spanishpieta

The writer of the blog ‘Just Some Stuff About Life As I See It,’ has posted an essay about when the suffering from depression and suicidal thoughts might trump the needs of those close to us. When would it become legitimate to take our own lives, knowing this would hurt those around us? Or is suicide always unacceptably ‘selfish?’ Do we ever get to put our own pain before others’ needs? The discussion got me going. I left a really long comment, something that I ordinarily try to avoid. A good blog post gets the audience thinking, and this post accomplished that with me, in spades. As has become habitual, I am going to post what I wrote to someone else on my main page, on the faith that it may interest others. My apologies to JSS for clogging the comments space. I’ve been shaky emotionally lately (you’ll see that if you read on,) and have been a bit impulsive of late. Here’s a slightly edited version of my rant:

This topic brings up so much for me. My mother killed herself during my first grade year. My father’s marriage to the mistress that broke up their marriage (there were other issues, but that was a giant one,) led to my mom’s final spiral down the drain. She had spent years suffering with the most dreadful depression: shock treatments x 30, many hospitalizations, and so on. Before she died, she took me aside one day and told me I now had a ‘new mommy,’ referring to my dad’s new wife. I had just met the woman, and she had about as much warmth as an advancing glacier.

I know my mother thought she was helping my sister and me. I know she felt her maternal skills were nil, and that her depression was harming us. I know (or at least like to believe) that she thought we would be better off without her.

She could not have been more wrong. Imagine the absolute worse child abuse you can think of. Then take 90% of that, and you have an idea of how I was treated by my stepmother. It could have been worse, but not by much. The next step would have been her murdering me, which she almost did.

I felt terribly watching my mother suffer. She used to pray to God: “Please! Let me die!” Not the most uplifting thing for a six-year-old to hear, but it moved me. I felt her torment in my own heart, and in a child-like way understood her need for relief.

I understand it even better today, because that is where I am, right now. My moods fluctuate rapidly. Just a few days ago I was in a much better place. But last night the only factor keeping me alive was my wife.

It’s not so much a question of selfishness for me. It’s a question of not wanting to repay my wife by killing myself, after she has fought tooth and nail to keep me alive as I’ve flirted with suicide for ten years. I love her and do not want to treat her that way. If I loved her less, I would be dead already.

The other thing is, I know that over time I am actually improving. The amount of time I spend feeling like death is the only answer is diminishing. The proportion of time I feel like I can open my heart and ‘accept it all’ is increasing. I have written about this on my blog of late, as readers know.

I am sorry my response stretches on so long. But this is a hot-button issue for me, and it compels me to tell my story. I make no moral judgment about other’s choices. Morality is not what it’s about. The point, to the extent I can keep it in mind, is that life is short. I am trying to endure the pain, enjoy the better times when they sprint by, and live out my natural life span.

I believe that is best for me, not just those around me. I will be dead soon enough, and I might as well try to learn something while I’m here, even if it hurts. It is best for my wife, even though there have been times when she has deeply regretted getting connected with me.

I am not sure that staying alive just to avoid being ‘selfish,’ makes sense. Ideally, we should aim for a different kind of selfishness. We should grasp for what is rightfully ours: our peace of mind. We should be childish and jealous and self-aggrandizing, and pluck our lives from the maws of our demons. But living only because of grudging feelings of guilt is not really living. Does that mean its morally acceptable to commit suicide? Like I say, I don’t think morality should play into it. We should concentrate on love, and on those times that are tolerable or even enjoyable, however rare. My experience with suicidal thoughts and horrible depressions is that they always pass. I have been tempted to take that irrevocable step many times, and have always gone on to live days I enjoyed. It is hard, almost impossible, to remember this basic truth in the deepest pits of despair. Yet it remains true. Suicide is irreversible. Life is short. What I need is not happiness, which is even more transient than depression, but patience. If I can hold on through the horrible, screeching, blood-raining storms, I always find sunny days further down the road.

My goal is not to suffer endlessly on the cross; I am not a martyr. I want to climb down from the pain whenever I can, pick a couple of roses, and hand them to the one who loves me. The smile I get in response is enough to keep me going for another day.

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