As many of you know, the Mule has suffered from depression on and off since the early ‘90s.
You try infidelity and divorce with the subject of my [then] “dreams,” and tell me you’re not depressed. . . .
Wait; that wasn’t the subject of the post. Sorry.
During those times, the idea of suicide was a constant companion. The ideation progressed to action a couple of times, but I was never impelled to completion.
Not too difficult to figure, as I am typing this to you now. But the hopelessness of the moment, and desire to relieve it, was powerful.
I wanted to jot a quick note because I’m strongly against it.
Suicide again touched my life this weekend, and I can tell you that the ripples of pain don’t stop. The woman let people know she was thinking of it – but obliquely. She then told folks goodbye on their Facebook walls, transferred her cash to her sister’s bank account, and went to a hotel room to kill herself. She succeeded.
I didn’t know her well, but people in my life were very close – and are devastated.
I may be too far removed from my deep depression [oh, yeah – it lurks constantly, despite all the Bupropion that $ can buy] to remember how unable I was to hear anyone – how resolute I was to address my own pain in the way my miswired, misfiring brain saw fit – but I have to hope that I might slow down one hurting person by mentioning to anyone and everyone how wide-ranging the pain is.
The length of that last sentence may, of course, undo whatever good I’m trying to do. It’s driving me into a bad place. But we’ll save that for another editorial day. . . .