I can't take it anymore!

So, I decided to write my two cents about actor Robin Williams' passing. Due to the nature of his passing, I might get a tiny bit graphic in this post.

In case you haven't heard, he died yesterday of an apparent suicide. If I'm interpreting the most current Wikipedia entry correctly, it appears that he hanged himself after he cut himself. Rest in peace, Mr. Williams! You never, ever failed to entertain me.

I read a news article that said that his family wants privacy while they're grieving. I totally don't blame them. However, since Robin Williams has been one of the most memorable, recognizable, talented celebrities for decades, his death was inevitably made public, and it has wallpapered the internet.

I never met Mr. Williams, so I can't grieve like somebody who knew him. But if you've ever followed my blog and/or heard me share a bit of my testimony, you know that I have an idea of what might have been going through his head while he was deciding to take his own life. I hope I don't think about his death every time I see one of his sitcom episodes or watch one of his movies. But that won't change the fact that his death was an apparent suicide.

And that won't change the fact that I think I know suicide like the back of my shiny tanned, lightly freckled, guitar-calloused, mole-decorated hand.

Oh, my gosh. So many people have opinions about suicide. Anytime anyone in the public spotlight commits this act, it releases a new opinion deluge. We live in an era when the internet makes it possible for people to share every opinion they have about everything. And most of these opinion-sharers (even though they have every right to form and share their opinions, just like I do) probably don't have a clue of what it's really like to actually battle a suicidal thought.

I can't take it anymore! I want to set the record straight for the world. So, earlier today, I almost composed a Facebook status update that would have gone something like this: "If you're trying to talk somebody out of committing suicide, don't lecture them, yell at them, or accuse them of being selfish. The last thing they need is more violence in their head. Hug them, tell them you want them to stay here, and love them."

But then I realized that I would just be adding to the opinion din. Here's the deal regarding suicide: There are no easy answers.

Even in my case, even after writing this previous post, I've been very surprised to find myself battling suicidal thoughts YET AGAIN in recent months. Hence my pursuit of psychotherapy. Hence my blogging about "emotional healing." It's been kind of embarrassing and yet frustrating, honestly. I mean, I thought this was over and done with, I thought this was gone forever, and then to see it back again is really frustrating and scary.

And yet, I feel like I should celebrate by getting a new tattoo or something.

I think the first time I found myself tumbling down another pit again, which was probably around Januaryish 2014, I came out fighting with fists swinging quite sloppily, but as passionately as I could. I won't repeat what I actually said, but it was a very angry prayer in which I rebuked demonic forces with a torrent of profanity. Then I collapsed on my living room chair in a flood of tears and begged God to help me while reading Psalm 86 out loud. Then He talked to me and said that my healing would come if I would ride the waves that would come. I think that was around the time that I wrote this previous post.

I think the scariest brush with suicidal thoughts that I've had in this particular leg of my journey was a few months ago. I believe it was a Monday morning or early afternoon in May. I think perhaps the added stress of unemployment was enough to smack me down onto my couch and attract invisible buzzards. On the weekends, loneliness has triggered it. I don't think I'm depressed per se. I think perhaps my wounds become unraveled, and suicidal ideas have been part of them, sort of like untangling a jungle vine that's been buried under rotting leaves and moldy logs.

As I'm typing this now, I'm honestly fine. I'm not depressed. I'm not suicidal. I'm just discovering that I can't guarantee that that old struggle won't come back again. But I'm definitely not going to let it lick me.

One thing I've discovered this year is that if I'm going to live my life, it's up to me. If I'm going to stay the heck away from the pits, it's up to me. If I'm going to strangle the demonic forces whenever they form a dark posse and come after me, it's up to me.

Incidentally, the biggest middle finger I could ever wave to the devil is simply living my life. The fact that I'm still breathing while I type this means that he's a loser. Heh.

And, of course, the fact that Jesus already conquered death for me means that I'm more than a conqueror (Romans 8:37-39). One thing that I appreciate about Him is that He's never slapped me away for being honest with Him. He's always helped me. He's always given me exactly what I need.

Not trying to hurt anybody's feelings, just trying to be honest, going to Jesus' people (my brothers and sisters) during an emotional crisis (that is sometimes code for "I am fighting suicidal thoughts") hasn't always been a pleasant experience. I've been lectured, yelled at, and humiliated by different people on different occasions. And yet, I know that these people love me. They probably just don't know exactly how to respond to me because they can't read my mind. That is definitely understandable. And yet, a disappointing response is always better than no response at all.

I conquered my most recent battles with practical thoughts. I can't die. If I do, nobody else would know how to take care of my cats. If I try to kill myself, and if my attempt is unsuccessful again, I would have to endure life at a hospital. Heh. Like that's gonna happen again!

I repeat: I'm honestly fine. I'm not depressed. I'm not suicidal. Goodness knows I'm not going back to a hospital again. No way. Do you know what those places are like? I do.

Here's what happened to me about 14 years ago. After I found a friend to drive me to the ER, I had to explain to an admitting nurse that I had taken 2 bottles of aspirin on purpose. While the nurse was asking me admitting questions, she asked if I had ever had any kidney or liver problems. I said no. Referring to the aspirin that I'd just ingested, she barked at me, "You will now!" Thanks for the lecture, mean lady.

Then while I was waiting to see a doctor, my stomach pumped itself in the men's room (because the ladies' room was occupied). Then I changed into a hospital gown and lay down on one of those flimsy beds. At one point, a girl from church that I barely knew came in to visit me. She asked me when was the last time I was happy. I replied when I was 6 years old. (I was 24 at the time.) Then a pastor that I actually knew showed up, and I began to cry. I think maybe they prayed for me, but what I really remember was the late-night counselor showing up and interviewing me to see if I would be interested in being admitted to the neighboring psychiatric hospital. During this interview, the activated charcoal that I had drunk suddenly caused my stomach to pump itself. Heh. That nice late-night lady.

Then when I was finally getting admitted to the psychiatric hospital, a male nurse went through my backpack and removed any items that I possibly could have used to hurt myself. I remember him asking me if I collected stamps. Not that it's really your business, but yes.

Then I slept... longer than I had slept in a long time. It was wonderful to be able to face a sterile wall, snuggle up in a strange blanket, and drift off peacefully. (That wasn't sarcastic. That was sincere.) In the wee hours of the night, a nurse woke me up to take my blood pressure. In the morning, I was fed, and I was treated to cable TV for the first time in a very long time. That was when I was introduced to Animal Planet. I believe something that evening triggered the fire alarm, so many of us were in the hallways.

Eventually I was moved from the intensive care wing to a lower-security wing where I was introduced to Turner Classic Movies. Many of the people in the hospital with me would go outside frequently to take smoke breaks. I remember marveling at how we were being hospitalized to treat an addiction (which is how I viewed depression at the time), and yet we were allowed to continue in a nicotine addiction.

We started group therapy during the day, and we had to share our story of why we were in the hospital. I think I shared about how I was in a missionary training school and about how I was mad at God. (Nice witness, right? Now I'm being sarcastic.) One night, one of the nurses on duty recognized me because she had been a visitor in my lifegroup. She was very gracious, but of course I felt humiliated.

I'm assuming my condition was listed right by my name on the hospital roll call, because every time a new nurse would come on duty, he or she would call out each of our names, administer various medications, and check on us. (Yes, one of the male nurses was pretty darn cute. Sigh!) When they would get to me, they'd usually call out my last name immediately followed by, "Do you still want to hurt yourself?" By this point, heck no, I didn't want to hurt myself. I had already gotten it out of my system. And I was pretty annoyed with this whole hospitalization thing.

I would see a therapist pretty much every day, and I learned some important things about myself. One day, she asked me, "What are the 3 most important things in life?" Without missing a beat, without thinking or blinking, I replied, "Security, closeness, and artistic expression." I realized immediately that those were my 3 biggest needs (and still are). She talked to me about my method of suicide and laughed at me. "You can't die from taking 2 bottles of aspirin!" I was like, "Great. I can't do anything right." She was like, "So, just don't try it anymore!" Thanks, lady. Way to heckle a chick.

At one point, my roommate visited me in the hospital and told me that my attempting suicide made her feel rejected. Um, sorry. I was kinda feeling rejected myself. She also brought me a change of clothes but wasn't allowed to give me my drawstring pants because I could have supposedly hanged myself with them. Um, no. Later, I found out that she had told my therapist that I was behind on my rent and that I would need to find another place to live. Um, heck no, I didn't appreciate her doing all that behind my back. But what choice did I have? My freedom and independence had been zapped to smithereens, and I was at the mercy of my support system.

Then I was required to phone my parents (who I honestly should have disowned myself from already, but I hadn't yet) and inform them of what I had done and why I was in a hospital. My mother answered the phone and immediately blamed my missionary training school. She and my father drove all night and met me at the hospital the following morning.

I really wish I hadn't witnessed my parents' responses to my actions/condition/plight.

My mother acted as if nothing unusual had happened. My father had just had laser surgery on his eyes. He is a very socially awkward person as it is, but him keeping his eyes closed for most of his visit made things extra awkward. We had a family therapy session in which I agreed to visit my parents more often. Then the therapist left the room so that the 3 of us could speak privately. Heh, heh, heh. She assumed that we would work out our issues, did she?

The first words out of my father's mouth were, "[Insert statistic here] percent of all suicides happen between the ages of 18 and 24. Tirzah, how could you do this to us?" Thanks, dad. Nice to be treated like a number. At least you were consistent. Also nice to hear how embarrassed YOU were about all this.

I rest my case.

So, I'm glad that God has used my previous experience in a psychiatric hospital to at least remind me of what it's like in those places. I don't mean to offend you if you work at any of these facilities. Honestly, if you do, thank you. I appreciate what you do. You have to patiently put up with people like me. But please understand that remembering the public humiliation of an unsuccessful suicide attempt is plenty of a reason for me to NOT want to go back there again.

Please understand: If you're seriously contemplating suicide, don't. Please get help, even if it means visiting a hospital and blogging about it later. Suicide isn't worth your trouble. You, on the other hand, are a life worth saving. Please don't go. Please stay. We want you here, even if we do a terrible job of showing it.

That being said, I think unsuccessful suicide attempts can serve other purposes, too.

"O Lord, God of my salvation, I have cried out day and night before You. Let my prayer come before You; incline Your ear to my cry. For my soul is full of troubles, and my life draws near to the grave. I am counted with those who go down to the pit; I am like a man who has no strength, adrift among the dead, like the slain who lie in the grave, whom You remember no more, and who are cut off from your hand. You have laid me in the lowest pit, in darkness, in the depths. Your wrath lies heavy upon me, and You have afflicted me with all Your waves. Selah." (Psalm 88:1-7)

Psalm 88 is one of those "What the bleep is this kind of stuff doing in the Bible?" passages. From what I understand, it was written by a man who was the father of 17 children, the grandson of Samuel the prophet, one of the musicians who was appointed by the Levites to serve with music when the Israelites would worship God. This is the kind of stuff he wrote? Something that easily could have been done emo-style on an electric guitar in a coffee shop or on a street corner somewhere? And what the heck was up with his theology?

Well, all I know for sure is that God liked it, because it was inspired, canonized, and voilà, now it's scripture. And I know that this type of stuff speaks to me big-time. Yes, some of us can relate to this type of stuff. At least, I'm assuming that Heman didn't just use his imagination. I'm assuming he lived through what he wrote.

At any rate, I understand that suicide can be a confusing, puzzling, WTF thing. I know. If you're trying to understand it, honestly I'm thankful that you DON'T get it. Please be thankful for the peace that you currently enjoy, and keep waving your middle finger at the devil simply by living your life.

Speaking of, I recently led worship for my choir peeps. It was the first time in a long time that I had led worship solo, and it felt really good. Considering my journey, it was also my way of waving my middle finger at the devil. Yeah, that's right. I'm still here. I ain't goin' anywhere. When I sing stuff like "You have set my feet upon a rock" and "You have made me glad," I mean it.

I wonder if maybe God likes to write cool post-trial tattoos on my soul that say things like "She's still here" or "She's still Mine" or "Told you she'd resist" or "If you try to touch her again, you're toast" or "I knew you'd make it, little girl." No, I don't like suicide or depression or anything related to it. But I almost feel like I know it so well, that it's been neutralized so thoroughly, that I can squish it through my fingers like clay and make something useful out of it -- something that could help somebody else. Or maybe God has been doing that all along.

But I repeat, regarding suicide: There are no easy answers. Maybe even reaching out to a friend and asking for prayer won't always help. But honestly, I think if I'm ever in trouble and I'm already praying for myself, I've probably already won.

It's too late for me to tell Robin Williams how much I enjoyed his acting, but it will never be too late for me to appreciate who he was.