AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
You cannot declare all suicide and those who commit it selfish for christ sake.
I attempted suicide, i genuinely believed my loved ones were better off without me, years and years of depression had seeped this into my brain, i was childless at this point. I was NOT selfish, i believe i was doing it for the right reasons, neither was i an "angry teenager" it infuriates me to see people say these things, if you have never been in the dark place that pre-empts suicide you could never know.
OH's cousin commited suicide because she was being horrendously bullied, she was not selfish she was desperate.
Whilst i don't think suicide should be legalised i do think that there should be better understanding, i also believe that someone who is terminally ill, in agony, no quality of life who are in the right mind to know they want it to be over, should be allowed that right, its so so wrong they are not.
the fact that you think that youre a burden and everyone would be better off without you is sort of irreevant. you might not think youre selfish at the time, but ultimately, its a very selfish thing to do.
The pain a person feels when living with that level of depression is NO LESS than the pain a person with terminal cancer feels.
Sure, it's emotional pain instead of physical pain. It's still the most debilitating pain you can feel.
If it isn't selfish for the person who is terminal, it's not selfish for the person who's in the hell that that level of depression is.
See, the problem is, everyone thinks they've been depressed. We're not talking the kind of depression that a few rounds of therapy or a quick round of Prozac fixes. We're talking lying in bed for weeks at a time, not eating, not sleeping, not paying bills, not working, unable to think of anything but ways to die... praying, just praying for the sky to fall in and kill you. The knowledge that nothing will ever be the same, you will never be OK again, that due to the fact you can't even pull yourself out of bed you're a waste of space, a waste of air. Useless as a human being. The kind of depression where you no longer care if you've got utilities, you haven't showered this week, and the internal voice in your head keeps telling you over and over again that everyone you know and love would be happier without you.
That little voice doesn't shut up. It makes plans for you, thinks of the best way to handle it. Helps you think of who you want to give things to, who you want to handle your affairs. Who you need to write letters to, praying they understand the level of pain you are in, praying that they'll realize you tried... oh, how you tried. You wanted so badly to be the person they all needed you to be, and you couldn't live knowing how disappointed you were making them all.
That little voice tells you over and over again, that dying is your last gift to your family and friends. You're allowing them to be free, free of the burden that is you. You know they'll be sad... but you feel, deep in your heart, that they'll be relieved too. They'll know you're no longer in pain, they'll know you loved them, and they'll be free.
That little voice tells you the most ugly and hurtful things you can imagine about yourself. He wears down your self esteem, your joie de vivre, and steals everything that once made life worth living. And you can't make him go away. You've tried all the meds the doctors have given you. You've been to therapy appointments. You've tried several therapists in fact. You've been hospitalized for it several times. All you're looking at, for the remainder of your life, is this evil voice telling you what a horrible person you are, what a burden you are on your family and friends, suggesting you hurt yourself, suggesting you die. You spend weeks trying to figure out a way to die that might seem like an accident. You pray for someone to come by and murder you, or your car to fail on the train track. You think about "accidentally" taking a turn too wide on a hilly road, or wonder if you can force yourself to wrap your car around a tree. You spend weeks and weeks wondering what you can do to die without actually having to do it yourself... afraid you'd chicken out and disappoint your family yet again, by making yourself even MORE of a burden... making yourself paralyzed or in a coma, and yet failing at the one thing you should have been able to get right... dying.
You spend agonizing amounts of time trying to figure out the best method. Where you can do it that won't hurt your family more. Making sure you aren't ruining an important family holiday or someone's birthday. Last thing you want is to permanently ruin people's Easter, or something. Figuring out a method guaranteed to kill you, rather than run the risk of not even managing to die properly.
This level of pain, this level of anguish, this level of psychiatric illness... is not understood. It's not tolerated. It's not spoken about. People use mental illness as their jokes, and if you're actually mentally ill, you should just shut up about it, buck up, get over it. People who are at this place in life... who would give everything in their power to just stop breathing... they are not selfish. They are in more pain than anyone who's not been there can even imagine. And hearing people call them selfish, when they've tried... OH how they've tried... is despicable. Until you've walked a mile in those shoes... until you've sat there on your knees and prayed Dear God, please kill me. Until you know what day you plan to die, know what steps you intend to take, until you've wrestled those demons, until you've listened to that damned voice take everything from you that you've loved and left you a shell of who you dreamed to be... you have no right to call them selfish.
And anyone who's been there? We know better. It's not selfish. It's our last option. Our last resort. We've tried it all. We've done it all. It's never getting any better.
Severe depression is as much a terminal illness as terminal cancer. But we're seen as the selfish ones.
x
