As I began moving towards some semblance of my previous life I found myself stuck in a rather awkward situation. Reconnecting with my friends and family made me feel like I was leading a double life. The general assumption people had was that I was feeling better than I was before. This was both true and a lie all at once. I didn't have to sleep at a hospital most of the time, which was obviously better than before. I was getting back to school again, though which much difficulty. I wasn't on morphine, and so regained the ability to reason enough that I knew 1+1 doesn't equal fish. I wasn't actively trying to bring about my own death (though it was always on my mind) which I think we can all agree was an improvement. And yet, despite all this, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was exactly where I was just before my suicide attempt. My pain wasn't any better, and we still didn't have a clue what the hell was wrong with me. One might focus on my mental state and say that's what was important. Maybe it was, but I felt doomed to repeating a cycle of being unable to bear my unrelenting pain any longer and losing my mind every year or two. I felt that as long as my pain remained untouched my mind would inevitably crack under the pressure which made the whole "recovery" thing seem rather pointless. So my friends would ask me, "How are you doing?" and I'd say, "Better," because what else am I supposed to say? "Well, friend, I think I've got about 12 months before I disappear again due to a third suicide attempt. I seem to be closer to the mark every time I try so I'm sure it'll work out one of these days. But no, I'm fine for now, really. Where are you going? Please put down the phone, no, no need to call the cops." See? Like I said: awkward situation.
Let's be clear here though. When you have a debilitating chronic illness such as mine, suicide isn't an impulsive decision. I didn't say, "Well, today was more than I could handle, time to take all these pills." No, it is something that is built up to over months and years. It's a thought of escape that gnaws at your mind with increasing occurrence. Every time I felt so shitty that I'd rather be dead, the thought and ideation of death becomes more familiar. Death, and the lack of pain or joy it brings, eventually becomes a constant companion. It becomes something that brings you more comfort than fear. Despite this, no matter how far your will has broken, a part of you reflexively fights these thoughts, screaming at you to live. It's something built into all of us biologically. With a chronic debilitating condition this innate will to live crumbles over time until instead of a scream it manifests itself as a barely audible whisper. Also built into our bodies is a reflex to avoid pain since in most cases pain represents an imminent danger. Ironically in my specific situation pain is itself most of the danger, but the reflex to avoid it remains. So you've got two opposing biological and psychological forces: the will to live and the need to avoid pain. This kind of war does not take place over days or weeks. In fact, a part of me felt the tide begin to turn against life as early as the summer of 2010. I was at summer camp, which of course involves extensive amounts of walking and therefore extensive amounts of pain. This tipped the mental balance to favour the need to avoid pain and in tearful desperation I called a suicide hotline. I was only 15 and had never done such a thing before so I didn't really know what to expect. The man who picked up the phone seemed almost as desperate as me, because there wasn't much he could say to comfort me. I explained my situation and it clearly wasn't one he was familiar with. I was a teenager at camp with a mystifying chronic pain condition, so there wasn't much reassurance he could give me. He suggested I talk to my parents and asked if I would be fine and I decided I would be, for awhile at least. I found venting to someone who didn't know me and so couldn't possibly judge me was therapeutic. It didn't make me feel any less physically shitty, but the venting helped. Unfortunately a camp staffer saw me on my phone and told me I wasn't allowed to use it and needed to go to the activity that was going on. I imagine all they saw was a kid skipping out on stuff to break the no phone calls rule. I suppose that is exactly what I was doing, but this just goes to show when you know someone is hurting physically and/or mentally the benefit of the doubt can go a long way. That interaction upset me somewhat, but with some Advil and rest I made it through the day. The battle was won, with my will to live emerging as the victor. Unfortunately, as I learned, battles and wars are different things entirely.
