Because seventeen years ago I laid on my floor and cried for three solid weeks. Hysterical uncontrollable sobbing accompanied by constant suicidal ideation. I had wallowed in self-pity plenty of times, but this was different. This was the most agonizing thing I had ever experienced. It was not my imagination. And it was not voluntary. I wanted it to stop.
And when it finally did, I decided I was going to figure out what the hell it was. Because I knew nobody knew. I had studied their stuff obsessively since high school. I already knew for sure their shit didn’t work. Their theories did not explain that neurological short-circuit. Or the ones that came after it.
The only reason I’m alive is because I was a convenient and willing test subject.
Otherwise I would have put myself out of my misery a long time ago.
I only wanted to find an answer. Nothing else really mattered to me. I just wanted to know how it worked. I never even imagined that I would find relief. I thought it was way too late for me.
Now that I do feel better, I cannot take that blessing lightly. Every day I wake up and don’t want to die only reminds me that there is someone out there who does.
Sometime last year I read this story about a suicide pact. Don’t click on it. You will be haunted forever. It made me want to drive around in the middle of the night looking for houses with lights on. To find every one of us before it happens again.
That’s crazy. I can’t do that.
So I stay up and do this instead.