also for referring to my story. I am grateful always that I survived my suicide attempt.
Thank you, Dr. Freedenthal for sharing recovery stories. I know each and every recovery story punches another hole in the smothering blanket of depression.
Shannon, Thank you for your good words about my piece and for your great metaphor of recovery stories punching “another hole in the smothering blanket of depression.” it is smothering, isn’t it? I am glad to know that you survived your attempt and glad that you are taking comfort from Dr. Freedenthal’s website. Be well and never forget that feeling of gratitude that you survived. That feeling, for me, at least, is a light in the darkness. Be well and live your happiest life.