Drive faster.

If that semi swerved.

If I wait for that train.

Over and over again our brains give us “outs”.  Stand too close the edge, who would know if I meant to or if it was an accident?  How old do the girls need to be before they don’t need me anymore?

 

The truth that nobody, and I mean nobody, will tell you is that we all have suicide thoughts.  Yup.  Every single sentient human that has suffered or been exposed to real trauma.  Why?  Because we have had to face death: in ourselves or in others, up close and personal.  It changes us.  Ignoring this fact and pretending like it is in someway “shocking” is asinine BS.  Death no longer holds a mystique or fear for us, we have seen it and we have watched it.  We survived it.  Yet it holds us.

My young cousin died by suicide 11 years ago on 26 December.  That was shocking to me.  What did a young Irish kid know of death?  How could she have come to that point?  The truth is that death is so much simpler and easier than life.  Life is tough and requires often far more than we have to give.

Only the truly brave choose suicide.  I doubt anybody who isn’t us can comprehend what it takes to try to kill ourselves.  To end our lives, the sheer magnitude of our strength to fight the inbuilt automatic responses to protect life and limb.  I believe that the general dead brained response to suicide is so focused on “failure” “cowardice” etc because it terrifies the living crap out of them.  The ability to self destruct speaks to the very heart of our existence.  What is truly despicable is the lack of understanding coming from those who should be studying, researching and coming to a real understanding of a phenomena  that has lived with us since we first crawled out of the swamp.

When I lose a friend to suicide who has seen combat, what a lovely term that is: combat.  When I lose a friend who has killed or watched his friends be killed, had to on behalf of his country do violent things that the pathetic insufferable wasteland of society fail to understand … my bad… otherwise known as your regular westerner…  comes home and nobody understands.  in fact, worse, they patronize.  “Thank you for your service”  WTF does that even mean.  Always said in an embarrassed tone.

Suicide by comparison of living and having to live by the rules of those who think “Thank you for your service” suffices as support for those who have given all, is a sweet kiss at the end of a thankless journey through hell.

I didn’t serve.  I was in fact the child and adult that was served.  I was saved, over and over and bloody hell, over again by men and women who gave all.  Why?  And for what?  Regular folk who wanted their world to remain as was.  Sadly for them their country is no more.  (Bit for me too as I am without a country or a citizenship and have never voted anywhere other than for St Andrew in the Canadian Conservative election.)  Why do I find solace in my thoughts of dying?  Because it’s always there.  A comfort blanket that has wrapped me from my earliest years: I literally can’t remember a day when I haven’t thought “oh well, today I could die” not in a shrug but in a certainty that literally, today, yup…  I could die.  It’s like a warm mug of hot chocolate to comfort the darkest of hours.

Suicide thoughts are not something to be shunned or scared of.  Seriously.  Let’s stop this BS.  Any psych who sits there and grabs their throat in horror at the mention of suicide whether they wear a necklace or not, is to be fired.  They don’t understand the very essence of trauma.  Fire their sorry ass.

Suicide is the escape to be with the ones we have lost.  Suicide is the escape from the pain of existence.  It is at the heart of drug addiction, self harm and all that jazz.  If we embrace the fact that yes, we want to go: all else becomes so much simpler.

I have struggled with my survival.  My existence.  My art comes from a deep understanding of hopelessness and loss.  I find joy in the smallest of things because I avoid the “big” things which I find crass and insincere.  When my life becomes difficult and too many stressors arrive, suicide is my friend.  Like a warm blanket it wraps me in a protective shield of “hey fuckers I can always peace out”.  I won’t and I don’t because I am loved and I love, I am not isolated.

Which brings me to my point: isolation.

Isolation not thoughts of suicide is what kills us.  Isolate and you die.

Kate Gillie
Author

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