The last year and half of high school, I didn’t live with my
dad and step-mom, I’d moved out. I lived in an apartment paid for by my best
friend Linda’s mother. It was her 17th birthday present and just my
luck, her mom needed help paying the rent on it. Using money from my retail
job, I got to live cheaply in a nice place that was not ruled by parents. Linda
and I were inseparable. We played soccer together on the junior varsity team,
our friends were friends and she had a car. We spent many nights in that
apartment doing what teenage girls do: baring our souls and hearts with the
utmost trust in each other.
This night began like so many others. We played Mario Kart
on her Nintendo 64, listened to the same sad Matthew Good Band song on the
radio, ate Ramen and talked boys. Suddenly, however, things turned scary fast.
Linda was upset about her current interest, I knew that, but we’d discussed his
worthlessness so many times that I couldn’t believe just how upset she still
was. Linda brought me a pillow she’d been hiding from me. It was covered in
words and pictures drawn in Sharpie. She was and is a talented artist but her
choice of expression was so bizarre to me in that moment. She told me about
each word, line, quote and image. I started to realize how deep her emotions
ran and how much she needed me.
As I began to use the same words I’d used before, she got
angry. Linda was afraid of being alone; afraid of being unloved and afraid
people would find out just how much she didn’t love herself. Everything
happened so suddenly, I don’t remember how she managed to get the large kitchen
knife in her hand. One minute we’re standing in the living room fighting and
the next minute she’s backed up against the wall in the kitchen brandishing a
huge knife in my face. I distinctly remember thinking, “Don’t be afraid. It’s
not you she wants to hurt. Don’t be afraid. Don’t let her turn that around on
herself. Don’t be afraid.” In that vein, I started yelling at her.
“Go ahead! You’re really that mad? You really want to use
that thing? Well do it, then! I’m standing right here and I’m not stopping you.
Cut me if you want, but who else will bother to tell you the truth when you
need it and lie to you when you don’t?” She really started to cry then, let me
take the knife and balled up on the floor, defeated and defended at the same
time.
After my mother’s death when I was 8, I’ve done all I can
for those around me who try to choose death over life. I know what it’s like to
be the one left behind and I refuse to be that again when there’s something to
be done about it. Linda is now in a loving, happy and committed relationship
and following her own dreams of art. I’ve taken my friend Lynn, 30, with Type 1
diabetes to the hospital many times when she’s let her blood sugar get so out
of control her doctor said she would have died if I hadn’t brought her. She
used to get that way after thinking about her unfair life of pills and shots
since she was seven, her inability to get pregnant and give birth and wondering
if she’ll find someone who doesn’t care about all that. She’s now taking good
care of herself and living her life happily. I’ve prevented another suicide in
the form of an ex-boyfriend Alex, 38, who is currently a father-to-be again
after 20 years, a grandpa-to-be and an uncle-to-be, all within the next three
months. He is also pursuing a degree in nursing to be able to better provide
for his new daughter the way he couldn’t provide for his first two children.
Regardless of my seeming optimism, I’ve never been one to
say that life isn’t hard. My own experiences aren’t rare but they have shown me
how easy it really is to decide to take your own life. Barely hanging on at the
end of your rope with no one to turn to and nowhere to go is a scary place.
Even if you only feel like that’s
where you are. Suicidal thoughts and tendencies don’t only affect hormonal
teenagers like my first experience. They claw their way into the brains and
hearts of educated adults with loving families like Lynn. They creep in and
settle into the hearts and minds of fathers who feel like they’re not good
enough for their kids and don’t know how to change themselves for the better
like Alex.
I’ve learned how to deal with these situations through trial
but thankfully without error. I know that I was given those chances with those
people for a reason and not just to be there for them. I’ve also been the one
contemplating fatal actions. However, these experiences have taught me that no
matter how futile we think our lives are, or unloved we think we may be,
someone does care and our lives do have meaning. I’ve managed to find my
meaning in pursuing a degree to be a teacher. I want to change the lives of
children. I want to be the teacher they remember years later as their own kids
start school. I want to be the voice in their heads that prevents them from
becoming the ignorant youth I see myself surrounded by today. I’ve also found
meaning in the eyes of my toddler son. Everything I do, I do for him. No matter
how difficult my life gets, I know that when he grins at me and calls me “Mama”
I am the entire world even for one small person. Each life has its own personal
meaning and only by living will we find it.
Final note: If you
find yourself thinking suicidal thoughts or feeling totally alone, please call 1-800-273-8255
to talk to a volunteer who chooses to be there for you. PostSecret is also
a wonderful resource for hope and finding others who feel the way you do. Or
you can talk to me. I’m always willing give advice or just lend an ear. You can
find me at mamapoodle09@gmail.com
and @MamaPoodle on Twitter.
