The allure of suicide . . .

Wow, that sounds dark now doesn't it? Reality is so much darker. Surviving suicide is considered a trauma, and a cause for P.T.S.D. So wonderful now you know? I've already got enough "primary" causes for the P.T.S.D. I've been diagnosed with, now another?

Well not now, this has been going on for awhile. Periodically, when I have bad days, that's where my mind runs. Taking your own life is of course a one time solution to all the problems in life you know. That's it, done, over, finis! Every single problem you have is folded up and stuffed in the box they bury you in and you never have to worry about it again.

Well that's what one believes when one takes their own life. In 1961 that is exactly what I believed, and was certain what would become of me. Nothing more, ever, my problems solved, my pain gone, and me with it. As I sat there in a warm tub of purple liquid, my consciousness slipping from me, I was, for the first time in years at peace and free of my pain. I sat there, the blood gushing from the deep cuts in my thigh, KNOWING it was finally over.

Sure I'd be missed, people I knew and loved would be hurt, pissed even. They'd adjust, and it was my life, not theirs to live or die. I was in so much pain, so depressed, and in such bad shape cutting open my thighs didn't even hurt. I felt giddy, even slightly euphoric, as the blood gushed from my wounds and turned the blue water purple. Finally, relief, freedom, never to be bothered again, all my problems solved.

I'd spent the last of my money on a nice bottle of French red wine and some blue food coloring. Drawn a nice bath, lit a bunch of candles, opened the red wine to breath, put Jacques Briell's "La Moribond" on the phonograph, poured the food coloring into the tub, then a glass of wine and slid into the water. I drank a bit of wine, actually a bunch of it, and let the mellow warmth enfold me in it's loving embrace. I was practicing a form of meditation known today as mindfulness, surrendering completely to what I was feeling at that moment, putting for a moment as much distance between me and my pain as possible.

God's it felt great. I had a purpose, a goal, a direction and I knew in a few short moments my pain would be gone and I'd be free. I was taking, what I thought was a positive step forward, and finally regaining some control of my life. Yeah, those last few moments of peace, of what I thought was clarity, of control was more intoxicating than the wine. Jacques started singing again and this time I savored the words, the feeling, the power in his voice and lyrics. I'd set the phonograph to just keep playing it over and over again.

I still remember how it felt, like it happened yesterday, and in some ways it did. I slid the knife between my legs, took a deep breath and pulled. The physical pain of the blade cutting deep felt GREAT!!! I was on my way, I'd done it, and even if I didn't manage to make the second cut I knew I had moments to live. It felt so good though, waves of sensation that to my addled brain felt WONDERFUL made me want to get the other leg done. Knowing I didn't have much time I turned the knife around and pulled again.

The second time felt even better than the first and I surrendered to the waves of feeling, the pure, almost blissful, physical sensation. Because I'd given this careful thought, and planning, my consciousness started to fade before the "cold" associated with blood loss hit me. Though in retrospect, the cold probably would have felt good too, so I don't know how much it would have mattered.

Loss of life came fast, amazingly fast, well at least I think it did. I passed out from blood loss, and probably quickly died thereafter. What happened next, was the stuff out of movies, or TV. I lost consciousness, and then woke with a start, very disappointed to find myself right were I left off in a tub full of water and my own blood. They phonograph was still playing, the candles burning and while I knew I should be cold, I wasn't.

I then decided that I should get up and start over, I was actually terribly disappointed that I wasn't dead, or so I thought. When I went to get up, there was no sloshing of the water and as I got out of the tub I looked back and saw myself lying there. That was when it hit me, I was dead, I'd actually succeeded in taking my own life. Yeah the pain was gone, sort of, well no, not really.

I was still terribly sad and then some, the reality of what I'd done then started to sink in, the loss. People who did not yet know I was gone, but would be crushed, my sister Lil high at the top of the list. She was a bit younger than I was, and I'd promised I wasn't going to go away on her, and failed her too. That's when the anger hit me full on, all the anger I couldn't manage in life, my rage was loose and the only thing I could do was feel it.

I had time to think, I was actually stuck in there for a while until they came looking for the rent I couldn't pay them, and didn't answer the door. It wasn't till much later I figured out that I could pass through solid matter as easily through air. Honestly it just isn't something you think of when you're dead. You could easily say I had other things on my mind and in my heart, plus the horrible guilt on top of it all.

I'd been raised a good little catholic girl, but never once bought into it, any of it. Which is exactly what got me in so much trouble in the first place. I was supposed to be a "good girl" and marry in my station and grow up to be just like my Mom. My father had already "promised me" to one of the rich sons in town, and I was just expected to go along with it. I was expected to marry, bear his children and make a good society wife. I wasn't just raised as a "good girl" I was groomed to be just like my Mom, and while I loved (still do) her, I wanted a chance for other things in my life.

That was the problem, what lead me to so drastic a step, taking my own life like that?

(End of Part One . . .)