Thoughts on Death

Dear Lovers of Life and Those Who Could Care Less,

Suicide is a difficult subject for some people. It is a touchy subject. It is often a divisive subject.

Understandably so. The notion of suicide, that one would have a desire to end their life here on Earth, contradicts the very nature of our existence. The simple nature of our existence is that we are alive; our breath reminds of this and so too does our uniquely aware sense of human consciousness. Most of us will attest to a strong desire to remain alive for as long as possible, some of us will even express a desire to prolong our lives if we become able to do so.

Some people don't feel a desire to live, for whatever reason, and this confuses those of us who eschew death. Those of us with a desire to live a long life wonder what it is inside of a person that could make them want to move on from Earthly existence. We wonder if a person who wishes to die has lived through some kind of tormenting pain, whether or not they've experienced immeasurable hardship, or if they simply feel unloved or unwanted.

I have lived through suicide. Not my own, mind you. While I have wondered what life would be like if I were not here, I have never felt a compulsion to end the life I have made for myself here on Earth.

I lived through the suicide of my father and I learned some things about this unconventional type of death.

My father died when I was relatively young. He struggled with a condition that affected not only his mental health, but also his livelihood, his life quality, and all of his relationships. Schizophrenia had consumed my father's life and he suicided after a short battle with this disease process. He left me and my young mother behind to cope with his death and the challenges it presented.

As I grew up through the transition of adolescence, I began to wonder if there was something I had contributed to his death. Stress made the symptoms of schizophrenia worse. Had I caused my father stress? Did he want to die because of me?

I wanted to blame myself. In fact, I looked for ways where I could implicate myself in his death. I also looked for ways to blame other people. I even tried to blame his disease.

But I had an epiphany one day, some months after I was diagnosed with schizophrenia, the condition I had inherited from my father. I realized that I had nothing to do with my father's death. I realized that no one really had anything to with my father's suicide. There was no cause. There was nothing to blame. And there really was no easy answer.

Having faced the same demons of mental health that my father had to confront, I came to understand some things about life. Moreover, I came to understand some things about death.

That pain alone would cause someone to want to die is a myth. It is also a myth that unfortunate personal circumstances or hardship would cause someone to end their life. It's a myth as well, that one would end their life because they feel unloved or unwanted. This latter belief is the most dangerous myth among those who survive a loved one's suicide, since it compels us to imagine that if only we had been more loving, we could have prevented a needless death. This latter myth is the one that imposes a deep sense of personal guilt and shame about suicide among those who are left behind.

In my experience, there is only one thing that keeps us humans holding on to this thread of existence that we call life: This thing is hope.

While some may scoff at the simplicity of this relationship between the desire to live and the desire to die, you need to understand the power of hope.

Hope means that you are able to fall asleep at night knowing that you will wake up to a *different* tomorrow. Hope means that not only can life change, but that you expect it to change for the better some time in the future. Hope means that you can trudge through a dreary present, if it will take you to a happier place in the days that follow today.

If you lose hope, you lose access to the promise of tomorrow.

When you are hopeless, your concept of the future becomes blended with demands of the present.

If your present is bleak, or overwhelming, and if you imagine the future to be nothing but more of the same, you begin to feel as though you are treading water, rather than moving on or along. While you tread water, you become exhausted, and may find yourself losing your will to live to see another day.

And that is what my father faced, I think. An immeasurable sense that tomorrow will be no better than today, whatever "today" looked like to him all those years ago.

Who wants to wake up with a feeling that their present circumstances are permanent? I know I certainly don't.

Admittedly, my current life circumstances aren't great. I'm still technically unemployed, living up to that wonderful statistic that dictates that about 80% of people with my diagnosis are unemployed or underemployed. I know that I will wake up tomorrow and have to confront the challenges of discrimination and social mythology. I know that tomorrow I may have to hear another story of a life lost to mental health problems. And I know that tomorrow I may ask, again, for meaningful support and an iota of understanding, and that again, I am likely to be ignored.

So why do I want to wake up to see another day? Well, I attribute my will to live to that hope. I know that tomorrow can be different from today. I know that the struggles I live with today aren't necessary, and that they are becoming more and more impractical as our treatments improve. I know that some day there will be social change, and that my struggles will be diminished. When that day will come, I don't know. But I know I want to be here to see it. And maybe I hope to participate in helping that day to come.

I hope that tomorrow will change and become better than today. That is what tethers me to this world. I think this is what tethers most of us to this life on Earth.

Would my father's circumstances have changed? I don't know. Likely, but he couldn't get close enough to that future to be able to see it.

Can I blame my father for his suicide? No. I can't blame my father for wanting to end his life any more than I can blame myself for wanting to live.

Do I think my father's choice to suicide was an easy one? Certainly not. My father understood that he was leaving behind his child and his spouse, and he indicated as much before his death. He knew he was leaving an extended family who loved him. He understood that he would be missed, and that all of us would be confused and hurt in the wake of his loss.

Was my father selfish in his choice to end his life? I don't think so. Selfish implies that my father would have imagined that his death was exclusively to his benefit. My father understood the consequences of his death, and had to weigh these with the life he was living. Frankly, I would think myself selfish to expect him to live a life that denied the truth his very pressing reality: that he felt hopeless and that he wanted to die.

My father's death was his choice. It was a choice borne of his circumstances, whatever they were, whatever sense of hopelessness they engendered. I understand the complicated feelings he had to endure while balancing out the things he had to live for with the sense of hopelessness that compelled him to end his life. At the end of the day, I respect my father's choice, despite the fact that I wish things had turned out differently for him, differently for our family.

My choices are equally borne of my circumstances. Thankfully, I have the benefit of hope and the promises of tomorrow to carry me through.

**********************************************

If you are a Canadian having thoughts of suicide, or if for some reason this post has made you feel uncomfortable, the Centre for Suicide Prevention has a list of local prevention centres and hotlines.

If you are a US reader who is having similar thoughts, 1.800.SUICIDE would be the place to call.

PostSecret.com is also a great place to vent about life and all its dirty details. (In anonymous secrecy, of course!)

Warm Regards,
O.

What do they see when they start on their path?

Dear People With "Lived Experience,"

Little hypothetical story here to clarify the nature of this post:

Okay, so say you're 20ish or something. And you've been dealing with some problems of hearing voices, and thinking that people are out to get you. And maybe you've been hiding away from people and neglecting your hygiene.

Somebody says, let's get you to a doctor to see what's up.

So you go. You do some tests. Some of them are pencil and paper tests. Some of them are verbal tests. Some of them are performance tests. Maybe others are medical tests.

Tests come back, everyone's suspicions are confirmed: you are now diagnosed with a condition you've only heard about in the movies. Schizophrenia or maybe even Bi-polar if you have some cycling going on.

/story.


So you look at your life. What do you see?


Based on the media, it's not a rosy picture.

Based on public perceptions, it doesn't seem to be any rosier of a picture.

Based on the statistical likelihood of being gainfully employed, well, the picture is just nosediving now.

Based on discriminatory laws across the world the picture just sinks to unfathomable proportions. (limitations of travel, limitations on insurance, limitations on housing, limitations on employment, limitations on serving your country or your community, limitations imposed by the way the legal system is organized... limitations, limitations, limitations... )


So with a diagnosis, I see a lot of limitations. Funny thing is, I only see these limitations after living with my diagnosis for 11 years. I'm no longer a child living under anyone's protective wing. I'm an adult, trying to carve out a life for myself. When I was younger and living with my diagnosis, these things just didn't affect me, since I didn't really have to move outside of my comfort zone too much.

To be honest my diagnosis is fucking hard to deal with in the real world... The real world being the world that dictates that I need to find a job because I have bills to pay, and I need to feed myself and my ravenous furkids. The real world that makes me crave the companionship, friendship, and intimacy of a lover. The real world that tells me that one day I may want to have children, and god forbid, achievable dreams! (The real world that tells me that all of these things are "healthy" and are "milestones of recovery.") And now that I'm starting out in my adult life, I'm seeing exactly how profound my limitations are. And I'm seeing the barriers that life forces me to hurdle just to reach those milestones... achievements that seem relatively effortless for people standing on the other side of the fence.

And the paradox in all of this is that I've tried to find the best place for me in this world. I shaped my life consciously from the time I was diagnosed to find a place where I would have the greatest likelihood for personal and economic success for someone of my education and experience. And so I thought I found my "place." And I'm looking at that place, I'm standing on the threshold watching everyone move around and interact in that place, and I still don't fit in. I'm beginning to think I just don't fit in anywhere.

Too sick for the "real" world. Too healthy for the services and amenities provided to people who live with a diagnosis like mine. Too different ideologically from the people who are trying to build a new, supposedly inclusive, system... a "new" system that paradoxically believes that by labelling me and "outing" me, it is setting me free.

I'm not trying to get anyone down. I'm not trying to make anyone feel helpless, even though I'm feeling a little helpless at the moment.

I think what I'm asking is: What can we do about it?

How do we fix this?

Why do I, after living with this disease for 12 years... after spending nearly 12 years learning how to cope and make sure that I am the healthiest person I can be... why do I have to deal with THESE particular issues now?

These "particular issues" being issues that relate exclusively to social injustice and discrimination.

If the disease itself doesn't kill you, the injustices that come along with it certainly will.


When we talk about suicide and the despair of mental illness; the despair isn't having to live with the disease. The despair isn't really about having to wrestle with symptoms or deal with medications.

The despair is about the social injustices we confront. The social injustices that affect us on a day to day basis. The social injustices that tell me that I'm not equal to every other person in the country I live in.

This is what kills us off when we stare down that long tunnel of life.


What do WE do? This issue is bigger than me. This issue feels stronger than me. I'm at a loss. I really am.

My instinct is to fight. But what does that mean? What am I fighting? Who am I fighting? How long is the fight going to be? What will it cost me, and what will it achieve?


I keep telling myself before I go to bed that when I wake up, tomorrow will be a better, brighter day. Tomorrow I will wake up, and I won't have to worry about my safety, my comfort, or my security.

I think the only thing that keeps me going is my hope for the future, since my present is a very grim place.


Keeping my fingers crossed for a brighter day (and sorry if I killed your buzz!),
O.

PS:
*tomorrow will be a better day, tomorrow will be a better day, tomorrow will be a better day, tomorrow will be a better day, tomorrow will be a better day, tomorrow will be a better day, tomorrow wil be a better day... *

see... it's not just us!

Dear doctors, people who go to doctors, and people who look after doctors,

I found an interesting article today that describes how doctors, like the rest of the population, are susceptible to mental health problems... However, according to the article, doctors are very unlikely to seek help, fearing that it will affect their professional status. (The link is available at the bottom of this post.)

"Some doctors believe the stigma of mental illness is magnified in a profession that prides itself on stoicism and bravado. Many fear admitting psychiatric problems could be fatal to their careers, so they suffer in silence."

In an ironic twist, doctors are one of the groups that are LEAST likely to seek treatment for mental health problems, despite all of their education about mental health. And even more ironic, doctors are much more likely than than any other demographic to suicide. (Sadly, they are the most successful at suicide attempts because they have access to drugs and metabolic information that regular old folks don't have.)

"A psychiatrist in the New York area who asked to remain unidentified said he had suicidal thoughts every day for several years. But in medical school in the 1980s, he said he was so embarrassed about seeking help for depression that he went to a pay phone instead of his dorm to call a therapist."

So, isn't it interesting that the very people who keep us healthy are the most likely to have serious issues of mental health?

And doesn't this point to the fact about the detrimental effects of stigmatization? Doctors are so afraid to "come out" about mental illness because they fear it will affect their careers and their status.

"There could be reasons the stigma would be worse for doctors, "but you can come up with just as many reasons why physicians would be better equipped to acknowledge" mental illness, she said."

It's a strong indicator of how pervasive the effects of stigmatization are when some of our most informed citizens (in terms of understanding problems of mental health and their effects) are detrimentally reluctant to seek treatment for their own mental health issues. Very interesting how what's good for the gander is NOT good for the goose... very interesting, but mostly, very very sad.

Here's the article.
Medical know-how, access to drugs raises suicide risk for doctors

Wishing everyone good health,
O.

enough love for everyone!

RE: Comment regarding "dear people who post on postsecret.com"

Dear Olivia,

I just wanted to let you know that sometimes we try our hardest to keep our loved ones with us. Please don't think that everyone feels this way.

I know I don't.

From,
Baldylocks
April 21, 2008 3:13 AM/end

Dear Baldy,

thank you for your comments.

i do know for a fact that not everyone feels this way, since my family and friends have been fantastic throughout.

in fact, the optimist in me believes that most people do not feel this way.

it just hurts to see things like that. it really does. and i think it is irresponsible to ignore these types of sentiments.

With Gratitude,
O.

PS. I sincerely appreciate that you wrote to let me know this. It means a lot to me.

dear people who post on postsecret.com

Dear postsecret.com poster,

You said this (posted on the April 20/2008 edition of postsecret.com):

"When my schizophrenic brother finally succeeded after 15 years of suicide attempts, I was relieved."

As a person who was diagnosed with schizophrenia, and who has successfully managed the condition for over 10 years, I want you to know, that reading this statement made a part of me die a little.

Please understand that I know that I am a burden to my family, and to society in general. And please understand that I know that my actions can cause problems, stress, and pain.

I already know this. Why do you have to reinforce how shitty I am and how much people like myself make your life miserable?

You need to know that this is why we kill ourselves. We despair and we suicide because we are acutely aware that we cause problems (for ourselves, and for the people we love). We suicide because mental illness HURTS everyone it touches and that pain is often unrelenting.

You need to know that mental illness hurts its sufferers from the bottom of our toenails to the top of the hairs on our heads. I'm not talking about a literal pain; I am talking about a relentless ontological throb that we endure from our daily toils in a fast, competitive, and unforgiving world that cries for conformity (and punishes those who do not fit neatly into those compartments you have all neatly sorted out for yourselves).

Please realize that I can understand where this sentiment comes from, and that I respect your feelings, but fuck, what about me?

My sympathies for your loss,
O.