Harder, Faster

I’ve been thinking about suicide lately. Not my own, really, at least not my own now. More like my own, long ago.

I’ve carried the belief that suicide was wrong, that it was selfish, that it was a permanent solution to a temporary problem. I’ve believed that for as long as I can remember. Not because I read it in a book, but because I lived with the possibility that suicide could impact my life any day. I never knew what I might find when I came home from school. My mother told me many times that the only reason she didn’t kill herself was because she was afraid I would find her and she didn’t want to do that to me. What a noble reason! Let’s not mess our children up right? Maybe someone trained to help would have been a better sounding board. Maybe some one trained wouldn’t have to wonder if today was the day they might find mom dead in the bathtub. And so I carried the belief that suicide was selfish, like a reviled treasure, buried deep within.

It’s kind of funny how our greatest strengths can be our greatest weaknesses and visa versa! Some of us are programmed to believe we can fix things. To believe that we can overcome challenges and be victorious. That’s all good and well when we can. But, some times we can’t fix things. Sometimes we are not able to overcome. That is when the spiral sets in. The self doubt, the vicious self-criticism, the feelings of failure. Depression.

I remember pain, not physical, but mental pain. Paralyzing mental pain. I remember laying on the floor, staring blankly at the ceiling, not knowing what to do, or how to do it. Wondering why I was here. Thinking that if I didn’t exist, then I wouldn’t hurt. But, I wasn’t going to kill myself. That would be selfish!

Speed was my drug dealer. I did not take little pills because I self-righteously thought that was wrong. But I was an adrenaline junky. Any time life was rough or I needed an escape, I went for a ride. Often, there were “go to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200” speeds involved with the trips. Sometimes it was a two hour and twenty minute trip to Hayden Lake Idaho or a 22 minute trip to Fishhook Park. More often than not it was just a quick trip out and about in the countryside. Anything to get my fix. But, like any drug, I needed more the longer I used. I needed to push harder, go faster, take bigger risks.

I told myself it was therapy. I told myself it cleared my head and helped me focus. In reality, I needed my fix to escape life and its challenges. I needed my fix to lift the depression and the feeling of being lost. I needed my fix to feel alive! I was taking risks without thinking of the consequences, at least not consciously.

I didn’t expect to see 25. But not because of suicide. I mean, I liked to live life fast. And, if you died doing what you loved, well, what a way to go right? I was sure no one could be sad, because I would die living life to the fullest. It was all in, all the time. I was the full throttle guy!

I didn’t expect to see 25. But it wouldn’t be suicide, right?