The human brain is remarkable. Ask anyone and you’ll get the same reply and it doesn’t matter their age, religion, gender, politics, nationality, or race. The best science can tell us is that it is extremely complex, but the establishment cannot elaborate on the intricacies behind the brain’s why or how. Humanity is still on the earliest frontier of understanding what our heads can accomplish and what makes humans…human. The fact is, most of us take our noggin for granted.
We come into this world knowing how to drink milk, blink, and many more things. But the brain does so much that we don’t even acknowledge and it always has. It keeps our hearts beating and controls our breathing, and we never have to tell it to; it carries out these operations that we never consciously learned but are essential to life. Most don’t give it a second thought. So many cool areas of the brain, each with its own job. I personally find executive functioning, the ability to multitask, to be among the brain’s most amazing superpowers. Likely because I used to be able to do those things and now I find myself unable to.
As we develop into adults, our noodle builds pathways, learns how to understand abstract concepts like time and space, object permanence, and develops into a communication powerhouse. Quite significantly, the brain also serves as our emotional regulator. Everything we feel originates there, and science currently believes that the limbic system, among other noodly places, makes connections to the outside world and places some kind of value on it. By way of example, our beloved kisses our neck and the feelings on the skin ignite a complex interplay of brainy activities. There’s a lightning-fast assessment of what happened and our brain acts upon it. Hormones dump, attention is diverted, butterflies in the belly, and more.
I once read that humans have yet to develop a computer that can compute and respond as fast as the human brain. I do not know if this is true, but it is really quite remarkable to think about. Human reflexes are lightning fast and there is no denying how speedy we can respond in situations presenting harmful. Certain functions are just built in. No upgrade needed.
MENTAL HEALTH
When it comes to mental illnesses and wellness, science has made such great strides in the way we approach treatments, too. Society, though it still has a significant amount of progress to make, is gradually accepting ideas of depression, panic, and the like. There are a lot of willful idiots out there, people who are either ignorant or stupid, maybe a complex potion of both, who show a startling lack of empathy and no desire to learn. Then there are others who want to know, to help, so badly…but they don’t know how. These people need to be informed, desperately. So, it has become my mission, a way to give back. To offer a bird’s eye view into the mind of someone who was once well, and then wasn’t.
The thing is, feelings are an abstract thing to grasp. Emotions are faceless and odorless, they are without physical form and they move in the ether. One minute here, the next gone. Sometimes, we don’t consciously know what sparked a particular emotion or thought. It’s all very slippery.
Harder yet to comprehend are what I call next-level mental health considerations. Somewhat complicated ideas. Though, it’s not too far of a stretch to understand chronic anxiety or panic because most people have experienced the fight-or-flight response and can conceptualize them in a chronic form. While they might not know panic or anxiety, they can make assumptions about what it might be like based upon their lived experience. Nearly everyone has felt sadness and those feelings can be used as a basis for comprehending the fundamentals of depression; in very simple terms, it’s kind of like an extended period of melancholy. In both of these situations, first-hand, though very short-term, experiences can help otherwise healthy people begin to understand when the mind is unhealthy and how it might feel in a prolonged state.
But what about when the mind is next-level unhealthy? Really mind-boggling concepts like delusions, hallucinations, personality disorders, and schizophrenia, to name a few. These illnesses are too far removed from things most healthy people experience in their day-to-day lives and thus harder to understand. A person cannot really extrapolate what delusions are when they’ve never been anywhere near the state. The idea of non-existent items, people, and voices anchor Hollywood movies for a reason; it’s completely unfathomable to most people and makes for great stories. We’ve seen it sensationalized all over the place, the media, the court system, and in other forms of entertainment. Being unable to fully understand the differences among minds is a stiff proposition when we don’t really understand the one that resides in our own skull.
So, humans do what humans do best…we slam anything that is “other.” Make it bad, wrong, unholy. Welcome to the concept of shame for those individuals suffering. And this shame seeps into how we educate others on the subject. Shhhhh. Don’t talk about it.
Isn’t it interesting that everyone knows the symptoms of a heart attack? Most adults know the signs of a stroke. Young kids, athletes, and educators everywhere are schooled on the hallmarks of a concussion. And everyone on the planet can tell when grandma isn’t acting right, even without a dementia diagnosis. Yet, how many people really know what the indicators are for suicide? Not many. It’s because we don’t prioritize mental health care and awareness like we do heart attacks. And, most importantly, because it forces us to talk about the wellness of someone with others.
It is within this context, a broken mind, that I’d like to talk about the elephant in the room: suicide or suicide ideation. I speak of this from a very unique perspective because while I do not have anyone in my immediate world that has died in this fashion, the thoughts have crossed my mind. I’m a survivor.
This conversation is focused on providing insights for those who refuse to acknowledge it as a real disease. My maternal grandmother is thought to have died by suicide, though I cannot be certain, and a distant friend’s daughter, too. I secretly believe my mom deliberately stopped taking her heart medications as a way to truncate her life. It’s extraordinarily painful to think about.
I think a lot of people want to understand, to try, to help. The thing is, it’s really hard. Because to elevate these discussions requires talking with the deceased’s family; it is gutting and awkward for a lot of people. It’s a situation loaded with emotions, and all of them are valid. Sadness, confusion, bewilderment, anger, shame, resentment, fear, and so many more. Mostly though, people are just scared to ask questions. To cross some line that is offensive or harmful. The thing is, unless we are able to get answers to the hard questions and talk about them, we are stuck. Helpful to nobody.
Those individuals that can ask questions don’t have a platform to share it. We do have scores of doctors who mean well, but their writing is abstract and turgid, riddled with statistics and medical jargon. Not at all helpful to John Doe. There are survivor groups that talk about what it’s like to come out the other side of it all, but what healthy-minded person attends these groups? Therapists are a good source of information, but so hard to find. See the problem?
For the most part, I think the world walks around confused. To understand how dying by suicide can happen, we have to personalize it. Talk about it in ways that resonate with healthy minds while not offending the survivors of those left behind. We cannot sensationalize it, either. But we have to paint a picture of someone’s life, a life lost, and bring it back in such a manner as to help the healthy-minded people understand the messiness of it all. And it is messy. We need people to see signs of the struggles nested deep within the heads of those who are gone. In simpler terms, y’all need to go down the rabbit hole and open your eyes without judgement. You need to check every last assumption at the entry and leave it behind. You are entering someone else’s mind, their sacred space, the very place they hid because they feared judgement and shame.
And well, here I am. A writer. Someone that came out of the other side of this atrocity, but only because of dumb luck. A stalled train and incredibly perceptive friend saved my life. I’m gifted with words, can make them dance on paper, and I have the ability to convey complex ideas and to describe people, down to the smallest particulars. This is the backhanded blessing of childhood abuse, and I hate it. It grants me the ability to hone in on little morsels and characteristics most miss. I see entire worlds of meticulous, maddening specifics that swirl in my head and lock in, and others see nothing. It was a tool for survival as a child and helped me avoid my surroundings by focusing on particulars. But now, I’d like to put it to good use.
My goal is not to celebrate or glorify what happened; quite the contrary. It is to pull those small details out of the shadows and write about them. To explain the nuances of someone with such intensity, veracity, and passion that the world has only one thing to do: look at it in all its rawness. In doing so, we begin to make sense of the person who struggled in ways most will never imagine. When we acknowledge the small indicators we previously overlooked, we can use that knowledge to save a life.
And trust me, for every story, every departed soul, there were details and signs all around. Tons of them.
I don’t have all of the answers, but I want to highlight the issue with every spotlight I can find. And that’s the first step to solving any problem. Words are my illumination device. We have to accept the ugliness of it all to learn about it. Because the ugliness of it exists whether or not you choose to acknowledge it.
A LITTLE DISCLAIMER
Before I delve into my personal story, I need to get the rage out. It is simply impossible for me to convey a level-headed, cogent argument when it is laced with anger. People are mean and vastly misinformed, many saying that death by suicide was selfish or stupid. While it’s easy to point fingers at the deceased, it does nothing to stop the cycle of people engaging in the act. And isn’t that what we want to do…stop people from dying unnecessarily? In some cases, people are so locked into their opinions that they show nothing but willful stupidity.
This idiocy comes through in how these deaths are discussed. Many say crass things like, “he committed suicide” implying it was a wilful act carried out by a sound-minded individual. Respectful ways to convey it could look like, “suicide took her life” or “he died because of suicide.” See the difference? It places the blame on the suicide, and thus the malfunctioning or illness of the brain for the death; it removes it from the person – their humanity, their heart, their soul – for having chosen it. And, I think, regardless of your views, we can agree that anyone dying in this fashion is not well, by any measure. So, here’s a helpful tidbit: if you cannot substitute the word “cancer” (or any other bodily ailment widely accepted by society) for “suicide,” change your delivery. Words matter. Use them wisely or shut the hell up.
If the internet has taught me anything, it is that there are thousands of keyboard warriors out there oozing disgusting levels of arrogance; they show a complete disregard for others’ experiences. Gross generalizations do nothing to further the process of destigmatizing the issues surrounding mental health, which means people will continue to suffer in silence. Saying someone “killed themself,” implies that the person willfully engaged in self-ending behaviors rather than the disease being the propulsion mechanism behind it. In practical terms, this means that people who died by suicide were miraculously able to override all survival and self-preservation instincts, at their will, and at a time and place of their choosing. Let me be very clear: nobody who is well choses this. Nobody.
This should explain partially why people endure the agony of this alone and in silence. They fear being judged by the idiots. The ones out there pontificating about it all, doling out value judgements and platitudes like they’re St. Peter. Any impact towards change needs to start with how we view the epidemic. How we view things starts with our vocabulary.
Worse yet are others who, feeling empowered by some new-found enlightenment, come out with how they have forgiven the person that died by suicide. This enrages me to the point of losing all words; I’m speechless. You’ve “forgiven” the person that died? Are you serious? Would you feel the need to forgive someone who died because of a stroke, cancer, Lou Gehrig’s disease (ALS), or from complications of type 1 diabetes? You wouldn’t. Keep your forgiveness to yourself, because those who are suffering neither seek it nor need it. You are part of the reason they go into the deepest corners of their mind.
Let’s move on to the subject at hand…
SOME CONTEXTUALIZATION
For the people that don’t understand but aren’t outwardly hateful about the topic, let me explain. We marginalize those that suffer mental illnesses or are neurodivergent in ways we do nothing else. I’ll add obesity, alcoholism, and addiction in this category because science is showing that overeating and metabolic issues originate in the brain, much like their addictive counterparts. Imagine that. Anything with the brain is treated differently, with disregard, irreverence. Disgust. Even in the early phases of dementia or Alzheimer’s, patients are riddled with self-conscious fears of being forgetful, wondering if they have lost their minds. Scared to mention it for fear of what people will think. Shame.
When a person close to you is struggling to get up the stairs because they have crutches, what do you do? You offer assistance or support in a meaningful manner. Let’s say that the same person lost their leg to some bizarre flesh-eating bacteria that you don’t understand at all. The process of diagnosis, procedures, and healing takes a lot of time; it’s a huge life disruptor. The same thing. You’d offer to help in a way that respected the person suffering, make yourself available to them, and you might even network with other friends and family members to create a system of help. And if that person is stubborn, refusing help, you’d find creative ways to be present. Sometimes that assistance is just being there, silently, while they come to terms with their situation. Maybe it’s dropping off pre-made dinner or just grabbing the mail.
What if your friend is significantly depressed and anxious? What does society do? Not a fucking thing. We isolate these people, shun them, and shame them. Worse yet…it changes the friendship/family dynamic and awkwardness sets in. It can alter work relationships and change career trajectories.
Bacteria leg would likely garner time off work and a specified amount of time to find care and resources. The thing is, brains aren’t any different than legs, coronary arteries, or the kidneys and yet these matters are treated differently. By nearly everyone.How screwed up is that?
I have a theory about why this is. When someone’s body is broken and waging war on them, we can look past it. In the instance above, we can still look at, talk to, and interact with our friend that had their leg amputated from the bizarre bacteria. We don’t have to look at it. We glance over it, around it, beyond it. Easy peasy, right? But when the problem is the head – what’s behind the eyes and between the ears – we cannot do that. You are looking right at the very thing that is the problem, dangerously close to their humanity, their core, their essence. And nobody wants to say that someone else is broken. But if the brain is defective or misfiring for whatever reason, society happily goes right for their humanity, core, essence. Screwed up, isn’t it?
Some people are far braver than others, can look at the mentally ill with grace, love, and humility. Some try and fail and try again. Some, well, they are just weak and don’t even try. Avoidance is the name of their game and they are among the worst of the bunch. The absolute scourge of society are those that belittle, mock, or look down on the mentally ill. Regardless of your decision to try or not, to be supportive or not, you are impacting the person suffering, who, incidentally, should not have to accommodate your discomfort around them. Everything you do impacts the speed and efficacy of the healing process. It can also set it backwards, significantly. So, by looking away, you are shaming them. By looking at them with anything other than love, you are shaming them. By avoiding them, you are shaming them. It’s time everyone understands this simple concept. And if you don’t, shame on you.
It’s ironic to me that we can vilify one part of the human body and not the other. We look at people with heart conditions, cancer, or mobility issues as victims of their human form. Somehow their body failed them or didn’t do what it was supposed to do. Even in cases when lifestyle choices might have contributed to their condition, these people are still the victim. We feel sorry for them, and we should. When you get right down to it, it makes sense because we are humans, suffering human conditions. Life is hard and there’s the constant quest to make sense of the nonsense. To blame something, anything, for the anguish. I get it. But, as a society, we don’t do the same for maladies between the ears. And that’s wrong.
Here’s the thing, self-preservation is built into human DNA. We cannot control it. Regardless of your views on faith, God(s), the afterlife, there is no denying that humans have evolved as a means of continuing mankind. Maybe you believe that God infused people with this trait, or the cosmos gave it to you. Either way, it’s the mechanism in your brain that makes you duck when a plate is thrown at you and recoil when you get burned. You don’t control it; it controls you and decides when to kick into action. Healthy and well-minded people don’t just decide to go against instinct one day, and actively work to harm themselves or end their lives, without a reason. How could they override the single most complex system we have yet to encounter as humans? Here’s how: something is broken or changes, clearing the path for deliberately self-destructive behaviors.
Before I get into the really sticky part of this post, let me first go on record as saying I am not a psychiatrist, psychologist, neurosurgeon, shaman, or anything remotely close to being considered an expert on these matters. I speak from a personal perspective as someone who once had a very firm grasp on reality until I didn’t. And nobody around me “really knew” until I departed from reality; they looked away and I was embarrassed in silence. Suffering. And when people began finding out, they treated me differently. Still do. In a word, my brain broke, betraying me, fooling me, and taunting me. It held me captive as a prisoner and it seemed not one person cared. If they did, they didn’t know how to act.
MY STORY
If you’ve read this far, you can likely glean a few things about me. There was some amount of pain and suffering in my youth, I have a rather strong sense of right and wrong, and I have a pretty strong command of the English language and writing. All of this is to say, I’ve been around the block, have seen my fair share of badness, and I can communicate pretty well. I have no problem telling people what I want, need, like, and don’t. I’m no wallflower, fine to speak my views in a room of 1,000 people. God’s honest truth. I cry like the rest of the world, feel pain, love my kids, find my husband irritatingly maddening and super cute at the same time, giggle, and think all animals are spectacular. I love tomatoes but hate ketchup. I have decided opinions about the way toilet paper should go on the roll, believe in kindness, don’t like rule breakers, and am a prolific reader. All of these things are very brain-driven concepts.
I am very well educated, but have a non-traditional education background, and this is very important to my story. Stereotypes exist that only certain types of people get mentally ill. You’ve heard them all…it’s the weak people, stressed out CEO’s, or only the poor. I’m here to tell you, mental health doesn’t discriminate and I fall into many different categories and none of them matter. My brain revolted on me and it didn’t care who I was. But why does my education have to do with any of this? Because I was once very efficient, taught at the college level, and could take on intellectual subjects like a boss. For me, the thing that I love most, is the first place I started to notice slipping. I slowly fell out of love with the one thing that previously brought me so much joy.
I have an undergraduate degree, a masters degree, and the dissertation for my PhD is yet to be completed. All of which are with the highest academic honors. I have one B+ on my transcripts through 13 years of college and graduate school; an 89.3% that would not be rounded up. This puts my education level among the top 3.5% of the world population. Why is it only 3.5%? Because it’s hard as hell, and I haven’t finished yet. More specifically, executive functioning, memorization, and contextualization are leveraged and exploited in ways most cannot imagine. To get through this kind of program, you have to have a level of mental toughness unseen by most people. Pushing through the mental stress is the name of the game. This is not to say there aren’t other grueling jobs out there; it is to say that when you study at the highest levels, your brain, and its abilities, are on display. Your brain is your skill and also the instrument used to engage in the craft. Some use their hands, others their bodies, and some a mix of both. My talents reside between my ears, and so does my strongest work tool.
At this level of education, your head becomes fodder for the academic elite. Logic, reasoning, argumentation…all of it. Committees and professors seem to make sport of poking holes in the ways you cognitively approach topics, form arguments, and handle Socratic torture. It all comes down to the brain. I was lightning fast on my feet, could recall facts and figures with ease, and never backed down from a knotty philosophical debate. The knottier the better. Bring it. This shit made my mind purr like a Ferrari circling Vatican city, navigating narrow lanes, avoiding pedestrians, and steep terrain. I loved it.
More pointedly, my brain worked rather well. By all outward measures – medical, academic, intellectual, emotional, and otherwise – I was good to go. Until I wasn’t. And it isn’t back to full capacity; I’m not sure that I ever will go back to that place of sharp lucidity, but that’s a topic for another day.
The years of my childhood and adolescence were defined by me trying to survive and get the hell out. Forward and planned thought, resolved focus. My brain functioned to get me out with reason, logic, pragmatism, and calculated risk. It was an interesting balance of the emotional and logical and happens to be one of the best things I have ever done in my life. Again, brain-forward actions got me to where I am.
After moving across the country, I eventually struggled with happiness and a feeling of purpose, you can read about it here. The birth of my children elevated strange concerns and behaviors. I had bizarre thoughts, crazy dreams, and began Bobbing it out (Bob, from What about Bob? is one of my favorite characters on screen). It was all characteristic of OCD, but I’m not obsessive-compulsive. In subtle and discreet ways, I worked my ass off to hide it from everyone.
Isn’t that odd? My mother suffered significant mental illnesses and I know first hand that it is all real. They are nothing to be ashamed of, but I worked to hide what was happening from everyone in my midst. Why? Because they didn’t believe it like I did. They didn’t live it, see it, and they weren’t harmed by it. My husband, in-laws, friends, co-workers, and more…their idea was just get over it. Go exercise more. Maybe eat more protein. Have you tried praying?
After my parents passed away, things changed but not on a dime. Pearl, my mom, died 11 years before Mick, my dad, and while her death was painful, it altered my reality almost instantly, but I had time to MacGuyver myself together before Mick died.
Part of me became inaccessible, probably as a means of veiling the pain. Over time, I climbed further and further into my head. I had a deep sense of foreboding, regret, loss, and confusion. In my mind, I replayed anxious thoughts over and over again. Trying to determine when it all went wrong and wondering what I could have done differently. Worse, I focused on why. A lot. My brain perseverated on strange things and I was unable to break free. I couldn’t stop the hamster wheel in my head once it started. Ever. This, looking back, was the first of my many steps backwards. I couldn’t stop the incessantness of it all. This was the birth of my anxiety. The kind with teeth.
The other parts of me felt scattered. Where I previously was able to manage the demands of graduate school, a new mortgage, kids, a husband, and 7 cats (yes, seven), I slowly started losing my grip. Things randomly began falling through the cracks. I’d miss a lunch date, a school form for the kids, or to pick up the dry cleaning. There was no rhyme or reason to what I missed. I was the personification of Swiss cheese, random holes showing up that would gradually move as I made my way through life. Each day a new slice of cheese and the holes would move as time passed. I chalked it up to exhaustion from parenting.
Eventually, the random misses increased in consequence and frequency. Forgotten permission slips became missed doctor appointments, the dry cleaning became leaving the gas stove on, and a missed lunch date would be completely forgetting to cook dinner. I cannot explain how this happened. When my husband, children, or friends inquired about what happened, I was quick on my feet and could cover my tracks. I had to. Why? Because my slipping made others mad. My husband and in-laws especially, Mick because he would liken me to my mom, my friends who shirked me off as avoiding them, everyone. Rather than asking me if anything was wrong or taking a goddamn minute to really check in with me, I was seen as lazy, defective. The worst of these assaults came from my in-laws. I soon became unable to keep up with myself. Deep embarrassment defined my world. Hide it at all costs. And hide the sadness that resulted from feeling myself slipping.
My cognitive abilities also eroded. I used to be able to multitask like a boss, get things done, quite well, and with time to spare. Working under pressure was like a drug for me. Soon, I couldn’t focus on one task without significant distraction and then I lost my ability to complete anything accurately. Mistakes in my writing, drifting off in day dreams, and a total loss of time. My husband would come home from work, me still in jammies, and wondered what the hell I’d done all day. These were among some of the more stressful moments in my marriage.
Here’s the really painful thing to write: people around me, those that are my closest friends, had to have seen it. In fact, I know most did. They have now admitted seeing some slipping and small changes over time. I’m not talking about people I saw here and there that had few data points with me. The people I speak of were my dailies, with whom I interacted all the time. Why didn’t they say anything or offer meaningful support? Because I can assure you they saw it…my children did. And if kids, who lack words for emotions, situations, and problems can pick up on discrete changes over time, I’m damn certain others could. But, here’s the thing: kids aren’t jaded by the world. They looked at me in the raw form. They weren’t ashamed to pester me or ask over and over and over again, “what’s wrong mommy?” There was no line; they acted purely on instinct…they knew something was off. They were yet to be handcuffed by social stigma.
Many of my friends thought I “needed time to myself” or they “didn’t want to be intrusive” or I was just “really stressed out.” Those closest to me did nothing. Let that sink in for a moment. God forbid they ask if anything was wrong. But, they sure as hell would have offered help if my leg was broken or I’d suffered a stroke. I am not angry with these people. I believe they, too, suffer from the radioactive nature of the social stigma surrounding mental illness. They have been conditioned to look away.
As a side note: I’m a grown woman. I’d like to highlight that with age comes a certain self awareness. Imagine all of this crap is happening in the head of a teenager or young adult who isn’t fully developed. Kids barely know how to be with themselves or amongst each other on a good day; throw this into the mix and game over. What is bonafide sadness or ambivalence on the part of the teen suffering is perceived as bitchiness or rudeness to friends. Is it the friends’ fault? No. Kids don’t know how to communicate with and for themselves on a good day, how are they supposed to read and interpret each other’s emotionally riddled help signals? And, for the record, I’d like to consider myself kind of a bad ass. I was scared to ask for help, fear of shame. For a teen? Forget it. Their entire existence is defined by avoiding shame and embarrassment. See the problem? Anyway…back to my story.
During this same time as I struggled alone in my head, I began having twisted and emotionally volatile dreams. These nighttime horror flicks would play in my head over and over and I didn’t know why. My sleep was horrible and I’d emerge from bed having spent the prior 7 hours in a state somewhere between sleep and awake. I was aware of my surroundings, could hear cars outside and my cats inside, while my mind dove into bizarre places that felt eerily familiar but not quite real. I can assure you though, what I had just emerged from wasn’t sleep in any real sense.
When Mick died, a year into COVID, I hit a wall. Number 3, my father’s wife, was horrible and hid the information from me regarding his death, the circumstances surrounding it, and the funeral plans. I was enraged. Not that I would have gone, but the idea that some two-bit with talons, supposedly my mother’s BFF, stripped me of this choice sent me off the deep end. Hard and fast. I was barely held together by a toothpick, paper clips, dental floss, and duct tape on a normal day. This was all my head needed to run off without me. The irony of this is not lost on me. She thought she was able to control the narrative and bully me by obfuscating my father’s demise. And it may have worked temporarily, sending me down a tail spin. But she has yet to meet the new Stuart.
I was in the market the first day it happened, the day my mind began playing serious games with me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my dead mother, Pearl. Pushing a grocery cart. I turned my head back so fast as to render myself with a case of whiplash. No Pearl. Nobody that resembled her, either. In fact, the produce section was empty. At that moment, I started sweating, shaking, and my mind raced. I saw Pearl and I would have bet my life on it. There was no question in my mind that she was there. And yet, I knew she was dead. I remember thinking to myself that I was coming unhinged. Nearly 3 years later, I can tell you what I was wearing down to my undergarments, the handbag I carried, perfume I wore, earrings, and the hair clip that kept stabbing me in the back of the head. Details…I hang on to the strangest ones.
These events continued for quite a while, and Pearl was my only guest. She showed up at night, a lot, and scared the crap out of me. Pearl followed me to the shower, popped up in the car, and hung out while I cooked. She never spoke, but she stared at me. It was the kind eyes, not the evil ones that watched me. Her outfit was always the same; black slacks, a purple shirt, black flats, short hair, and glasses on her head. When she first started frequenting my today life, it was when something ignited one of my senses that could be connected to a memory of my childhood. Eventually, though, Pearl just showed up whenever the hell she wanted to.
Our time together felt normal, and I can say now that it wasn’t her. That said, Not Pearl was not something I told anyone about. I knew I couldn’t, but not because I thought she was fake. People wouldn’t believe me. I would be deemed broken, crazy, or bad. So, I kept Not Pearl to myself. She remained a constant in my life. Not Pearl was with me as my unraveling continued. She felt like my guide.
Not long after Not Pearl took up residence, I almost killed myself and about 10 other people on I-285 when I swerved from a car that was tailgating me too closely. I soon realized that Not Pearl must have called for car service. Everywhere I moved in my car, a black Cutlass from the 80’s followed me. It didn’t matter where I was, what time of day, or what car I was driving. Black Car followed along. I couldn’t ever see the face of the driver. It was the shape of a person, but greyed out. Black Car became rote in my world. I expected to see it just like the real, human mailman I see everyday at 3:30 pm. It never once occurred to me that Black Car wasn’t real. It was real. It was there, it was just invisible to everyone else. Black Car was also a closely held secret because shame is a real jackass. I wanted so desperately to tell someone, anyone, that I was seeing things that I knew weren’t there, but I couldn’t. When I tried to broach the subject with Husband, he looked at me as if I had been on a bender.
The interesting thing about Not Pearl and Black Car is that they just hung out in the background of my life. They became ambient players in the daily playlist of living. Always there, and if not, it was because something or someone had my attention. Not Pearl and Black Car never visited when I was with my family or amongst other people. I found myself talking to Not Pearl. Holding conversations, albeit one-sided, about everything. I was scared of her, as if I was 10 again, but that didn’t stop me from prattling about. I knew Not Pearl was not real, but also not fake.
Eventually, I overheard a conversation with voices that are eerily familiar to me. Imagine sitting in a booth at a diner and two guys are sitting at the table behind you holding a conversation…about you. The first time this happened, I was in the kitchen. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I know the voice of one of the Two Guys talking, his voice holds prominence in my mind, but the other is still a mystery. Two Guys just talked about my life, in great detail, as if reading a biography about me. They never talked to me, they were narrating me. Their visits were frequent but not consistent. I gradually became paranoid about everything. Two Guys talked about the deepest, darkest parts of my past in graphic detail. I was totally and absolutely certain they were going to talk to people and tell them about what happened to me. As I type this, my heart pounds and my stomach is churning. The mind…very powerful. It once worked in concert with me, but now it was against me.
Unrelenting panic attacks, insomnia, anger, and emotional volatility served as the contextual backdrop to Not Pearl, Black Car, and Two Guys. I was unable to sleep, I couldn’t eat, Xanax was no longer working, I cried all the time, and I was scared of my own shadow. I faked it like a boss in front of everyone I knew. Showering slowed down, I was vigilant of every change in my surroundings, and nothing was safe or sacred.
To be very clear, I do not think that everyone with suicidal ideation or thoughts sees things or hears things. Remember, I am not a doctor. No two people are alike and I think suffering comes in as many shapes as their are human bodies. That said, I do think that inability to sleep, crying, withdrawing, personal hygiene, and a change in food habits are likely for most who suffer.
Then, one day, I was doing what I had come to accept as my new normal…hanging with Not Pearl, followed by Black Car, and talked about by Two Guys. Then I heard myself in my head, “life would be better if you weren’t here.” I have never, not through the entirety of my life, ever thought anything like this. In fact, I have been borderline thanatophobic since Mick permanently altered my ideas of God and the afterlife at age 5. I avoided funerals at all costs (even lost a job because of this), conversations, movies, songs, and anything that came remotely close to the subject.
The thoughts were intrusive, insidious, and unrelenting. My own voice in my head, talking to me as if I was another person. It was subtly telling me that death was preferable to life, that my friends hated me, that my children were being damaged by me, that my husband was miserable with me, and that I was a fraud. Just end it, Stuart. Let it go. You’ll be happier once you do it. At first, the thoughts scared me. They elicited the worst panic attacks on record. I was terrified and desperately wanted it to stop. My head was broken, I was becoming my mentally ill mother, Pearl, and I couldn’t trust me. At this point, I was decidedly not in control, but not completely disconnected from reality. I knew just enough to know that something wasn’t right, I didn’t know what it was, or even how to articulate it. I knew one thing for certain, I couldn’t tell anyone.
Looking back, I am wholly certain the signs were there.
One day the worst thing happened; my panic attacks stopped as I began thinking of ways to harm myself. The prior peace that came with thoughts of being gone never accompanied details. Just absence of me from this world. I had never gone into graphic details about how I would do it, but I was soothed by the knowledge that I could be at peace. This was entirely different…I was thinking of ways to go. An exit. Making a plan. Oddly enough, when I think back, it didn’t feel like planning at all. The thoughts felt no more serious than worrying about the monthly budget or seeing my in-laws.
But let me be very clear: I was somehow stuck in a deeply distorted reality. My brain made the connection between a lack of worry and no more anxiety with thoughts of my own death. I didn’t consciously do it. And I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. The thoughts were all consuming. I craved relief. Years of living in silence and suffering, scared of my own shadow, hiding in plain sight.
I lived a monotonic life for roughly 6 weeks and the only peace I found was when thinking about my own death. I could envision my funeral, my clothing, my children, my husband, and friends. They were sad without me, but they were better off. I believed that with every ounce of my being. My family didn’t need me, they needed me to be gone. My emotional state and train wreck of a life was ruining theirs. Just do anything to achieve peace. Stop the panic. These thoughts felt completely logical, reasonable, and actionable.
My brain, once a fine-tuned machine, that carried me through the torture of my childhood, the abuse during my teens, powered through relocating to a new state alone with no money, and brought me to the highest floors in the ivory tower was now an enemy within. I was a prolific and talented writer, gifted with a huge heart and love of anything pink. I was passionate about cooking, confident but not arrogant, and I loved animals. I loved my children with every ounce of my being, laughed with friends, and was once terrified of death.
My brain betrayed me. I didn’t see it happening. It slowly took over, and it nearly won.
I had plans in place. Drove my car with purpose and focus. Calm but slightly on edge. But the fucking train in my little town was stalled on the tracks. By the grace of God, I texted Alexa and asked her where I could take a friend that was scared would hurt herself. I’m not sure why I texted her because I don’t consciously remember thinking I needed to. She instantly knew it was me. That day, Alexa saved my life because of a stalled train. The little slice of me that was left unscathed by Not Pearl, Black Car, and Two Guys was able to reach out and text two sentences that stopped the horrible, yet very well-planned, course of events.
A year later, I would go back and read the letters planned for others upon my demise and I do not remember writing them. They don’t sound like me, it’s not my tone, anything.
At that moment, I didn’t know who I was, what I was leaving behind, or the consequences of my actions. I was without fear and panic. Peace. Nearly 5 decades of fighting and working so hard to stay ahead of life, bad people, fighting inner demons, and making it out of hell would finally come to an end. I have crocodile tears rolling down my cheeks as I type this and I cannot identify the emotion behind them. Is it relief, terror, shame? Fucking brain.
Again, and I cannot state this emphatically enough, I do not believe that everyone suffering will have voices of others in their heads or see things that aren’t present. But I believe that the commonality amongst people is that we all lose the ability to speak rational thought into our own brain, to hang onto hope, to focus on the things that matter most. The brain controls it all. Because my brain got sick.
I once read an article that tried to explain suicide to people who are woefully ignorant and unrelenting in their castigation of the mentally ill. The author equated suicide to being stuck in the upper levels of a burning building. Flames are coming but there is no way out. You keep getting burned and continually go up to the next floor for some relief. At some point, upon reaching the top floor, you realize there is nowhere left to go. The flames are right behind you. You can feel them burning your skin and you cannot take the heat another second. The pain is unrelenting. In a millisecond, you do the only thing your brain associates with peace…get away from the flames by any means possible. In this case you jump out of the window.
In this scenario, the jumper is not running towards death; quite the contrary. The jumper is running away from the torment of being constantly burned by the fire. Jumping out of the window happens to be a consequence of trying to escape the flames.
In the first scenario, the person actively seeks to harm themself, running towards the end of their life, which is possible, I suppose. But I don’t think it is common. In the later example, the person seeks relief from the pain of being constantly on fire with negative worry, thoughts, and fears. These are two vastly different things.
As someone without any medical training on this subject, but who has lived through it and talked to several others who have, I think the flames are anxiety and worry. But not garden variety anxiety and worry. This kind of anxiety and worry have teeth, are inescapable, and insidious. They grab hold and hang on for dear life…or yours. Together, my kind of anxiety and worry lied, telling me I had no meaning, and fooled me. They are the most believable entities when you are living with them.
Think about this situation from the perspective of those usually left behind. When asked about their deceased loved one, most say the person was some combination of kind, loving, funny, and good. What you don’t typically hear is that the person was hateful, mean, dismissive, or cruel dying by suicide. Splashing headlines aren’t pictures of the deceased as those who were into masochism, torture, or any other pathology of the brain.
My point is, something breaks, shifts, or stops working correctly for a person to think about or attempt suicide. The brain gets sick.
Ask any person suffering an illness anywhere else in their body…they also seek relief in any way they can find it. Why are mental maladies any different? The flames in this story represent anxiety, worry, mental illness; they aren’t all encompassing but there are little flames everywhere. They pop up here and there, but, like flames do when left to themselves, they slowly spread and destroy everything. To keep the flames in check, you need environmental management to make sure they don’t run everywhere.
But, when alone, without resources, and full of shame for “not being stronger,” the flames take over and burn it all down. They are relentless, savage, and without remorse. And they have taken over your loved one. Do not think for one moment that people just randomly die by suicide. There. Were. Signs. The thing is, society’s collective brain tells us not to pry, inquire, to hold steadfast.
Environmental management is a support system, doctors, friends who know the real you. Those who see changes in you, abrupt and over time, and who aren’t afraid of the subject matter. Who will sit with you through the ugliness of it all. Environmental management cannot be obtained with shame and when people look away. It must be accessed freely and without any shame. It is no different than going in for a cholesterol check.
I am not ashamed of who I am but I remain skeptical about what others think. Incidentally, I am also not the same badass that I once was. She deliberately fortified herself as a means of protection and survival, the byproduct of which was not giving a shit what anyone thought. Stuart 2.0 is a messy potion of intelligence, torment, wit, stubbornness, passion, love, fear, and regret. So much regret. I also happen to have a mental illness that, until recently, I hid from the entire world. I hail from nothing short of a brutal childhood that accelerated that to which I’m genetically predisposed.
For me, I don’t think there is a way to completely put the fire out, at least in my personal inferno. My flames represent years of childhood abuse and neglect. For others, it might be a cheating spouse, lost job, or lost college dreams. Maybe divorcing parents. Mine will always be burning in the background, but that’s not the case for everyone. Thankfully, I have some kick ass therapists, doctors, and a support system in place now that can help me. I am clear about boundaries now. Got rid of toxic people. And I know what it looks like…the evil fire…and how it moves in the shadows. Should it decide to move forward again, I will not keep my torment silent for the benefit of placating someone else’s discomfort. Never again.
And guess what? I manage the situational flames in my head just like anyone would manage high cholesterol. There is absolutely no difference. Things get a little wonky with the ol LDL or vLDL? Call the doctor. Anxiety amping up? Call the doctor and talk to a friend. Tell people when I’m suffering just like I’d tell someone I can’t eat high fat cheesecake or french fries. No shame.
Death and suffering are the norm when people are forced into the shadowy silence. Cloaking bona fide illnesses in shame, and making the sick carry the burden entirely alone, is morally reprehensible. We don’t do it with cancer or heart maladies, diabetes, or eczema and we shouldn’t do it with mental health.
I suppose the more complex the machine, the harder it is to understand. But, just because something is hard to understand doesn’t mean we have liberty to make people feel shame for something they didn’t choose. Because no one in their right mind would choose torment, agony, and death. Humans are hardwired against it. The only explanation is that brains, like other parts of the body, get sick. Some develop the sickness and others come with a few imperfections that cause the problem. Either way, it’s not a choice.
Until society acknowledges mental illness for what it is and what it is not, and provides real support systems for those in need, so many more people will die unnecessarily. They will suffer in ways incomprehensible to most, and none of it will be their fault.
It’s really time to arm the beleaguered with fire extinguishers. We desperately need help with managing the flames.
