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A few weeks ago, I found myself caught between a rock and a hard place, grappling with another bout of suicidal thoughts and urges. I considered various arguments for and against this perilous situation I always found myself in. Each time this happened, I couldn't figure out the answer. I searched under every rock and crevice to find the missing piece that would allow me to escape this intolerable pain.
In my last post, I shared the idea of finding meaning even in the midst of suffering. I have relied on that notion since I was fifteen. I rode a bike 545 miles in 7 days to find this meaning. I trained to become an amateur boxer in search of this meaning. I spoke about my lived experiences with others to uncover this meaning. I even hoped that becoming pregnant would be enough to make this pain go away.
But it didn’t. “This is supposed to be the answer, God? Why isn’t it working? Why aren’t you helping? Why aren’t you there? What kind of cruel and irrational God allows a person to contradict their existence by wanting to annihilate themselves? I did everything I was supposed to do, and this is how the universe repays me?”
I didn’t hear anything back. No signs, no voices, no way out. My cry reverberated into nothingness, and so did my self-worth. I had just one last hope left, one thing that could help me get through: if someone would just save me. “I’ve tried everything else,” I said, “and I don’t have any fight left in me. If only you said the right words, if only you told me you believed in me, I’d get better. I promise I’ll get better.”
“I believe in you, Phoenix,” they replied.
I desperately tried to will it to be true, to replace the constant urge to kill myself with those beautiful words, but even that wasn’t enough. I could no longer trust myself, and last December, I found myself back on the inpatient unit.
For a while now, my psychiatrist believed that my hormones played a critical role in my increased symptoms, but we hadn't intervened due to the risks associated with that treatment. However, I wasn’t getting any younger, and now seemed like a good time as any. What did we have to lose? And so, my treatment team induced a medical menopause while I was in the hospital. Three days later, I could hardly hear the voices that told me to kill myself. With each day moving forward, I would say to myself, “So, this is what it’s like not to have suicidal thoughts breathing down my neck.”
It took me a while to believe that it was working. I waited for the other shoe to drop, for me to revert to my old ways, but I was progressing. Six months later, my treatment team decided it was time to reintroduce the hormones that had been absent since the initial treatment. Taking those hormones would fortify my bones against osteoporosis, help prevent cardiovascular disease, and support my overall well-being.
But I was in for a surprise. A day or two later, my suicidal thoughts and urges came back in dramatic form. We hoped that things would settle down, but it just got worse. Within a week, my treatment team and I decided to discontinue the hormone medication. And as a result, things started to stabilize again.
We’re so close. Is it possible for me to live without suicidal thoughts and urges? I had never imagined it. I didn’t want to dream about it because I thought it would hurt too much. I couldn’t allow myself to think that my urges to die might worsen. It felt like bad luck to realize I could thrive. So, I didn’t hope.
But now, I can feel it. When I contemplate the possibility, it’s not just me who’s thinking about it. There are also other people who believe in me. I have people in my corner who are rooting for me and hoping for the best. Even with all the difficulties, I’ve realized that those people do make a difference, and they have become the little point of light in my vast sea of darkness.
I am no longer alone with overwhelming pain. I can finally understand that they will not abandon me, that they will be there to help me through. So, if things don’t work out for me, if my urges to die continue, I don’t have to believe that my life is not enough. Even if my struggle is all that my life amounts to, and these people support me in my time of need, maybe that’s my meaning. I can be a human being who needs the help of others, even if I still live with suicidal thoughts, even if they never go away, and the struggle never ends.
If I were physically disabled, living with a fatal illness, or had grown old and needed others to help me function and stay alive, then those relationships would prove that I could live a life of dignity. I would accept their help willingly and humbly, doing my best to honor their work with me. I believe in them just as much as they believe in me, and maybe that is enough.
I’m starting to understand that there’s something beyond pain and struggles, and life and death, of getting rid of the suicidal thoughts and urges. It is the bond between people, the acceptance of each other’s roles in our lives, and love that persists. It reverberates like that quantum physics phenomenon I watched on a PBS special: When two or more particles become interconnected, the state of one instantly influences the state of other, regardless of the distance.
This is called quantum entanglement. The two particles are linked or correlated with each other instantaneously, no matter the distance, even if one of the particles is placed farther than the stars we see in the night sky.
Love is like that. Love transcends us and extends to the infinite mystery of the universe, while simultaneously being very real and tangible—like a feeling that you can sense in your bones.
All this time, I believed love was not enough to make the worst of my mental health challenges go away. I had it wrong. I was so busy trying to be saved that I missed the whole point. Perhaps getting rid of suicidal thoughts and urges was not the goal. The truth is love remained despite death throwing everything at me. Love stayed when I hit rock bottom. Love insisted on being there when I was finding the so-called courage to kill myself. Love wasn’t afraid of coming close, of becoming vulnerable, of talking from the heart. It still showed up in the most desperate times, times when I lost all faith in humanity.
I’ve decided, after all my searching, that this is what my life means. I’ve got to try to make the best of each moment with others and realize what matters. Every stage, instance, or chance interaction; every heartache, longing, or loss—they are all worthy of my life, of giving my most human, engaged, and compassionate self, no matter how much I suffer. Henri Nouwen says it best:
In order to become full human beings, we have to claim the totality of our experience.
Maybe, by claiming that role with these people, and this circumstance, I will find a new me—the one who doesn’t have to clench my fists so tightly, trying to convince others to save me; the one who acknowledges their pain and knows there is more to me than just suffering; and the one who will try their best to give and receive love openly. In a way, suffering—or this belief that what is happening to me shouldn’t be happening—this suffering will no longer exist. It will just be what it is.
To all the people who believe and love me, thank you. Your love helped me realize I want to be here with all my might, no matter what. Perhaps you didn’t cure my illness, but instead your words kindled the fire within me, one that helped me see my unique way of becoming a full human being. You helped me realize that I do, indeed, exist, that I matter, and that has always been enough.
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