There are many ways to commit suicide. Like that's new or news. What people often miss but those who know or understand, is that there are different types of suicide. Some attempts are people wanting, and asking in their own way, for help. Some are definitive, meaning the person chose a method that's almost always certain. And some, among the other types, are those where the person has an out.
Some may say all suicides have an out, meaning the person can simply choose not to commit the act. How naive of them to think that. When most suicides get to the point of the act itself, thinking of an out isn't there. That's because thinking isn't there, only their sense of being. An out has to be part of the act or part of the person.
An out as part of the act is simply the way out. It's not always a safe out, and sometimes just the act of insufficiency of means or sometimes just a last second change of heart. An out as part of the person is where the act was planned to have an out. It doesn't mean the person didn't or doesn't intend to complete the act, something in their sense of being and life put it there.
This isn't the same as someone who in one instant in a state of depression tries to commit suicide and some who succeed by accident. It's part of the mental events they went through in deciding and planning the act. Every act has a last moment when it's a yes or no, but not really. It's nice to say by those who want to think so, but it's not true. The choice was already made.
You might also say that having an out doesn't make the suicide real. If someone put an out in the act, then they really weren't certain. That's also not true. Some just think that way and their instincts put it there without really seeing or knowing why. With some it's the way of asking for help. With others it's the way to affirm their choice or affirm their will, however diminished, to life.
Both are made, not to choose life, but simply give the person an out. Deep within their psyche a kernal exists that fights for life and it's put into the plan and act to be there, just in case something changes and the person sees something, like a distant candle in the darkness. It's always been there. You don't see it until you look in that direction. But it also takes the darkness to see it.
What's this leading to? Someone asked about my attempts, and thinking back, and even forward, I gave myself an out.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
A song
The group Basement Band has a song "Charleston", which to me has some great opening lines.
I am old.
I am weary.
And I'm coming home to die.
Would you bury me me by the old Oak tree
'tween the river and the ashweed?
Charleston won't you bury me.
That song and Dave Matthew's song Gravedigger, with the lines
Gravedigger
When you dig my grave
Could you make it shallow
So that I can feel the rain
Gravedigger
always hits a chord with me. It's not a fascination with death, but a feeling when we die, we want to be buried where we want to feel home. It's why most people commiting suicide pick the time and place carefully. It's important to them to be and feel safe when they die. Somewhere they're at and going home.
Home to be there and home to die.
It's why I know the next time I think about it enough to follow through, I know where I'll go. It's my favorite spot in Mt. Rainier NP, a remote, little-used trail where you can fit a place off the trail away from everyone and watch Mt. Rainier and see the glaciers in the endless dynamics of nature's forces, a volcano, constantly building, destroying and rebuilding a mountain and glaciers, the product of the volcano's location constantly craving their space and place against the mountain and weather.
Not a hard choice to make, the location that is. Dying is the harder part for me and why a third time won't be a success unless the forces are so overwhelming to lose all feeling and connection with life. It's either go there to die or someone share my ashes there.
Either way I'll be there. Leaving this world behind me.
No, I don't believe there is a heaven or some after-death place we go. We just die and our ashes returns to what it was before to start anew. Remember we're all stardust and we should all go back to being stardust. Anything else is cheating the universe of ourselves. Our efforts will carry on in the hearts of those who loved us and those we helped in our life. Let's not be stingy with our ashes and not share them with the future.
Or so that's my story, and until something better comes along, as Jimmy Buffett sang, "That's my story and I'm sticking to it."
I am old.
I am weary.
And I'm coming home to die.
Would you bury me me by the old Oak tree
'tween the river and the ashweed?
Charleston won't you bury me.
That song and Dave Matthew's song Gravedigger, with the lines
Gravedigger
When you dig my grave
Could you make it shallow
So that I can feel the rain
Gravedigger
always hits a chord with me. It's not a fascination with death, but a feeling when we die, we want to be buried where we want to feel home. It's why most people commiting suicide pick the time and place carefully. It's important to them to be and feel safe when they die. Somewhere they're at and going home.
Home to be there and home to die.
It's why I know the next time I think about it enough to follow through, I know where I'll go. It's my favorite spot in Mt. Rainier NP, a remote, little-used trail where you can fit a place off the trail away from everyone and watch Mt. Rainier and see the glaciers in the endless dynamics of nature's forces, a volcano, constantly building, destroying and rebuilding a mountain and glaciers, the product of the volcano's location constantly craving their space and place against the mountain and weather.
Not a hard choice to make, the location that is. Dying is the harder part for me and why a third time won't be a success unless the forces are so overwhelming to lose all feeling and connection with life. It's either go there to die or someone share my ashes there.
Either way I'll be there. Leaving this world behind me.
No, I don't believe there is a heaven or some after-death place we go. We just die and our ashes returns to what it was before to start anew. Remember we're all stardust and we should all go back to being stardust. Anything else is cheating the universe of ourselves. Our efforts will carry on in the hearts of those who loved us and those we helped in our life. Let's not be stingy with our ashes and not share them with the future.
Or so that's my story, and until something better comes along, as Jimmy Buffett sang, "That's my story and I'm sticking to it."
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Solutions and answers
I was reading about the recent death of model and actress Lucy Gordon in Paris. She was twenty-eight years old with, as everyone likes to say, "a promising future." Well, we all do and it's just the normal perspective people take in these circumstances. People forget with depression, death is never the solution, but it's sometimes the answer.
It's hard to realize let alone really understand the smallness of someone's world when they're depressed to the point of suicide. And unless you've been there, you don't have a clue. It's one of the few experiences in life, you really have to have been there to understand. Empathy and sympathy are ok, but they're not understanding. And that's what's always missing in the discussion after their death.
People forget in depression, the person has already been through the litany of alternatives people expect us to consider and even choose. We've long left those along the road. They've been long exploded out of our thinking when we imploded into ourselves. We're down to the choice of life or death. And neither don't seem to solve the problems weighing on us, but death seems the better answer.
It's where everything disappears and we can find peace with the world and ourselves. And as much as we want to be with them and explain life is both the solution and the answer, we can't. It's not that they don't see us, or hear us. It's not about us, and not even about them, but simply our own individual existence. We've striped away all the facades and layers of feelings. We down to the basic choice we all face, death.
And the survivors are always suprised. "We didn't know.", is the common answers. Like all the clues weren't there? Or just that you were blind? And you didn't care enough about what they really felt and thought? Cruel? Yes, but truthful. I get tired of the, "We tried to help them.", response. It's bullshit. They didn't say because they saw you didn't really care about what really bothered them.
Both sides are blind. The person sitting in their own darkness wondering and wanting. And us, afraid to open the door with a candle. That's all you need to do, drop all the pretense and preaching. All they want is someone to sit with them and understand. They'll find their way out if they can, but they don't needs directions, just a companion.
A little light and one hand is everything, always there and always present in their mind.
It's hard to realize let alone really understand the smallness of someone's world when they're depressed to the point of suicide. And unless you've been there, you don't have a clue. It's one of the few experiences in life, you really have to have been there to understand. Empathy and sympathy are ok, but they're not understanding. And that's what's always missing in the discussion after their death.
People forget in depression, the person has already been through the litany of alternatives people expect us to consider and even choose. We've long left those along the road. They've been long exploded out of our thinking when we imploded into ourselves. We're down to the choice of life or death. And neither don't seem to solve the problems weighing on us, but death seems the better answer.
It's where everything disappears and we can find peace with the world and ourselves. And as much as we want to be with them and explain life is both the solution and the answer, we can't. It's not that they don't see us, or hear us. It's not about us, and not even about them, but simply our own individual existence. We've striped away all the facades and layers of feelings. We down to the basic choice we all face, death.
And the survivors are always suprised. "We didn't know.", is the common answers. Like all the clues weren't there? Or just that you were blind? And you didn't care enough about what they really felt and thought? Cruel? Yes, but truthful. I get tired of the, "We tried to help them.", response. It's bullshit. They didn't say because they saw you didn't really care about what really bothered them.
Both sides are blind. The person sitting in their own darkness wondering and wanting. And us, afraid to open the door with a candle. That's all you need to do, drop all the pretense and preaching. All they want is someone to sit with them and understand. They'll find their way out if they can, but they don't needs directions, just a companion.
A little light and one hand is everything, always there and always present in their mind.
Friday, May 15, 2009
No drugs
I haven't taken, currently take or intend to take anti-depressants for my Dysthymia. I was diagnosed in 1991 with, using the psychiatrist's term probably, genetic, lifelong Dysthymia. It runs in our family through my father and passed to his children and grandchildren. Or I suspect because no one wants admit it let alone say it. The fortunate side is that it while it's persistent and almost always prevalent, it's not severe, only mild to moderate.
When I was diagnosed the psychiatrist admited there weren't any anti-depressants on the market specificially for Dysthymia and it had only been recognized within the previous decade as a form of depression separate from depressive personality and milder expressions of depression. It was often called chronic mild depression, but has been given its own name for the factors surrounding its presence in people, meaning, either genetic, lifelong or later onset.
Since then a number of drugs have become available for Dysthymia, some unique to it but most milder dosages of stronger anti-depression drugs. And like those, it has the same efficacy, about 50% of patients do well, the other half get nothing. And like those too, it's has a break-in period of weeks to months and a lifespan of months to a few years at most before your mind and body begins the decreasing its response.
And so you spend a lifetime chasing drugs, waiting for the start, wondering if it's working, and then hoping it lasts, knowing it doesn't and you're back to the doctor for more or something new. The consistent two to three year cycle, knowing you're dependent and hoping you don't crash. And living with the side effects which may exacerbate the some of the bad or worse feelings you're depressed about.
And so I use signs and other ways to live.
In the conversations with the psychiatrist she taught me to recognize the signs. The signs I'm normal, when I'm feeling my depression getting worse, and when I'm feeling better from a depressive period. She taught me to recognize the things I do when I'm feeling normal and to work on them to sustain being normal. She taught me to follow in instincts and intuition about when the feelings change.
But most of all I learned to find ways to "tread water" through the worse periods and to use my mind and explore the feelings during the worse times, to both see what and how I feel and how to find answers if something triggered or is perpetuating the depression. And then to find ways out of the worse periods, if only to exist in life while I wait to get better.
All without drugs. It's harder and often worse, but I know I am and I know how creative I can be when I'm depressed, which is something often lost in the effort to find or be "happy." You miss the freedom your mind has by itself to explore the breadth and depth of your depression and to see the world as it is when you're there. It's its own freedom.
And I've learned how to see the signs and avoid the implosion of the mind and spirit that leads to thoughts of suicide. You know it's a room you have to fall or enter, all too often forgetting we passed the threshold without realizing we're already there. We've imploded into darkness and we didn't know, but only the darkness we're in.
I've learned to know those moments and feelings on my own and to stand at the edge of it's darkness to see and make choices in and about my life. Without the aid of drugs, just life itself. And me. Nothing more and nothing less. About as real as it gets. I've learned to appreciate being and feeling alive. Not much more than I could expect some days and work on doing better.
And the only drugs are myself and life.
When I was diagnosed the psychiatrist admited there weren't any anti-depressants on the market specificially for Dysthymia and it had only been recognized within the previous decade as a form of depression separate from depressive personality and milder expressions of depression. It was often called chronic mild depression, but has been given its own name for the factors surrounding its presence in people, meaning, either genetic, lifelong or later onset.
Since then a number of drugs have become available for Dysthymia, some unique to it but most milder dosages of stronger anti-depression drugs. And like those, it has the same efficacy, about 50% of patients do well, the other half get nothing. And like those too, it's has a break-in period of weeks to months and a lifespan of months to a few years at most before your mind and body begins the decreasing its response.
And so you spend a lifetime chasing drugs, waiting for the start, wondering if it's working, and then hoping it lasts, knowing it doesn't and you're back to the doctor for more or something new. The consistent two to three year cycle, knowing you're dependent and hoping you don't crash. And living with the side effects which may exacerbate the some of the bad or worse feelings you're depressed about.
And so I use signs and other ways to live.
In the conversations with the psychiatrist she taught me to recognize the signs. The signs I'm normal, when I'm feeling my depression getting worse, and when I'm feeling better from a depressive period. She taught me to recognize the things I do when I'm feeling normal and to work on them to sustain being normal. She taught me to follow in instincts and intuition about when the feelings change.
But most of all I learned to find ways to "tread water" through the worse periods and to use my mind and explore the feelings during the worse times, to both see what and how I feel and how to find answers if something triggered or is perpetuating the depression. And then to find ways out of the worse periods, if only to exist in life while I wait to get better.
All without drugs. It's harder and often worse, but I know I am and I know how creative I can be when I'm depressed, which is something often lost in the effort to find or be "happy." You miss the freedom your mind has by itself to explore the breadth and depth of your depression and to see the world as it is when you're there. It's its own freedom.
And I've learned how to see the signs and avoid the implosion of the mind and spirit that leads to thoughts of suicide. You know it's a room you have to fall or enter, all too often forgetting we passed the threshold without realizing we're already there. We've imploded into darkness and we didn't know, but only the darkness we're in.
I've learned to know those moments and feelings on my own and to stand at the edge of it's darkness to see and make choices in and about my life. Without the aid of drugs, just life itself. And me. Nothing more and nothing less. About as real as it gets. I've learned to appreciate being and feeling alive. Not much more than I could expect some days and work on doing better.
And the only drugs are myself and life.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Time disappears
When you're in a depression, time just disappears. Literally. While time seems to go slow when you're depressed, it's quick and gone when you look back. You just sit there wondering where it went, all the ideas of things to do, promises to fulfill, places to go, all just gone like the wind. Time just disappeared.
That's what's happened most of this year. Back in January I was working on making prints and photo cards. By February I had all the print done, about a half dozen stacks of 6 prints for each of 10 print in a card set. I made it through one pile of prints. Then I had a root canal and recovered from a bone infection with the root canal. Then I just felt like crap and never recovered.
And now it's mid-May, two-plus months gone. I have some things to show for it, but no new cards made, no photo trips beyond the occasional walk around, and only a handful of Web pages done for the photo guide and early history projects. My body got through the problems, but only to realize I still haven't done much on my running program.
It simply disappeared. Time. Not because being older the perception of time changes, which it does, but that it did go by without much to show. And add the promises I made but didn't do and the card sets I was supposed to send (which were really supposed to be Christmas gifts but I was sick Thanksgiving to past New Years). And the to do list still with little marked off as done.
Time is like that in a depression, simultaneously quick and forever. The hours seem to drag and the days seem to disappear behind you, and you wake up months later wondering what happened and where were you all that time. You disappeared too, into the darkness, lost in a endless tunnel complex with only the occasional glimpse of light. You lost yourself too.
It's like the misty rain in a spring storm, gently falling, relentlessly and seemingly forever. You can't hide from it and you can't get dry. Everything just weighs, feels heavy and your body tired and sleepy. You want to sleep but you hate sleep because you can't sleep and will have to wake up tomorrow. And go through this again, the fog and mist invading your world and your being.
Time and you just go by and just went. Both gone. Just existing. And then just history. And you wait for the storm to pass, the rain to quit, the sun to appear. And you wait. And wait some more, never realizing the wait disppears too, as time and you disappear. Sometimes you give up and go out into the rain, to know you're still alive.
And there you find nothing changed, you're only standing there alone, surrounding by the fog and rain where you can't tell where and when anything is anymore, only you standing there for a moment, and another. Before you go back inside to realize there nothing changed, everything is still waiting for you, to remind you what hasn't been done.
And the choices ahead all seem like work, too much work, even if you know you should do something. Sweep the floor. Anything, but waiting. Except waiting seems to always feel the best answer, even though you know it's the worst answer. Energy has disappeared too. And you wait for that, but it won't come without work, which you don't want to do.
And so you sit. Waiting for something you know not when or what. Waiting. And hoping it's soon. Really soon. But you don't know if that's true or real, or just a wish or a hope. You can't decide because that's work. You just want it to happen, and begin to feel better, if only for a moment. And maybe another moment. Hope the moments last. Last longer than the wait.
When the moments happen, you pray they don't disappear too. Like everything else, except everything you haven't done is there around you like clutter, there and in your mind. The clutter you can't see through or around to see your way through. You have to just go. Forward. And hope. And wait. If only for a moment. And then another moment.
That's what's happened most of this year. Back in January I was working on making prints and photo cards. By February I had all the print done, about a half dozen stacks of 6 prints for each of 10 print in a card set. I made it through one pile of prints. Then I had a root canal and recovered from a bone infection with the root canal. Then I just felt like crap and never recovered.
And now it's mid-May, two-plus months gone. I have some things to show for it, but no new cards made, no photo trips beyond the occasional walk around, and only a handful of Web pages done for the photo guide and early history projects. My body got through the problems, but only to realize I still haven't done much on my running program.
It simply disappeared. Time. Not because being older the perception of time changes, which it does, but that it did go by without much to show. And add the promises I made but didn't do and the card sets I was supposed to send (which were really supposed to be Christmas gifts but I was sick Thanksgiving to past New Years). And the to do list still with little marked off as done.
Time is like that in a depression, simultaneously quick and forever. The hours seem to drag and the days seem to disappear behind you, and you wake up months later wondering what happened and where were you all that time. You disappeared too, into the darkness, lost in a endless tunnel complex with only the occasional glimpse of light. You lost yourself too.
It's like the misty rain in a spring storm, gently falling, relentlessly and seemingly forever. You can't hide from it and you can't get dry. Everything just weighs, feels heavy and your body tired and sleepy. You want to sleep but you hate sleep because you can't sleep and will have to wake up tomorrow. And go through this again, the fog and mist invading your world and your being.
Time and you just go by and just went. Both gone. Just existing. And then just history. And you wait for the storm to pass, the rain to quit, the sun to appear. And you wait. And wait some more, never realizing the wait disppears too, as time and you disappear. Sometimes you give up and go out into the rain, to know you're still alive.
And there you find nothing changed, you're only standing there alone, surrounding by the fog and rain where you can't tell where and when anything is anymore, only you standing there for a moment, and another. Before you go back inside to realize there nothing changed, everything is still waiting for you, to remind you what hasn't been done.
And the choices ahead all seem like work, too much work, even if you know you should do something. Sweep the floor. Anything, but waiting. Except waiting seems to always feel the best answer, even though you know it's the worst answer. Energy has disappeared too. And you wait for that, but it won't come without work, which you don't want to do.
And so you sit. Waiting for something you know not when or what. Waiting. And hoping it's soon. Really soon. But you don't know if that's true or real, or just a wish or a hope. You can't decide because that's work. You just want it to happen, and begin to feel better, if only for a moment. And maybe another moment. Hope the moments last. Last longer than the wait.
When the moments happen, you pray they don't disappear too. Like everything else, except everything you haven't done is there around you like clutter, there and in your mind. The clutter you can't see through or around to see your way through. You have to just go. Forward. And hope. And wait. If only for a moment. And then another moment.
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