Lucky

Content warning: suicidal ideation, aborted suicide attempt

Two years ago, I fell in love with a beautiful woman. She was intelligent, sweet, and incredibly funny. Meeting her opened by eyes to what a relationship could be, one built on affection and respect. I finally felt what is like to be loved by a partner, it was the most healing relationship of my life. My only other significant relationship to date had been a verbally abusive person that I only now realize left me with a twisted idea of what love was supposed to feel like. Loving her felt like breathing again after a lifetime underwater.

I moved in with her because I knew this was the person I wanted to build a life with. In doing so I gave up a stable career, a condo at an amazing interest rate, and my financial stability. I found a part-time job at way less pay, but she was generous and allowed me to do that while going back to school to pursue a degree in technical writing. And for about a year, it was the most wonderful time of my life. I could see my future in her eyes.

It began slowly at first. Every now and then she’d be withdrawn, her voice losing that joyful lilt and turning to a flat monotone. But most of the time she was still the person I loved.

Then the voices started.

She thought she was experiencing psychic phenomenon and began seeing spiritual healers, even as I tried to gently encourage her to seek psychiatric help. Which she did.

For a time.

But then the voices got louder.

They began telling her that she was an ugly, horrible person. And my voice, telling her she was beautiful and kind, wasn’t loud enough to drown out the ones that tormented her.

How I wish I could have drawn those voices from her head and fought them with my bare hands, because I would win. I wouldn’t have let myself lose. But the battle took place inside her head and there was nothing I could do to help her.

For the next six months I watched helplessly as the person I loved was stripped away a piece at a time. There would be periods when she would take her medication, and she’d come back to me. But then she would go off them again, convinced it was suppressing who she really was. Then she began to get angry at me, she thought I was calling her crazy and that I couldn’t understand the spiritual awakening she was going through.

Finally, she threw me out. The person I’d fallen in love with, who had been so healing and loving, had finally vanished.

I was left with nothing. I didn’t have anywhere to go.

Until I was thrown a lifeline by a dear friend. She’d been a mentor and friend who had ushered me into the ballroom dance community, but I had also not talked to her in almost two years. I was shocked that when I reached out, she didn’t hesitate to offer me safe harbor. She saved me from having to live in my car.

Yet I was still spiraling. Overnight I lost my girlfriend, my home, my job, and even my cats who I couldn’t bring with me. All that was left was the insurmountable mountain of rebuilding my life. I was 38 years old and was now right back where I was when I was 22 and leaving home for the first time. It all seemed too much. I didn’t want to rebuild again, it was too hard the first time. I didn’t want to suffer anymore.

So, two days after the breakup I bought a cheap bottle of scotch.

I took the scotch, a bottle of sedatives that I knew were dangerous to mix with alcohol, as well as some blood pressure medication, to a spot overlooking the Seattle skyline. I wrote out the suicide notes to my friends, recorded a video message to say goodbye to my best friend. And I opened the bottle of scotch.

But when I brought it to my lips, I hesitated.

There’s a fable by Aesop that tells the story of an old man who, after a lifetime of hauling wood for his village, asks Death to come to him. He wants an end to the suffering. But when Death stands before the man, in all its terror, he changes his mind. Instead, he asks Death to help him hoist the wood onto his back again and continues his work.

I asked Death to give me a release from my suffering.

And now he was here.

And I was terrified.

I looked at the suicide notes I was about to send out. There were almost two dozen of them, not counting the video message to my friend. Two dozen people who would have been shattered by my suicide. But also, two dozen people who would listen when I said:

Help.

The friend who was allowing me to stay with them took me on a wonderful trip to Canda for a dance event, paying for my room and food. Another good friend of mine played board games with me and buy me lunch, and then said he’d pay for my storage unit. Meanwhile at the job I’d had to quit, a coworker told everyone my situation and someone stepped up to house my cats until I could find a place of my own. Another friend began creating a DnD campaign for me and some other friends, so I had something to look forward to every week. There were dozens of other small acts of kindness too numerous to list.

My best friend had the hardest job of all: listening to me talk about how much I didn’t want to live anymore, how it was going to be too hard to rebuild, and that I was so tired of trying only to see everything burn to the ground. She listened to that every day for two weeks. And she didn’t shower me with empty platitudes of it’ll get better or this is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. She just listened, truly listened, and offered to take me on a road trip in October. That if I did decide this was the end, she wanted to take one last adventure with me.

I was dangling from midway up a cliff, and each of these acts were handholds that not only kept me from falling but allowed me to begin dragging myself upward. A little at a time at first, inching my way up.

I resumed showering and getting dressed. Began eating again. Drinking water. Going to visit friends.

I got stronger, the climb became easier, as the weeks passed.

I began spending long hours on the porch in the sun diving into the novel I’ve always wanted to write. 40,000 words in three weeks, more than I’d ever written in such a short time span. I made a wonderful connection with someone that, if nothing else, I hope will bloom into a beautiful friendship. I began dancing again, reconnecting with a community that I’d been deprived of in the remote location my girlfriend had lived.

I’ve not yet completed the ascent; there is still so much to do. I still haven’t found a job or a place to live. I don’t know where I’ll end up living in the end. Yet a month of space and time to reflect have made me realize I lost nothing truly important in this crisis. Money and housing can all be rebuilt. The beautiful network of friends and family I have is all that truly matters.

It made me realize how lucky I am.

Lucky to have such an amazing community of friends from all walks of life. That they have all banded together to assure that no matter what happens, I will not end up homeless on the streets.

And in a way, I’m lucky the woman I loved broke up with me.

Because I would have stayed through it all. We had been talking about getting married just weeks before the breakup, because even as bad as the situation was becoming, I was prepared to stay and help her. I was prepared to spend the rest of my life fighting the voices in her head. Prepared to lose over and over again.

I didn’t see the toll that was taking on me at the time; the sleepless nights; the repeated stress of managing her psychotic breaks. Anxiety and grief had become constant companions in my life as I watched her slip away.

In a moment of lucidity towards the end my girlfriend said:

“You give so much of yourself.”

She was smiling, tearfully, but there was an undertone of grief to it.

“Always.” I said back, squeezing her hand.

At the time I didn’t think anything of it but looking back I wonder if I was missing the subtext. That what she really meant was:

You give too much of yourself.

Perhaps that final night there was still some small part of the woman I loved, buried deep down beneath the voices. The woman who was capable of such selfless love was still in there somewhere.

Enough of her left to perform one final act of selfless love:

To let me go.

I’m lucky to be here still. I’m lucky that when Death came to me, he hoisted my life back onto my shoulders to continue my journey.

I’m lucky that I can rebuild my life in any way I want now. For the first time since my early 20’s, I have nothing tying me down. I can move in any direction I choose.

And I can’t wait to see what awaits me at the top of this cliff.