suicide...

It’s become difficult to write this blog lately.  The more and more people, family, friends, and coworkers, who know it’s me writing, the harder it is to write about what’s really going on.  So tonight, I’m going to take a page from some training we’ve been doing and fall back on my own words about being honest with ourselves.

In the past month I’ve allowed suicide to creep into my mind more than once.  I’ve not made plans or even thought about how, but it’s there like a comfort against what I understand to be temporary but cannot see past. 

The thought of people knowing this makes me sick.  I can’t be considered weak.  I am a brick wall against the world for my veteran, and I cannot be weakened by my own emotions.  He counts on me to pilot our ship over rough seas.  But I’m standing at that ragged edge right now where tears hang just behind my face at all times.  My mother’s death, my son’s turmoil, my dad being so far away and lonely, have all piled across already burdened shoulders.

I know if I post this, my husband will be devastated.  It will be a crushing blow to an already battle worn man.  I know he’ll think it’s my job or the impending C & P, but it’s not.  I’m not worried about the exam.  I’m happy in my job.  He’ll think it’s him.  And it’s not.  He’s my best day.  I just can’t breathe because my chest is so constricted and I cannot seem to figure out why I’ve become so tightly wound that I’m about to explode across lives.

I know I’m not going to do it.  I have a running list in my mind of the reasons I can’t.  Too many people depend on me.  It’s not that I’m important, but I am necessary to make sure they’ll be okay.  I’ve been here before, sitting with my legs dangling over the cliff, smiling at the thought of release but knowing it’s just not going to happen.

So, I disconnect from emotions and focus on tasks, but as anyone knows compacting things causes energy and energy must escape somehow.  So the tears break surface and I sob uncontrollably until as suddenly as it started it stops.  I expel only enough to stop the escape, then I go back to compacting it all down into a boulder in my chest.

I don’t really want to say anything out loud.  I don’t want the attention, the eyes filled with pity.  I’ve spent three horrible days locked in a hospital because of errant words that couldn’t be taken back.  The fear of doing that again is more unbearable than the thought of actually going through with taking my life.  But in the end, I won’t do it.  I know myself.  It’s a game I play to keep myself going, like an alcoholic looking toward a drink tomorrow.  I know it’s not healthy, but right now health and survival are not one in the same.