My heart sank the other day, reading a post from a dear friend that she had lost a loved one to suicide. As usual, no one had suspected this was coming, and the entire circle of family and friends was in enormous pain and turmoil.
Unfortunately, I have seen this play out so many times recently. Young people with their whole lives ahead of them, that had decided right out of the gate that life was just too hopeless. Social justice activists, that had become overwhelmed by the fight against the rampant hatred that too often seems so much more prevalent than love. Young transgender people, hated and bullied by even their own families. I sit here writing this post with tears in my eyes, heartsick that none of these souls felt that life was worth living anymore, that they had no connection they felt was strong enough to lift them up, that the pain in their hearts was so immense that death was a preferable option.
I have a story to tell. One that I hope will touch at least one person, and give them a glimmer of hope. Give them the courage to reach out and find the support they need to keep going. I know it's a long post, but please read it to the end. Especially if you're in that dark space, and feel like you don't want to go on.
As an infant and toddler, I was surrounded by violence. Bitter arguments and fights between my parents, and horrendous physical abuse inflicted upon my three older brothers. To this day, almost 50 years later, I still have memories of high-pitched screams from elsewhere in the house. One piece of the dynamic was that my mother would not allow my father to put his hands on me. That was a good thing from a physical standpoint, but it created an undercurrent of resentment from my brothers that affected our relationship in later years.
My mom did end up divorcing my dad, and married a wonderful man that was actually a "Daddy" to me. For a brief period in time, we had the "Leave it to Beaver" lifestyle: Two parents that loved each other, a nice place to live, financial security. Two of my brothers had some behavior issues due to the years of abuse they'd suffered, but overall we were a good, loving family. Disaster showed up in the form of a malignant brain tumor; my beloved stepfather died. This trauma sent my mom into a downward spiral that she never recovered from. My brothers left home for the military, leaving me to cope with living in total chaos. A series of new "daddies"; total losers that ended up causing more drama than the love and support she was seeking. Including adding my baby sister to the dysfunctional mix. Caught up in her own issues, my mom no longer had it in her to protect us. I was subjected to abuse at the hands of one of my brothers every time he came home on leave. The daily beatings and one incident involving being strangled with a dog leash were bad enough, but the psychological torture was even worse. Constantly being told what a worthless "little puke" I was. There were periods of extreme poverty; moving from crappy place to crappy place. Times when food was so scarce we were living on potatoes scavenged from a local field. Despite her claims that if anyone ever tried to sexually abuse her daughters, she would "kill them with my bare hands", I was left on my own to fend off a stepfather's constant attempts to have sex with me. If he wasn't being a pervert, he was going into blind, senseless rages.
My biological father was nowhere in the picture. I didn't see him at all, for about ten years. Mom, of course, used this to convince me that he didn't love me or care about me. I did try having a relationship with him as an adult. While I do believe he loves me (in his way), he is totally incapable of having a healthy father/child relationship.
All this resulted in me reaching adulthood with no concept of what a healthy relationship was, and no sense of self-worth whatsoever. I didn't know it then, but I was hobbled by depression. I ended up in an abusive marriage, with two young daughters. I stayed much longer than I should have. For one thing, I was always taught to be "understanding" of the abusive behavior of others (Thanks, Mom). When I complained of the beatings from my brother, I had to "understand" that he did these things because of the abuse from his own father. When I went to her for protection from her husband's constant attempts to get down my pants, or one of his rage episodes, I had to "understand" that he was angry due to constant back pain, and he was from Kentucky, and "sexual jokes" are part of the culture there. So of course, I had to "understand" that my husband was abusive to me, because of the abuse and neglect he'd suffered as a child himself. The other reason for not leaving was that I was so beaten down, I didn't think I was even capable of raising two young girls on my own. My mother died when I was 23, and I ended up with custody of my sister, who was also trying to cope with the trauma of our upbringing.
The catalyst for turning things around was when a person came into my life, who was actually the first person ever to express outrage over the way I was being treated. That broke the emotional dam; all the trauma that I'd stuffed over a quarter century burst to the surface. Unfortunately, this friendship ended up being one of the most flagrant and painful betrayals ever, but that's another story. The important thing is that I finally realized that I had to get out or die. Even if the violence didn't escalate to a lethal level, I was suicidal at this point. I had held off these feelings by telling myself I had to stay for my daughters, but had begun to have thoughts that they would be better off without me. I left my marriage and started seeing a therapist. This person may have engaged with me on false pretenses, but despite that, he saved my life.
Things were much better, but I still struggled with depression. I was never diagnosed until my girls were in their teens. I still feel guilt over the ways I feel that I failed them, because it was so hard just to get up in the morning. My life since has had its ups and downs, but overall it was better than it had ever been. Then shit hit the fan.
I won't go into details, but events happened that sent my life into a tailspin. An engagement that turned into a total disaster. Unemployment and financial difficulties. Murphy's Law was kicking my ass. It seemed that every time I saw light at the end of the tunnel, something else would go wrong. My girls were okay, as they were reaching adulthood and getting out on their own. But my own life was a hot mess. If it weren't for the love of good friends, there were times I would have been literally living in my van. I also had no health coverage, so I wasn't able to get the medication for my depression. I hadn't reached the point where I was actually making plans to take myself out, but I was definitely feeling that I wouldn't be upset if I didn't wake up the next morning. And it's very possible for our emotions to impact our existence, so I very well could have convinced myself to die in my sleep.
Now we get to the point of this long involved story. In the middle of everything possible going wrong, I went tubing on the river with some friends. Yes, going down white water rapids on big innertubes. I know to some that may sound suicidal in itself, but it's actually a lot of fun. During the second run down the river, I was unable to make a very tight turn, and ended up caught in some tree branches hanging over the bank. I was pulled off my tube, and the water coming down over the rocks created a current that was pushing me to the bottom. I barely managed to grab onto a small branch. The only thing above water was my hand. The others in my group didn't realize I'd gone under, so I was on my own. If I didn't get myself out, I would drown. It was only through sheer force of will, that I was able to finally reach up with my other hand and get a strong enough grip to pull myself up a little at a time. My face was bloodied and I was seriously shaken up, but I was alive.
I was telling a good friend about this event, and she asked me what I felt it meant for me, in a spiritual sense. After thinking on it for a while, I finally realized. I had the chance to die, and I didn't take it. It would have been so easy, just to let go of that branch, and let the river take me. A few moments of struggling to breath, I would have gone unconscious, and that would be the end of it all. No more worries about money, having a place to live, fighting the depression; it would all be gone. But given that opportunity, I CHOSE LIFE. In spite of it all, there was still that instinctual spark inside of me, that fought to survive.
Today, my life isn't perfect, but it's pretty good. I still have goals I'm trying to reach, and faith that I'll get there. I share my life with a wonderful guy who loves me. (We were each other's first boyfriend/girlfriend in 10th grade; 30 years later, he found me on Facebook.) Sometimes I really hate my job, but I have great co-workers, get paid well for what I do, and have good benefits. I have a roof over my head, food in my belly, and the means to indulge my creativity. I have a lot of friends I can call on when I need to vent.
Some of you who are reading this have stories that are much more traumatic than mine, some not so much. But it doesn't matter. We all have our own breaking point, where we feel we just can't take one more day. I'm here to tell you that feeling is a lie. We can make it one more day, and one more, and one more. In your darkest moment, stop and look for that part of you down in your belly, that will fight to survive. That little spark of willpower, that will grab onto the branch, and not let go. It's there. Keep reaching out, and someone will be there to support you through this. Probably the same people who will be devastated at your loss. Talk to them, talk to total strangers if you have to. Just DON'T LET GO OF THAT BRANCH.
