For the person contemplating suicide, he (or she) feels alone. He may be physically surrounded by his family, friends, and fellow employees, but psychologically he feels as if he is stranded by himself on a remote island without supplies. Depression is akin to darkness; a darkness absent of light, even the faint glow of a night light. Everywhere he looks, it is dark.
One of my favorite TV shows is the Showtime hit Dexter. Dexter is a blood spatter expert for Miami Metro Police Department. He is also a serial killer. Using a moral code taught to him by his father, Dexter murders people who “deserve” it. His need to do so Dexter calls “my dark passenger.” Depression is my dark passenger. It lurks in the shadows on “good” days, but on days when I feel overwhelmed and oppressed by things that non-depressives might think are insignificant, my dark passenger envelopes my thinking, telling me life isn’t worth living. My dark passenger pushes me closer and closer to the cliff’s edge, so close that a gust of wind or a stumble will send me careening into the chasm.
Most people who attempt suicide don’t want to die, they just want the pain to stop. Sometimes, people will kill themselves for the silliest of reasons. In the 2000s, I conducted the funeral of an eighteen-year-old man who drove his pickup into a field and killed himself with a shotgun. Why? His girlfriend broke up with him. I suspect this young man felt very much alone. Maybe he tried to share his feeling with his parents, friends, or a guidance counselor. If he did, I suspect they blew it off as the angst that comes when the girl you thought would love you forever wasn’t really into you; that she wanted to play the field or she was interested in dating someone else. Who hasn’t gone through such experiences? Eventually, we moved on; we survived. For this young man, however, his grief overwhelmed him, and he decided life was no longer worth living.
I certainly don’t want to die. I have much to live for: Polly, our six children and their significant others, and our thirteen grandchildren. Two of our grandchildren will graduate from high school this spring. Both are straight-A students and plan to further their educations this fall at major universities. I want to see them walk down the aisle and get their diplomas. Our oldest grandson has a hankering to become a writer. I want to read his first book. Four of our grandchildren are in middle school. Good students, the lot of them, and I want to see how they develop and mature over the next four years. The Cincinnati Reds show promise this year. Is a World Series championship possible in the next few years? And what about those Bengals? They are playing the best football in the history of the franchise. Is a Super Bowl win near, just a Joe Burrow touchdown throw to Ja’ Mar Chase away? Polly turns sixty-five in October. Sometime after that, she plans to retire. We have plans … You see, I (we) still have a bucket list; places to see, and things to experience.
While I don’t want to die, I want my pain to stop — or at the very least lessened to a degree that it doesn’t dominate every waking hour of my life. Of course, that’s not possible. My body doesn’t care one whit what I want. My bones and muscles are waging a zero-sum war where death is the only outcome. I fight back with narcotics, muscle relaxers, NSAIDs, and other drugs, hoping to lessen the pain enough that I can have some sense of meaning and purpose in my life.
As I previously mentioned, when facing deep bouts of depression, it is small things that threaten to push me over the edge. Take last night. We put our mattress and box spring on the floor so it would be easier for me to get in and out of bed. On my side of the bed, there is a 100-year-old oak mission desk. It’s quite close to the bed — about 2 feet away. During the night, I rolled out of bed, smashing ribs-first into the desk. More pain. I swore profusely, dragged myself off the floor, and got on the bed. I quickly fell back asleep. Come morning, I picked up my iPad Pro, only to find that the bottom of the case was wet. That’s when I found out that the half-filled can of Pepsi I left on the desk had toppled over, spraying the wall and leaving a sticky pool on part of the desk. Fuck, I said to myself. Polly came to my assistance, helping me to clean up the mess. What a start to the day.
Polly . . . the one person who truly knows me. She can read me like a book and knows when I am really struggling psychologically. My former counselor told me not to tell her about my struggles with suicide; that it was too much burden to bear. Both Polly and I disagreed with him. Without her, I have no doubt I would be dead. Our lives are very intertwined. When Polly had to have part of her colon and bladder removed and had to have a colostomy, the “care” shoe was on the other foot. Polly spent three weeks in the hospital. Afterward, she was weak and deconditioned. I was the one who had to push her to get up and move; to walk ten laps around the dining room table; then twenty, and so on.
Forty-five years ago, we made a vow to each other: in sickness and in health, until death do us part. We meant it then, and still do today, even after decades of challenges, trials, loss, and suffering. Polly, of course, wants me to live. Who will pay the bills, fix things around the house, and operate the remote? 🙂 And besides, there’s the sex (inside joke). That said, Polly knows I am weary and tired, overwhelmed by constant pain and debility. She knows there may come a time when I no longer want to do this. She has a front-row seat to what my life has become. So we talk. She knows it is important for her to stay connected to me; to not let me fade into the darkness. Sometimes, all I need from her is an embrace; like the time she found me sitting on the floor in tears, having a top-of-the-chart pain day — those days when no amount of narcotics will stem the pain. I told her, sobbing, “I can’t do this anymore.” Polly didn’t try to talk me out of killing myself, nor did she utter the cliches that people who mean well say when they don’t know what else to say. She got down on the floor with me, drew me close, and told me that she loved me. She couldn’t help my pain — no one could. But, just knowing I was loved, that I mattered, helped me get off the floor and to the bed.
I have had two therapists over the past twelve years. Two years ago, I started seeing a new psychologist; one who has extensive experience with treating people who have experienced trauma and have chronic pain. I talk to Melissa once a week. She knows me well by now and is comfortable speaking frankly to me. I struggle with the realization that I will never regain what is lost, be it physical or time-wise. The virile, strong-as-an-ox, invincible, work-a-holic Bruce no longer exists. Photographer Bruce? Gone. Athlete Bruce? Gone. Builder and fixer Bruce? Soon to be gone as I sell off or give away my tools and equipment. Even if I were a relatively healthy sixty-six, I still wouldn’t have the strength of thirty-year-old Bruce. One of the keys in therapy is getting me to embrace things as they are, and not how I want them to be. It is what it is, and no amount of wishing will change this fact. When I fall into delusions of yesteryear, it is Melissa’s job to help me return to reality. I have no future if I can’t see things as they are.
I owe my life to Polly and my counselor. Both of them know that if I am determined to kill myself, nothing they can do will stop me from ending my life. But, they aren’t going to make it easy for me. Melissa asked me how I planned to kill myself. After I told her, she suggested that Polly make it hard for me to have access to certain drugs — a small speed bump to slow me down. Good idea.
What I need most from family and friends is connection; small talk or genuine words of concern. Those who know me, know I love to talk. My oldest son came over tonight for an hour or so. We talked about philosophy, religion, economics, and stupid people. Quickly, my depression lessened. Is it really that simple? I can’t say, for certain, but on this day, talking with Polly, Melissa, and my son made all the difference in the world. Don’t underestimate the power of your words in helping people who struggle to make it to sunrise.
Bruce Gerencser, 67, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 46 years. He and his wife have six grown children and thirteen grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist.
Connect with me on social media:
Your comments are welcome and appreciated. All first-time comments are moderated. Please read the commenting rules before commenting.
You can email Bruce via the Contact Form.
Just want you to know you make a difference. Your honesty and insights touch me and many others. Thank you 🙂
Bruce and Polly, I am in awe of your mutual strength and determination to keep on with this messy and painful business of life. And I’ve wrestled with the “black dog” of depression myself, so I really sympathize with you, Bruce. You are doing great good in spite of every obstacle you have to face. Amazing. Bravo 👏 to you both. ❤️
Bruce, we name our many stray cats after movie and TV characters/actors. Some years back I buried “Dexter” (the dark passenger) in our little pet cemetery out back. He was with us for a good 10 years. Not long after his demise we lost “Kato”, from The Pink Panther – I believe I wept daily for 6 months. If I live long enough they will be joined by:
“Nucky” (named after Nucky Thompson from Boardwalk Empire).
“Tippi”, after the actress Tippi Hedren from The Birds (because as a kitten when she meowed she sounded just like the crows in the movie).
“Max”, after Maximus, Russel Crows character in the movie Gladiator.
“Dill”, after “Dill Harris”, from To Kill A Mockingbird (the best movie ever made).
And lastly “Wyatt & JoJo”, after Wyatt Earp and Josephine Marcus, from the movie Tombstone. Kittens Wyatt and JoJo showed up within a day of each other last summer.
Hows that for traveling way off topic?
Hi Bruce. I can’t tell you how much this blog means to me. On November 10th I will be an 18 year survivor of suicide. While I believe everyone’s experiences are their own, I completely understand much of what you talked about. Especially the part about not really wanting to die, but just wanting the pain to stop. In my case, it’s completely emotional pain- some leftover from my childhood, and some from current issues. The biggest thing I struggle with now is talking to people. I find that I don’t trust anyone emotionally. I am currently trying to find a therapist, but that’s a struggle because I work with all the local ones on a professional level. But I’m not going to give up. Not yet…
Good morning,Bruce. When I saw this post, I thought, wow, that’s too bad. I’ve been there often enough myself. I hate to see anyone else in that position. Having some of those same conditions as you do, it becomes overwhelming dealing with a body that won’t cooperate. Research for these same conditions don’t get the money they need, we should be more advanced by now when it comes to finding actual cures for various diseases. Makes me wonder if Europe or Japan is doing a better job. The world certainly is a better place with you still here, even feeling as bad as you have. I agree with everyone else here, that your work is important, and checking out your blog every day is something to look forward to ! .No one could blame you for being frustrated and exasperated with your body many times during the week. I’m always scoping for new research trials to see if I can join them. I have nothing to lose,so why not. My hope is that, you will be able and willing to hang in there until something substantial is available to improve our well-being and quality of life. At 66 years of age, we are seniors, and while we are older, we’re not OLD. Not as old was once defined. I always assumed I’d live to 100 or more, if I wasn’t killed in some fashion. I do believe that Neoliberal policies have hammered almost every American,and that includes health issues, medical care- and lack thereof. Stressors feed right into the above,for sure ! So I certainly empathize with you,what you go through daily, and those aggravating hardships. I hope you never have to take the pipe, and that things will come that make life easier, and that you know you’re needed by many. If I learn of anything that is worth trying, I’ll pass it along. You and Polly have a nice weekend ! We’re having part of Texas’s heat wave here in So Cal, starting today. I hope it doesn’t last.
Tracey, I am in awe of people who survive their childhood abuse. I hope things go better for you and you can find a therapist, and a friend or 3.
Bruce, I don’t struggle with the type of depression or suicidal ideation that you and some others in NY life do, so I cannot say I understand completely that “dark passenger” to which you refer. I see it in others (when they want me to see it, or when they can no longer keep up the facade). But I can listen and have empathy. I have been involved in getting help for 2 people who were suicidal. Both have told me that not at the time, but after they got help, that they are glad that they lived.
One mantra we have learned in our house is “dialogue not monologue” when someone is going through something. Sometimes merely saying something out loud can take away the power or the weight. Things are always worse when we let them run around unhindered inside our own heads. That said, I agree with you and Polly about you being able to say out loud when you’re feeling overwhelmed and want it to end. From the perspective of being in the position Polly is in, yes, it’s a burden, but I want to know. Again, it’s the “dialogue not monologue” that can really help both of us in the situation.
I hear you. And I want to affirm that you’re doing meaningful work. If it’s all overwhelming some days, I hear that too. ❤️
you have a very good therapist and a great wife. I have the same in a husband. Whenever my despair threatens to overwhelm me, when my silent friend suicide is too close, I can depend on him to say the right things.
I’m glad you have Polly to be there for you. It is very similar between my husband and me. Usually, I am the one who is worse off. Right now my husband has a serious condition that I need to be there for him. His condition is much more life-threatening and he did tell me several days ago he had thought about suicide. There is a little more hope for his treatment although he can’t take the usual drugs.
Anyway, I’m glad you’re still around. You are right that people committing suicide just want the DAMN PAIN TO STOP. I think Robin Williams’s suicide has helped people understand more that it’s not about being selfish, but being in agony.
I’m still taking kratom and experimenting with wild lettuce and Devil’s claw. This is also on top of my fibro drugs. The thing I hate the most is mentioning to doctor’s what I am taking. I had someone lecture me about getting addicted. And I hate tramadol and hydrocodone and oxycodone. And I may even try marijuana, although I’m getting by right now. Unfortunately, that means I have little desire to discuss my herb experimentation to my health care providers.
Anyway Bruce…(((HUGS))) You and Polly are a great team.
*Potential Triggers for the topic of suicide. Originally posted in 2012 on my former blog .
My life-long battle to stay.
The first time I became aware of the idea of ending my life occurred around the age of thirteen. That was also the year I asked Jesus into my heart at camp, though I had never not believed in Jesus up and until then. I simply had never heard that believing in Jesus wasn’t enough. The whole Yea Must Be Born-Again routine. I know you know what I mean. A topic oft discussed here and there in my postings over the years. I was standing at the edge of a balcony at home when thoughts of jumping off of it began to move about in the area between my synaptic spaces. Like a young girl in a shallow stream, who jumps from one flat rock to another, avoiding the water but just on the edge of slipping in and getting wet. A game of sorts though not a game at all, because a young girl in a shallow stream may not know that the next rock could lead to a fall into a very deep hole in the stream. And though the water level is not deep, only a knock on the head to render her unconscious and face down is enough to drown her and leave her there . . . forever.
This moment in time could be seen as a sort of game, but not.
A new teenager was dealing with high levels of stress in her home and in her beliefs. As my parents continued to argue I sought to escape to the balcony. Here I gazed at the majestic pines that towered over me and the house. I loved trees. I love them still. The dark green boughs swung nearby. I first thought to jump into the tree. Could I make it? Would I make it? At first I played with the idea. Like a game. But I knew that the real question was, Did I want to make it? I was aware that to not make it wouldn’t be so bad. At least then I wouldn’t haven’t to listen to it anymore. Maybe then they’d see me. Maybe then they’d hurt like me. Maybe they’d never know about my hurt and just blame it all on an athletic girl who saw a challenge, took it and failed to make it. No one would ever have to know about the growing sadness inside her. Just a terrible impulsive accident. It would be over.
I did not know at that age, though it was modeled for me each and every day in the lives of the adults around me, that I was genetically predisposed to depression. I did not yet know that the stress and trauma of my early life was building up and leaving my developing brain ever more prone to sadness and melancholy. I did not yet know that stress builds upon stress and trauma builds upon trauma and I did not then know that as the water in the stream continually flows and wears down the rocks over time, I too would wear down as the thoughts jumped from one synapse to another, over and over and over. We know that I did not jump. I stayed.
I continue to stay.
Zoe—“I continue to stay.” Thank you.
How many of us have “played chicken “ with death because of depression or some other mental “disorder “ we did nothing to bring on ourselves but for which we’re blamed or, worse, told to “get over it?”
We’re taught to blame ourselves—and to let God/Jesus off the hook when they don’t help us. How fucked up is that?
You’re welcome MJ.
Yes. Taught to blame ourselves. A prime example in my life was a former “born-again” friend who some 30+ years ago nearly put me in the psyche ward after getting out of the hospital fighting for my life due to Crohn’s disease. Her theory was that I didn’t have Crohn’s. No. What I had was “deep-seeded secret sin in my heart and if I just confessed said sin I wouldn’t have so-called Crohn’s disease.” Imagine a friend saying that to a friend who almost died and wasted away to skin and bone. I get home and she graces me with her piety. I think of my then vulnerability and simply almost believing her. But like Bruce, I have a Polly too. My husband Biker Dude. Without him I wouldn’t be here.
Zoe,
Thank you for sharing this. ❤️❤️
Bruce
You’re welcome Bruce. 🙂
Suicide is NEVER the answer. That’s what Satan wants. 😭.
A permanent solution to a temporary problem that crushes loved ones and breaks God’s heart.
Sigmund Freud therapists are not the answer either.
Jesus Christ is the answer! He died and rose again to give you eternal life and has amazing plan for your life.
Fake name, fake email address, same piece of shit.
No, Jesus is not the answer, or god, or any form of christianity or any religion for that matter. Attitudes like the one displayed here only make the situation worse.
Christians often spew this vile rhetoric, perhaps because depression and mental health are often hidden health concerns. Trust me, it is very, very easy to pretend to be normal, and smile, and cheerful, and godlike, while thinking how easy it would be to walk into that empty room right over there and stop the pain. You would probably be surprised to know that there are many quiet, seldom visited spaces in churches that are perfect to hide in and contemplate such things.
I wonder if this commenter would say Jesus is the answer and solution to a temporary problem if they broke their arm. I wonder if they would say medical doctors are not the answer either. Somehow I doubt it. I am sure you would find them seeking medical care.
Mental health is just as important as physical health, and should be treated by professionals, not some half wit Christian minister or therapist who belittles by telling people to just get over it and pray harder so you don’t fall to Satan and go to hell.
Seriously, why would you ever make a person who is already suicidal feel the awful guilt you are suggesting?? That is the worst thing you can do.
Yes, the reality is that there are far better answers to these problems, and none of them involve gods or religions.
Good thoughts, Sage. Unfortunately our society still attaches a stigma to mental health treatment, although that is slowly getting better. Religion is not a substitute for any type of medical care, including suicidal ideation. RD sounds a lot like Tom Cruise echoing Scientology when he criticized Brooke Shields for seeking psychiatric treatment for post-partum depression.
Sage and John—You have underscored something I understood only after I was long removed from Christianity (or any other religious belief) and doing work I actually needed to do on, and for, myself. I prayed earnestly, “gave my life to Jesus” and did “godly “ work precisely because I internalized the stigma about it getting the medical and mental health assistance I needed—which gave me the language and tools I needed to acknowledge what I knew about myself and act upon it as I needed. I have since learned that many other people—including some I knew from my former churches and fellowships—were doing the same. The only difference between me and them lay in the specifics of what “issues “ we weren’t dealing with.
Oh wow, we’ve never heard that before RD.
RD, people don’t come back from the dead. It utterly baffles me why anyone over the age of 5 actually believes otherwise.
If there ever was a Jesus who died by crucifixion, the Romans almost certainly left his corpse up on the cross to rot for a week or two, then tossed it into a mass grave. They posted guards to prevent friends and family from taking the corpses for burial, so that business about the family tomb of Joseph of Arimathea is nonsense too.
Finally, there is no credible evidence for eternal life, and I don’t give a flying fuck what plans Jesus (or anyone else) has for my life. Bogus salvation “gift” rejected unconditionally.
Suicide is never the answer? Really? Are you sure about that?
Suicide is taking one’s own life. Is this not exactly what Jesus did?
Checkmate.
Bruce, you have just given us a message everyone needs to hear: People who commit suicide, and those of us who attempted or thought about it, didn’t/don’t want to die. We just want our pain–whether it’s physical or psychological–to end.
We may not get whatever resources or remedies we need to relieve our pain. We only have each other. You have a wonderful wife and family, a good therapist–and us. And we have you,
Please keep talking Bruce. I’m sure you’re well aware but it bears repeating, this blog has been a source of comfort for many leaving religion who need to hear how the bible is full of contradictions and the various holy men are full of shit before they can go on to lead happier, healthier lives .As long as religions still wield too much power, you matter. There will always be people who need to hear what you have to say. I mean people in addition to your family, friends, and the cats.
Thank for everyone for the kind words. I appreciate your support.
Bruce
Sitting here at home,had a big bowl of spaghetti. I want to wish you,Bruce and Polly a great Fourth of July back there in Ney. I bet it’s green enough in that area,that fireworks are actually permitted, unlike Southern California. I hear them going off in the neighborhood, though it’s not legal to do them at home. Small- town celebrations are a lot of fun. The food,too ! I’m quite the foodie. So, take it easy, and enjoy things. Happy 4th, everyone !🇺🇲🎊🍔🌭⚾
This could save lives.
Thank you.