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September 4, 2022

she painted her red nails and styled her hair —preparing to walk her bony feet into the house where peace lived for a season

Photo by inna mykytas on Pexels.

Suicide has been a haunt throughout the last decade of my life. My first taste of her horrible awful was in 2005 as I watched my husband’s face go pale while speaking to someone on the phone.  He listened, paced the floor, cried, asked “how?” said goodbye then dropped the phone.  Holding his head in both hands he said “Dan shot himself.”Daniel was the best man at our wedding and my husband’s closest college friend.  He struggled for years with depression after losing his sister in a house fire.  He was intelligent, successful, funny and handsome.  He disguised his demon to the world well. The constant, intense therapy continuously placed new bandaids on the burns of his tired, guilt-ridden heart.  I remember the day he married a wonderful girl, full of light and moved to Florida to begin their family life together. All seemed well with the world from the outside.  It felt like the battle was finally won and a new life had begun for him.  However, depression, being the whore she is, perched herself on the rooftop and waited patiently for his worst day. Watching the door to open a smidge during their first fight, a money problem, bad nightmare or possibly a problem at work, she painted her red nails and styled her hair —preparing to walk her bony feet into the house where peace lived for a season.

The day of his shooting my husband missed his call while riding home from work on the bus. I’m not sure he has ever totally recovered from missing that one single call.  The one call he thought may have saved his life.  The call that haunts him still. A simple message was left on voicemail saying,”no need to call back, just checking in.”  Sometime within the next couple of hours as he arrived home he found her, Depression, straddled on the chair of his office luring him in with her intoxicating perfume.  She promised it would be alright, that it was for the best.  She pulled him in and stroked his hair as she whispered, “You are so tired sugar. Come rest with me. You can trust me.” She placed the bullet in the chamber, he pulled a trigger and put a bullet in his head.

Most of us have been touched in some way by death.  Suicide is a gut punch. No, suicide is cutting a piece of your heart out and placing it back inside your body to live with the impossibly debilitating handicap.  The numbness of never completely understanding the whys, remedies, or question -how could I have stopped this?  The guilty thoughts of missing a sign,  or call for help whisper shameful doubts in the minds of those left behind to sweep the chards of the life shattered.

She came ever closer during the last few years. Holding the hand of my firstborn -standing on the edge of the 4th level parking garage roof.  What was racing through their head while looking over that edge?  I imagine the dirty toes of their favorite shoes extending beyond the cement barrier, bits of gravel falling downward.  Did they think of me in that moment? See my face smiling? Hear my voice begging them to stay?

They had been sorting through enormous burdens that I was unaware of.  Feeling a misfit and uncomfortable in their own skin. Wrestling with how to tell me — and the harsh world around them. Wondering if they would be discarded or, worse—rejected.  Burdens churned inside their belly like a pile of stones in a tumbler. Stones so heavy at the time it felt easier to free fall from the top of a parking garage than speak them aloud and accept what may be the result of the choice of doing so. Hopelessness and anger led them to a dangerous perch.

This story ends differently than the first and I am forever grateful.  I was given the chance to embrace my child again. To hold them tight. To tell them that I love them without condition.  You see, moments before the “step off into ending” the strong hand of their younger brother pulled them back.

Held them.

Told them they were loved, worthy and it would be alright. They came back home that day and unleashed the secrets, distinguished the shame and allow the vulnerability of love to put the seducer Suicide in check. Although there is still much work to be done to repair and strengthen the mental health of my child’s heart, it began that day when a brother pulled them in and gave love instead of shame.

If you know someone who is hurting, struggling with decisions, failures, shame or many other things that could bring a person to the edge — have empathy

Remember everyone we meet is going through a battle. Where they are or how they handle those battles we usually are not privy to — so be kind, lend a smile, a compliment, a hand, or a comforting word.

I implore you reader if you have smelled the scent of Suicide’s perfume, heard the seductive words she whispers in the darkness — that you’re tired, you have failed, the world is better without you or perhaps you have even heard the click of the bullet ready in the chamber

Stop!

Ask for help.

Tell someone.

You are worthy of love.

Your life is valuable.

There is nobody else on the planet like you—

one of a kind you are!

You can’t fail if you don’t give up. Do not give up!

If you need help today or any other day dial 988 for the Suicide Prevention Hotline.

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Belinda Green  |  Contribution: 5,200