I have a very personal feeling about suicide: Don’t do it.
Really. Just don’t freakin’ do it.
If you’ve ever thought about it, do whatever it takes to get the thought out of your head. Counseling. Prayer. A support system. Anything and everything you can do.
My life has taken some pretty stressful turns in recent years, especially in the past week. I found myself in a situation over the past several days where not only did my marriage seem to be on shaky ground but a rift was growing between myself and my dad, who is my only surviving parent. I was down. It was grim. And things are tight on top of all that, financially and otherwise. On my worst day, which was only a few days ago, Mrs. Blue called me up from work to make sure I was OK. She was worried, because she thought maybe I might be so down as to be suicidal or at least somehow hurt myself.
I can’t say I blame her, I suppose. She has had at least one close friend I suspect was suicidal. She didn’t kill herself exactly, but her lifestyle and the way she died was born out of depression and while she may not have exactly intended to die, she did, in a sense, kill herself through inattention to her diabetes and too much drinking and other nonsense.
Moreover, a man who had been becoming a friend to my wife a few years back, and who had been a friend of her late mom’s before, committed suicide. Came home from serving and protecting folks, decided he couldn’t take life anymore, and put a gun in his mouth.
Myself, I have never seriously considered suicide. In fact, it’s almost never even a passing thought for more than about two seconds. Not even this past week. Not any time. And, I suspect, not ever. It’s not because of some tremendous strength within me so much as it is a personal philosophy that there are few things more heinous that a person can do than kill himself or herself.
Sure, there are worse things, perhaps, involving rape and children, but suicide nonetheless ranks right up there, because when you do it, you can’t take it back. You can’t fix it. You leave behind a kind of nuclear-level damage damage, a stinking and burning pile of emotional rubble, that anyone who cared for you will have to dig out of for years. Some people will blame themselves for not having been able to stop you from killing yourself. Some might end their own lives in despair. Lives will be damaged, not fixed, by your suicide.
The only person that might be getting off easy is you. And that’s so very selfish in my mind. About the most selfish act there is.
No, I’m not going to tell you it’s a mortal sin that will damn you to hell. Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. My father in law argues that it is because you can’t ask forgiveness for it and because you are choosing the time of your death instead of letting God’s plans for you play out. I call nonsense on both of those notions, but still, it’s an opinion held by some. But again, it’s not what I’m arguing. I’m arguing that it’s something so cruel to do to those who care about you that it isn’t worth doing.
Even if you are a douche-nozzle of such epic proportions that you can spew yeasty chunks and sanguine fecal matter 50 yards in every direction, somebody most likely gives a shit about you. And probably more than one somebody.
Really, someone cares about you deeply, almost certainly. Someone. Somewhere.
If you have even a caring bone in your own body, than please care enough not to put that person through the hell of a suicide on your part.