I think too much.
Especially at night.
This is why I ask Calvin so often if I can stay the night.
Those are the only nights I get peace of mind before I fall asleep.
Every night I’m not with him, I’m like this.
I don’t know why, but it is.
Tonight, my thoughts explain to me my depression and suicidal ideations.
Each time I see a new doctor, nurse, etc. for depression, there’s a set of questions every one of them asks.
One that used to catch me off my guard due to not being entirely sure of the answer goes as follows:
“Do you have any moral objection to suicide?”
I have always answered as follows:
I was born and raised Catholic. My dad looked at me with disgust when I told him of my inner thoughts. Of course I was brought up thinking, hell yeah I have a moral objection to suicide.
But in reality, I don’t.
This still shocks me from time to time. I know that I should, but the reality is that I don’t.
I was wondering why tonight.
Why don’t I have a “moral objection” to suicide?
I know why. At least I think I do.
She died due to breast cancer. I know if she had the choice, she’d be here right now and everything would be different. I know she fought until the end. She fought until they told her, “Jeannine, you’re going to die. You can rest now.”
Even then, I’d be surprised if she ever really stopped fighting.
We’re a stubborn people.
But if there’s one thing in my life that I’ve learned due to her early death is that life goes on.
People say, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
It’s really a simple answer.
You mourn. You move on.
It sounds cold. It sounds awful.
Then I question why I’m really here. I don’t feel like I honestly contribute to anyone’s life in a significant manner. Sure, I have friends that come to me for help. I have friends that call me simply because they miss me and want to talk. I have a lot of friends.
It just doesn’t hit me though.
Or maybe I know that people would find other ways to achieve what they want or need even without me.
Every choice we make impacts lives significantly.
I just know that my story isn’t one to dwell on.
It’s another… I don’t know. It ends. Just like all stories.
It doesn’t matter if I’ll be missed or what I will miss. There’s just so much misery every day for me that it blocks out everything else.
I’m not bothered by death. I don’t necessarily welcome it as warmly as I once did, but I don’t reject it as others would.
I remember not too long ago talking about how I would gladly die in order to save another life. I would gladly give any part of myself in order for someone else to live a healthy, happy life. It’s simply because I feel like I’m wasting away precious opportunities and robbing them from people more deserving than myself. It makes me hate myself more.
Who knew that was even possible?
I want to tell people that I am trying hard to get better. They believe me anyway. It doesn’t really matter.
Why would anyone want to hear that I’m not going anywhere? Or worse?
The answer is always, “I’m doing well”, “I’m on the road to getting better”, or “I’m fine.”
Maybe it’s because I’ve accepted what is inside me. I’ve accepted that death is not my enemy and think of it as a grace granted to me if I so desire it.
At times, I really do want it.
Sometimes, that scares me.
Other times, it just is.
It is me and I’ve grown to accept that.