orionid

Life after Suicide

This month is my 30th birthday, but I won't be celebrating it. Instead, next month, I will be celebrating my second rebirth day. I will be celebrating the aniversary of the day that I walked away from suicide and asked for help.

It had been a long day and I'd just gotten home from 16 hours at work. That didn't upset me; in fact, I'd come to expect days like that after having spent eight years in the navy. But something was different, something was out of place. The mental exhaustion I had experienced over the course of that day had left me entirely drained: emotionally, mentally, physically and spiritually. I had succumed to the depression that was driving my life for the five months leading up to that night - and I did not even know that I was depressed.

I was operating entirely autonomously. There was no active thought. I arrived home, took off my uniform, opened my gun case, loaded my shotgun, and sat down at my kitchen table with the barrel in my mouth and my thumb on the trigger. For two hours I sat like that, not actively thinking, but rather feeling and seeing. I was reliving the things that I had experienced begining the night of June 5th, 2009. I went through every detail - every syllable of every word - of the last conversation I had with my ex-fiance. I had asked to call off the engagement and our relationship of eight years, because I had a growing pit of doubt in my stomach. I absolutely adored her, was still just as madly in love as when we started dating, and could not imagine a world without her. But there were some things that just couldn't be compromised on. She absolutely did not want to have kids, and, although I had initially agreed, I came to realize that I would not be able to live with that choice.

When we parted, the last thing that she said to me was "be happy." The last words I spoke to her were "be strong." At 11:56 that night, I received a phonecall from her and I chose not to answer it. I have regretted that decision ever since. The next morning, I received a phonecall from her sister telling me that she was dead. She found an empty bottle each of Tylenol and Benadryl on her desk, and her journal was open to the last page with a single line entry "Aurelia cannot live without her other half." The official coroners report identified her as a suicide, however that didn't stop Richmond PD from interrogating me and verifying my aliby that I was, in fact, out with my best friends celebrating my first single night in eight years. Several days later, the toxicology showed an overdose of Tylenol and Benadryl.

You could tell me that I did not kill her. You could tell me that she made her own choice, but I would not believe any of it. I wanted to, but I could not remove myself from the point of blame. Over the next five months, I watched myself in a third-person perspective as my life fell in a rapidly-tumbling downward spiral until I came back to that night.

My thoughts again relived the reception of the phonecall. "Aurelia's dead. She killed herself."

Every time I repeated those words in my mind, I pressed a little harder on the trigger, until I had a breakthrough. While recalling how I felt hearing that news, I then thought of my parents, and I could not ever conceivably put them through that level of pain. I took my thumb off the trigger, took the gun out of my mouth and started crying. Eventually, I knew that I needed to ask for help. I was scared shitless that next time, I might not have a moment of clarity.

From there, I showered, shaved, and began driving back to base. I knew that my military career was effectively over, but I knew getting help was more important than that. I called my parents to let them know what I was doing, then, after arriving on base, sought out a good friend who was also the on-watch shift coordinator. I told him that I needed a suicide watch for myself.

Long story short, from this point, I got the help I needed. I was hospitalized for two weeks, began treatment with medication, and eventually was separated from the navy. I am now off meds, and will likely remain so for the rest of my life. Life is good.

At this point, I have a rather unique perspective, having been as intimate with the suicide of another as one can be, as well as being only a few hundreths of an inch from taking my own life. The grass is much greener on this side. It hasn't been an easy transition, not by any means and I still break down and cry at times, but it has been a transition nonetheless.

Those who got to know me after I left the hospital and was transfered to a temporary job awaiting completion of medical treatment and separation will tell you that I am a completely different person than when they first met me. Those who know me longest will say that I am a completely different person than before any of this started. These differences are what this post is truly about - everything you've read so far was just to provide context.

First, and most notibly, I have found a new zeal for life. I am doing things and trying things that I never would have before. I've always been a creature of comfort - if I knew I liked something, I stuck with it. Now I find myself looking at a menu and picking something I've never had before just to try it. I've gone to concerts and performances that I would have suspected I'd hate previously, and loved every minute of them. I've also started making considerablt progress on my bucket list: Mountain climbing in Hawaii? Check. Going shirtless to a football game in Buffalo? Check. Drive from Ocean to Ocean? Check.

Secondly, I have devolped a much more laissez-faire atitude to most things. Not to the point of being fatalistic, but being much more carefree. If something isn't potentially life-threating to myself or someone else, it doesn't bother me. I got a collection notice in the mail a while back for my old credit card. My response was simply "Oh, shit. Guess that's what happens when depression makes you not pay your bills for six months." Then I went over my finances, called the collection agencey and arranged payment to begin paying it off. Along this same point, without conciously deciding to do so, I've eliminated some high-risk behaviors from my lifestyle. I no longer hammer down on the freeway, blowing past a cop so fast that he's more likely to radio ahead than give chase (but that's a story for another day). Now I content to tool along at five or ten over.

Thirdly, and most unexpectedly, simple, and sometimes stupid little things overwhelm me with joy. Watching a butterfly emerge from its chrysalis, the smell of smoked meat and cheese, or even watching the interaction of a father with his kids will bring me to tears.

I've been there. I know how hopeless and bleak things can seem. I know how it feels to not feel anything at all, and to just give up comepletely. I can also tell you without a doubt, that while things will change, they will change for the better, and you can make it happen simply by asking for help. If it's dark where you're at now, the sun is shining over here. I'll wait for you to make your way over as you can, and if you just but ask, I'll show you the way.