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At the risk of jeopardizing my disability status, let me say once and for all, “I am not suicidal!” Perhaps it is a limitation of the English language that we can inadvertently become the adjectives used to describe our behavior and feelings. So let me be clear: I have attempted suicide. I have thought a lot about suicide. I still think about committing suicide far more often than I like to admit. But I am not suicidal.

I am just Ashley. Long before I began my struggles with suicidality, I was, and hopefully long after, I will be, just Ashley. And, Ashley, if you care to get to know (or remember) him, is a pretty cool guy … .

Many of you know that I have made an effort to share with my friends and family (F&F) the struggles with suicidality that have plagued me for so long. I can honestly say that my intentions for doing so were innocent. I was not trying to manipulate their emotions or behavior toward me, I was not simply throwing myself a pity party, nor was I seeking absolution for my past (and possible future) behaviors. It was in an effort to be as upfront and honest with them about the precariousness of my situation that I allowed them to enter the darker rooms of my mind.

As more and more rooms were being shuttered, I found it increasingly difficult to truly share myself with my F&F. You can only receive guests in the parlor for so long before they begin wondering what you are hiding in the rest of the house. Increasingly alienated from my F&F, I finally decided to throw open the doors to my inner world, to my weaknesses, to my shame; they could then decide for themselves whether I was still worth the trouble. If it meant losing some of my relationships, I thought it was the only way I could be honest with them, just as I expected them to be honest with me. What does it mean to be a friend to someone you don’t really know well? Is that friendship at all or just a dressed up acquaintance, truly no more important to you than perhaps a colleague from work? That’s all well and good—”honesty is the best policy” and all that—but it comes at a price: vulnerability, not just on my part, but on theirs as well.

By giving my F&F the grand tour of my tormented mind, I gave them the (partially Greek) gift of really, truly knowing me … and what I might one day do.  In this way, I also presented them with a very difficult decision: “Do I allow myself to be completely vulnerable to a person who may one day tear away that piece of my heart to which he is attached? I mean, Ashley’s good for a laugh or two, and he has some interesting insights from time to time, but at the end of the day, is that enough to justify emotionally investing in him?” In this day and age of looking out for number one, I am afraid the answer is “no, it’s just not worth it; he’s just not worth it.” And, that isn’t a moral statement about selfishness, it is just the sad fact of life in America that we are all so close to the edge that it is rather foolish to knowingly accept a potentially huge emotional liability. It’s like carrying around a cherry bomb in your breast pocket; it probably won’t kill me if it goes off, but it will certainly hurt like hell. Best, then, to just take the volatile thing out of my pocket and keep it on the shelf.

So, what should I do: open myself up in the interest of full disclosure (like selling a car with a known defect)? or close parts of myself off in a paradoxical attempt to avoid loneliness? What would you do, if you are like me? What would you have me do, if you like me? It is easy to be dishonest, even easier to be honest; but it seems to be pretty damn lonely as well.

That’s right: an addiction. Suicide pops into my head now at the least hint of anxiety. It’s like a craving—strike that—it is a craving, every bit as much as an alcoholic’s craving for his drink of choice, every bit as much as a sex addict’s craving for “old time’s sake.” When an addict indulges, it is indulgence in fantasy, indulgence in the escape, indulgence in avoiding reality. To be sure, we may consciously want something else—to get high, to get laid/loved, to get rich, to “end the pain”—but soon enough, our brains are awash in their own concoction of feel-good drugs. So, whether it’s a so-called chemical addiction or process addiction you struggle with, it is, more than anything else, an addiction to certain neuro-transmitters that renders us powerless.

The obvious next question is this: if you are addicted to suicidal feelings, how do you get sober?  Well, my friends, I wish I knew. In fact, I wish I knew RIGHT NOW because I’m in pretty f*%@n’ bad shape… .

Well, I’ve been trying depression for a while, but that doesn’t seem to be shaking off the suicidal ideation. Seems rather obvious to you, I guess. I tried everything else, so I thought maybe depression would be just the thing. People always say, “Stop being so depressed. Stop thinking about suicide.” The two come together so often that we begin to think one requires the other.* So, harkening back to those nail-biting Sherlock Holmes mysteries read in the halcyon days of youth** (not my youth, of course, but one whose youth was spent reading Sherlock Holmes in days that must have been peaceful or enjoyable or in some other way worth harkening back), I couldn’t help but remember the advice of the sage sleuth: “We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other contingencies fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” As I have already tried everything else, I thought, “what the hell, no one has tried depression yet; let’s give it a whirl.” Well, I am just barely here today to report that indeed depression is not a good antidote to suicidality.

With that in mind, I thought I’d give mirth another go. If not entirely therapeutic, it should at least be more enjoyable than spending all day in bed staring at the wall and might even win back a few friends in the process. So, consider yourself warned, the rest of this entry will be mirthful, impishly giddy, and down right silly. It may even be funny here and there—but don’t hold your breath.

To kick things off, I thought I’d dust off a limerick I wrote a while back. I don’t think it got the ovation it merited, so I am republishing it here for all to read (and applaud):

   There once was a boy full of bile,
   though he’d greet you with laughs and a smile.
       He decided one day
       he should jump in the bay,
   but his meds kept him dry for a while.

And now, a few one liners à la être suicidaire:

   A man walks into a bar. He says, “OW!”
   A suicidal man walks into a bar. He says, “OW! See! Even the bar hates me … what’s the use?!”

   Normal guy: Take my wife … please!!!
   Suicidal guy: Take my wife … she has suffered enough; she deserves better than me.

   Normal guy: I took a train once, but they made me put it back.
   Suicidal guy: I jumped in front of a train once, but someone pulled me back.

   Jack and Jill went up the hill, each with a buck and a quarter. Jill came down with $2.50; she needed the money!
   Jack and Suicidal Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill—knowing she could never live without Jack—came tumbling after.

   Normal guy: My wife hates me. The other day, I fell asleep with a cigarette in my mouth. She lit it.
   Suicidal guy: My wife hates me.

Okay, enough of that. I feel better already. Of course, it’s 5:30 in the morning, so it could be that I’m just delirious. Hey, I’ll take what I can get. Good night everybody. I hope to be as happy tomorrow, but I make no promises.

NOTES:
* - Didn’t want to interrupt the line of levity, but didn’t want to let the thought go either. Just as often as people assume a suicidal person must also be depressed, I have assumed that a depressed person (me) must also be suicidal. Talk about a dysfunctional automatic thought! “Well, I’ve been depressed all weekend, I guess it’s about time I start thinking about suicide…” Sounds stupid when you say it like that, but the thought process (sorry folks, I just can’t resist) has a mind of its own.

** - Harkening back? Halcyon days? Yeah, I know. Just thinking about Sherlock Holmes makes me conjure up words I could have only heard in my youth, moments before the speaker was severely beaten up for using such uppity words. “You think you smart, huh? Well, how smart are you now with my foot stuck in yo’ ass?! Punk ass bitch think he all smarter than me and shit…” Snap out of it, Ashley! Click those heels and get back to Kansas (with yo’ white ass)!

A Change Gonna Come

Sam Cooke’s old song “A Change Gonna Come” is about the hopefulness of a Black American despite the sorrowful life available to him. I find the words are applicable to any situation in which a person must find hope in a better future despite all evidence to the contrary.

A Change Is Gonna Come Lyrics