Memoir in Honor of National Suicide Month

Trigger Warning: this post contains detailed discussion of suicide and self-harm.

(Written by Thea in August 2021, while she was still at home)

The pistol felt heavier than she had thought it would. It was a dull silver color, with wooden paneling. The trigger was black. That was the important part.

She opened the gun up and struggled to remember which way to put the shells in. They were bright and brass colored. It was almost taking her mind off what was making her do this.

I hate being alive. I hate myself. I deserve this.

Not good at anything. Terrible child. Terrible sister. Terrible, terrible friend. Relationship wrecker. Pain causer. Good for nothing. Well, no one would ever have a relationship with her again. She’d never have a friend again. Never look into her mother’s icy blue eyes again, never have her dad’s voice send chills of fear up and down her spine. Never have another interrogation, another torture session, another day of being pressed for information that would be explosive to share.

This was finally happening. It was happening! And they would be sad for a while and then they would get over it.

She felt lightheaded. Everything felt numb except for the pain in her chest. She struggled to breathe clearly as she cocked the pistol. Did you push the safety right or left? No wait, these pistols didn’t have safety on them.

She pointed the pistol casually towards her, smiling a little, feeling powerful and in control. She was going to control how she left. No one would ever get to scare her again. She was bigger than all of that, she was escaping it.

She had a whole night to do this, but she needed to do it quickly, just in case someone came and took the golden opportunity away from her. She fingered the muzzle of the barrel lovingly, finally touching it to her head. Then she pressed it hard against her head and made herself start taking deep breaths.

See, this wasn’t bad.

There would never again be any pain inside of her. Never any more feelings of being about to explode with pain, she was going to explode herself instead and all the pain would vanish, just like she would. It would be good…it would be lots and lots of fun.

Pain was lots of fun. It was an escape. It was the ultimate destiny of any human being, why prolong it?

She thought about all kinds of fun things. Smashing her head into concrete and seeing all her brain and her bloody, shattered skull on the ground.

No one would ever mock her again. Her parents would never pity her again and make things worse. Troubled, they had called her. Yes, she was, and they would see that now. She would laugh at them for being so simple, so calloused, so unwilling to do anything.

She gathered her stuffed animals closer and put them on her lap. She wanted them there, she wanted them in the coffin with her at the funeral, in her arms when they closed the lid and put her in the ground.

She would never hate herself again now. She put her finger on the trigger, firmly. No one would ever hate her again either. She wouldn’t accept anyone’s pity, anyone’s charity. Never again.

No more panic attacks. No more nightmares, real or dreamed. No more questions, no more heart stopping moments, no more illusions, no more reality, no more nothing. No more nothing at all. Just five more seconds. She wasn’t going to think about it anymore, no more giving herself anymore options. Just five more seconds.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two….

One.

The trigger was harder to pull than she thought it would be, no simple click. She pulled and made herself pull harder…and harder…and harder. And then there was a little click. And then nothing.

See, that wasn’t so bad after all…

It was the funnest thing in the world.

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Present (2025):

I don’t think I ever really wanted to die. In fact, it was terrifying. 

It was just that the only thing more terrifying was living–another day of terror, paranoia, abuse, helplessness, and mental instability. 

My parents had taught us that people who committed suicide went to hell. How is this not already hell? I thought. If hell was real, I no longer cared if I went there anymore. So long as I was not alive, anything would be better than this. 

I cry a little writing this, remembering. It feels like a whole lifetime ago–like someone else’s life that I am watching in a movie. 

I hit rewind…

The first time I ever thought about suicide was the night my parents caught me and Elaine. We were talking to each other online, on a Bible memory app, and they discovered I had committed a number of serious infractions, such as downloading a Spotify account to listen to “Christian rock”--my favorite artists were the Gettys–and watching a Ray Comfort film. I had even been trying to understand why I suddenly cared what boys thought of me and how people were supposed to get pregnant without taking their clothes off (the pastor had been very clear nakedness was a sin). But worst of all–worst of all–I had told Elaine that I was a really bad kid, and I was an utter disappointment to my parents, and I wasn’t at all sure they would keep me, and that made me scared. I had been talking to her at 3 am and I had been crying. I had been telling her I was scared to go to bed because I had the same nightmares every night, nightmares about my dad, where I would wake up and he would be yelling at me and I would be cowering, terrified, with nowhere to go. I had been cheating on my chemistry exams too, because when you are up crying all night and terrified of being homeless, who excels at chemistry? I was crying because I was terrified something would happen and Elaine would vanish and leave me alone. She promised me that would never happen.

The next day it did.

“You will never talk to Elaine again.” I remember my dad’s icy voice sending shivers down my spine as I sat on the bed, sweat trickling down my arms, my knees visibly knocking together. The rest of it was a horrific blur.

I don’t think there are any words for the terror and isolation I felt that night, and for the next three years. 

There was no one safe for me to talk to. My parents wouldn’t even allow me to talk to my pastor or his wife, people I felt close to, with a basic expectation of privacy. I started to become paranoid, terrified of sitting without my back to the wall, constantly checking to make sure my blinds were closed, and hiding in closets, curling up to cry. Loud sounds scared me. I would wet the bed at night. I lost my period for months. My weight fluctuated erratically. 

I lost my faith in God. That was the worst part. And if there is no God, there is no point in being alive. There is no heaven to look forward to. There is no one with you when you are alone. 

I started fantasizing about death constantly, as a coping mechanism. As my parents berated me, I would mentally tune out and go to a place in my head where I was sitting in the dark, holding a pistol and slowly pulling the trigger. The more I imagined it, the more comforting it became. Soon, it was the only thing that comforted me. 

Unable to access help or resources, my mental state spiraled into a place where I started emotionally and verbally abusing my best friend, Elaine. My reasoning made no sense, and I knew it, but I thought if I could abuse her till she went away and left me alone, then I could finally die. In addition, I realized I was an awful friend and was hurting her and thought that if I died, that would rid her of the burden of me. 

All the mental dilemmas pointed back to one solution: death. 

The first time I tried was so IFB. Only those who were raised like this can understand. We were in church, Sunday morning, and the pastor announced we would have communion later that night. My heart instantly sank. I knew I wasn’t “right with God”. In fact, I hated him, if he was even real. 

The hitch was that everyone would know if I refused to take communion in our tiny church. Especially my parents. What would they think? I knew I couldn’t take it but I dreaded the social humiliation that would accompany turning down the bread and juice. 

I dreaded what I had to do the whole way to church that evening. I knew I couldn’t take it. 

I was in the church bathroom that evening, right before the service started, when I got the idea. And like most of my ideas, the more awful it was, the more I had to do it. 

When the plate came by, I took the cracker and took the tiny cup of grape juice. I held it up with everyone else, and as I drank it down, I cursed God and his son Jesus. I blasphemed them as much as I knew how. 

I remember sitting in the car afterwards on the way home, very silent, waiting to die. 

It never happened. 

Several months passed before the next time I tried, but every night in between, I was up in the wee hours of the morning, frantically sobbing, in a trance like state, wanting anything to end the terror that possessed me. I genuinely did not care if I went to hell. 

I do not know how Elaine managed to keep me alive some of those nights. When I remember how badly I longed for death, I really have no answer. 

The time I swallowed a whole handful of Excedrin, I knew it was a mistake. Not because I was going to die, but because I realized I was going to die slowly and painfully. Elaine panicked and threatened to call 911. I freaked out and begged her not to, terrified of the social disgrace it would bring to my family if the ambulance came because I tried to kill myself. She gave me one option: induce vomiting. 

I hunched over the bathroom toilet, the fan and shower both turned on to drown out the noise. I stuck my hand as far back in my throat as I possibly could. It was ghastly. I remember standing up and looking at my bloodshot eyes and puffy face in the mirror. I also remember knowing, as I crouched over the toilet, that this wasn’t going to be the last time.

Just like suicide, self-harm was a portal that once opened, was unable to be shut. I induced vomiting multiple times over the next month, usually to punish myself for missing a question on a test in school, or when I felt like I had especially let my parents down. 

From the first time I got behind the wheel of the car, I was planning it. You see, I wanted to go quickly. Instantly. Too fast to regret it.

A handgun would have been my preferred method. But I kept hearing horror stories about people who shot themselves in the head and didn’t die, they just shot their jaw off and ate from a tube the rest of their life. 

Every hour of driving time, every hour studying for my learner’s permit, got me closer. 

I couldn’t bring myself to crash the car with my mom or siblings in it. So I waited, patiently, for the day when I got my license and I could do it myself. 

There was an empty cinderblock building on the way to our church. I had it all planned. 

But like many suicidal people, I was actually terrified of death. The first day I drove myself to church, I asked my little sister to come with me. I think she thought I was scared of driving by myself. I was scared of dying. 

I drove her there but she couldn’t come with me on the way home. I remember that drive vividly. Just as I reached the hill where the abandoned building was, a tractor trailer truck approached, driving towards me on a narrow country road. A new driver, I panicked and focused very hard on staying in my lane and making it safely past the tractor trailer truck. As it rolled past, I saw the building vanishing behind me in the rearview mirror. I had just missed it.

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Today’s not been a particularly great day. I cried at my recovery group tonight, pouring my heart out about how much I miss my father. Before group, I was curled up in bed, alternating between praying out loud to God and unhealthy coping mechanisms that were the learned products of childhood trauma. Yesterday, I was crying in front of my boss at work, about my dad again. It hasn’t been a great week. I might be a tad depressed. 

But right now, I’m writing this from where I’m sitting on my bed, cuddling a stuffed animal, basking in the feel of clean sheets. I just had some Cheezits. It’s 12:38 am. The little things are good. Life is good. God is good. I’m glad I’m alive. 

And this is a bad day. 

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If you are struggling with suicidal ideations, I want you to know that there is hope. I know what it feels like to think it is impossible in any variation of the universe for anything to ever feel better, but there is an alternate reality where you can be loved and safe and happy. I live in that reality today: happy in a way I never imagined in my wildest dreams. 

If you are being abused and you feel helpless and trapped, I want you to know there is hope for you too. Maybe you’ve been told the police won’t do anything or that CPS will take you away from your family. Maybe you don’t want your parents or your spouse to look bad. Maybe you don’t have anywhere to go and are worried you will end up homeless. And while, I wish I could tell you that those things aren’t sometimes true, I can tell you that whatever struggle you go through to get out will be worth it, even if that struggle costs you everything. I also want you to know that there is a whole village of advocates and supporters waiting to receive you–you just haven’t met them yet. People will show you incredible kindness and generosity. Strangers will become best friends. Victims turn into survivors. It really happens. It can happen for you. 

There is hope and his name is Jesus. Hebrews 2:14-15 says, “Jesus shared in death…so that he might destroy the one holding the power of death…and free those who were held in slavery all their lives by the fear of death.” If you believe the good news that Jesus has given his life in payment for your sins and offers you eternal life, you will never have to be alone, no matter how dark it is around you. If you’re not able to receive this message yet, that’s okay too. Just don’t give up on your life, please. You are too precious. I love you and God loves you too. Help is there, please reach for it. 

National Suicide/Crisis Hotline:  

Call 988 from anywhere in the US