Suicide is Not a Selfish Act

Admitting I needed help with my depression and anxiety was embarrassing for me. The negative stigma that society has attached to mental health is appalling, but I still feared the judgment.

I was worried my spouse would think differently of me. I was afraid of snickering behind my back from my family. I was scared my friends wouldn’t want to hang around a Debbie-downer. I was petrified my doctor would laugh at me when I told her what I thought was bothering me and why.

“The problem with the stigma around mental health is really about the stories that we tell ourselves as a society. What is normal? That’s just a story we tell ourselves.” — Matthew Quick, American writer

Of course, all of this worry and panic was simply a part of the racing thoughts in my head.

My friends would not abandon me. My family would simply love me for who I am — depressed or not. And my spouse will be by my side until the end of time regardless of possible neurosis.

And as far as my doctor is concerned, I’m fortunate enough to have found a fantastic professional who never laughs at me. Even — and maybe especially — when the words spill out along with my emotions in front of her while my tears smear my eyeliner.

Enter: Suicidal Thoughts

After my initial visit, my doctor prescribed me some medications. One specifically for my depression — this one would take a couple of weeks before I noticed any benefit. And another prescription that would begin working immediately to help alleviate my overwhelming anxiety.

I’d taken an anti-depressant before, but the anti-anxiety medication was new for me. The promised benefits sounded like exactly what I needed.

Three days later…

I was convinced the world — my family and friends — would be better off without me.

I knew my spouse and son would miss me but would endure in a way that would bring them even closer together. And they’d be better off because of the insurance money. And it wasn’t like I truly contributed financially back then. I wasn’t making much at all as a writer yet. My writing dreams were more of a burden on my family than a help.

After three days of internal dialogue that was succeeding in convincing me to end my life in order to benefit all those around me, fear finally saved my life.

I broke down in front of my husband and confessed all those horrible thoughts I’d had. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much or felt so defeated. I’d hidden all those grim thoughts and alarming feelings for days out of embarrassment and shame. On some level, I must have felt it was wrong for me to have those thoughts.

My spouse was shocked. He’d had no idea I’d been struggling so much.

After a second’s pause, he asked me about my new medications. I remember thinking, he mustn't have heard everything I’d said.

Why would he want to know about my meds? They’re not working.

He took my hands into his own and looked at me. Slowly and calmly he said,

“You need to call your doctor. I think you’re having a reaction to your new medication.”

Now it was my turn to be shocked. “What?”

I knew side effects were possible with all medications. I’d had some myself over the years — all physically experienced. A side effect capable of changing my mental judgment never occurred to me. My brain was drowning in so much negativity and disparagement, I never thought the pills I was prescribed might be the cause of all those thoughts and feelings. I later discovered it happens often enough that they’ve done clinical trials regarding it.

I spoke with my doctor and stopped the anti-anxiety medication as she suggested. Those dark thoughts that had me standing on the edge of my world and ready to jump off finally stopped a few days later.

The entire experience taught me a lot about my own depression and gave me a peek inside what it might be like for others fighting more serious mental health issues. When you have a voice in your head — or maybe in your surrounding environment even — repeatedly telling you how disposable you are, it’s difficult to use any sense of logic to combat that voice.

I became convinced that suicide was not only the escape from all the mental anguish I was enduring, but the only selfless act I could do for those I cared for most.

This entire experience has taught me that those who take their own lives do not need my judgment — or anyone else’s. They need our help and understanding. Suicide is not a selfish act.

In a world where we can be anything, let’s all be kind — to one another and ourselves.

If you suffer from depression, racing thoughts, debilitating anxiety, or any other issue that might be considered a mental health concern, I implore you to seek help. You don’t need to manage any of this alone.

Go see your doctor. Talk to a friend. Tell a family member. Or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1–800–273–8255. If you’d rather chat online with someone with complete anonymity, they have that too, here.