Suicide has always been a part of my life, long before I fully understood its magnitude or permanency.
Looming over my head, lurking in the walking-on-eggshell good days and overpowering all else on days bad, until it slowly seeped into every pore of my being.
Suicide taught me to drive at age 13, up and down dark roads at night searching for my mother. Peering down over bridges, terrified at the thought of finding her yet somehow more afraid I wouldn’t.
Mourning my father, trembling in his jacket as I inhaled the familiar mixture of leather and cigarette smoke. My heart leapt when he came home a few days later, my absolute elation masking my blood-stained bewilderment. Holding him as tight as I could until its next attack.
Suicide taught me the true meaning of fear.
Uncertainty. A chill down your spine.
A threat keeping me in line. A sense of impending doom.
Abandonment. Turmoil. Anger. Despair.
Is it any wonder tops of tall buildings mock me on my way to class and rusty dissection tools call my name?
Whether it resides beneath my skin, whispering in my ear or walks one step behind me, biting at my heels varies day-to-day…
But it’s always there. Waiting. Watching.
I long to be free of its grasp. I envy those with a will to live.
It’s comforting in its familiarity.
Like a childhood blanket, fraying at the edges, suicide wrapped me in its embrace through every dark night of my childhood– a twisted element of consistency through the chaos.
Without suicide, how could I face the past? The present? The future?
What would be left of me?