I Had to Retitle This Post Because of Facebook

This is a Post About Suicide

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Right after clicking the link, I realize that this is not something I should be reading right now.

The headline reads "I am Not Always Very Attached to Being Alive."

"Oh, boy" I think.

I want to write about suicidal ideation and depression, but in order to do that I need to do a couple other things first.

I am not currently actively suicidal.

Depressed? Uh-huh, but I can see the light. I think. Struggling with an eating disorder? Yes, and it's awful. Only able to write this post because a close friend has fed, walked, and cleaned up after me? Totally. Currently wishing I just didn't exist? Yeah, sometimes.

* * *

A few years ago I was briefly admitted to the ER because of suicidal ideation.

I only ended up there because one of my best friends, who lived nearly 800 miles away, told me that I was not thinking clearly and I needed to talk to someone who was not her. Honestly, not much came of it because I was resistant to treatment and still married so there was, theoretically, someone to keep an eye on me.

After the fact I had a lot of long conversations with my GP and shrink. We were all satisfied with the diagnosis that even then, it had more to do with a really bad obsessive compulsive episode and less to do with actually wanting to die.

This probably sounds like a specious distinction to a lot of people, but I promise that it's one that matters.

* * *

I'm not always happy to be alive.

Much of the time I am tremendously grateful for life, for the ability to know and love the people I do. I adore my job and take a deep sense of meaning from it. I enjoy achieving goals and learning and experiencing moving art. Even on my very worst days, I can still dig deep and find things to grateful for.

Let’s be real, most of the worst days involve knowing that my cats live spoiled, charmed lives because I am here.

I'm still not always thrilled with my own existence.

* * *

Here's what I mean when I say I'm not always happy to be alive.

It's more than just existential boredom. I have dealt with depression as a result of obsessive compulsive disorder and anxiety since puberty. Most of the time, I do okay. I train for triathlons. I go to work. My friends make me laugh so hard I almost pee my pants. I kiss babies and snuggle pets and pay attention to the flowers blooming in my neighborhood.

I love a lot of my life.

But even on good days, if I suddenly winked out of existence, I'd probably be okay with it.

This is passive suicidal ideation. For me, it's chronic and that makes it a hard thing to talk about. The second you say "I'd be okay not existing" you find yourself in midst of a bunch of well-meaning conversations where you're suddenly put in the position of having to comfort other people. Of having to explain that you don't actually have plan to kill yourself, and yes, that actually matters and no, you don't need to be admitted to inpatient care. Of having to listen to someone tell you to just eat more probiotics or do a cleanse or listen to some self-help podcast and you’ll feel better.

I really want to punch that last group in the face.

So much of living with whatever we call this is feeling, is a deep sense of disconnection from, well everything. Even when life is good there’s a part of me that thinks, “Meh. This is good, but I would also be okay with not being.” When people’s first reactions are medication or therapy or yoga, I’m not motivated to actually talk about the fact that I often struggle with the idea of being alive.

Of course, all that does is drive the sense of disconnection I feel.

I’m really tired of that. It’s exhausting to try to explain to people why even when I'm not in a depressive episode I'm not always the most fun to be around. There’s no non-intense way to say to someone that the idea of seeing their kids grow up keeps me alive. It’s frustrating to realize that I’m probably not the only person who lives with this, but no one says anything.

So . . . I am often ambivalent about existence. And I don’t want to feel disconnected or alone or like this is something shameful that I have to hide.

There it is.

Just in time for me to take a dose of probiotics.