When my son died, I thought about suicide. It’s not that I wanted to die, per se; more that I didn’t know how to go on living. How did I make sense of life again? How did I function in a world in which I barely knew my name?
How was I supposed to go on living, surrounded by more than I could even comprehend of pain?
This is one of those things I think people often don’t understand about suicide and suicidal feelings. They throw around phrases like, “There’s always something to be thankful for,” or “It always gets better,” but these things aren’t always true.
Sometimes, life simply sucks, with no option or means for amelioration.
Sometimes, even when you don’t actively want to die, the weight of living is still too much for you.
And if we’re going to really talk about suicide, we have to acknowledge that, at least for some people, this is their truth.
And I am forever thankful for those who didn’t try to take my truth away from me.