Last December, I finally resolved how I was going to kill myself, but finding a suitable location to carry out the deed presented yet another problem.
"There are plenty of glaciers in Alaska," I reasoned, which certainly ensured that my remains could stay concealed for at least a few millennia (unless global warming has its way). However, the thought of being frozen in an icy, claustrophobic crevasse just didn't sound very appealing. I preferred to end it on some panoramic mountain peak. But then that left open the possibility of someone finding my mummified carcass, and above all, I couldn't let my family find out about this. I know from experience that coping with a suicide always tends to be worse than dealing with death by some other means because of the guilt that gets tacked on to the loss. Plus, I had never even fired a gun before, let alone, owned one. Moreover, what was I supposed to do with my stuff? I wanted to sell what I could and give the proceeds to charity, but wouldn't that seem a bit suspicious? Alas, there were just so many pedantic details that needed ironing out before I could get on with my suicide.
Despite my neurosis, which had me plotting my own death, deep down I didn't really want to go through with it. But this insidious disease had such a stranglehold over my life; I had run out of options.
I can't remember a time as a kid when I wasn't insecure, acutely self-conscious and a bit high-strung around people. As I grew older, the paranoia and the anxiety escalated, to the point where I suffered from severe, incapacitating panic attacks. But through it all I somehow managed to earn a college degree, hold down a few jobs and come to Alaska.
Eventually, I learned how to deal with the panic attacks, but the internal tempest of my emotional turmoil got progressively worse. About a year ago the physical symptoms appeared: the insomnia, the four-day-long headaches, the sensation of having cinder blocks safety-pinned to my cerebellum, smothering my psyche. Each passing day steadily became a tougher slog than the one before it. I was sluggish and cranky, restless and disorganized, wholeheartedly unmotivated with life, and resigned that I could never be happy. Thankfully, winter break provided a much-needed respite from the stress of school and allowed me to reflect rationally on the gravitas of the situation. I have seen enough Prozac commercials to know what was wrong: I was severely depressed. It wasn't rocket science. The day after I returned to Alaska, I set up an appointment with a UAF mental health counselor. It was still a few weeks before the health center reopened, but the placebo effect was already working, and for the first time I felt optimistic that relief was on the way.
The biochemistry of the human brain is unbelievably complex. Some of us are genetically predisposed to develop certain behaviors and illnesses, and there are literally an infinite number of combinations and permutations of experiences that mold our own individual personalities. The brain is an amazing machine, but like any machine, if it ain't oiled well, things don't function right. My machine apparently was depleted of serotonin, the stuff needed to keep those synapses firing properly.
The counselor decided to put me on an SSRI (Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor). The results, so far, have been very positive. The weights in my head lifted immediately, the headaches ceased, my emotions stabilized, and for the first time in a long time I experienced the luxury of a normal circadian rhythm. Although the medication isn't a magic cure-all, life is genuinely much better now than it has ever been.
It can be difficult to recognize someone who is afflicted with severe depression and impossible to profile those who may be suicidal. It took me over 10 years to muster enough gumption to finally get treated, and I wish I had done it a lot sooner. But for those of you out there (you know who you are) who quietly suffer, you don't have to let it rob you of life. Make an appointment to talk to a counselor and get treated. Every case is unique. Initially, you might feel a little apprehensive about letting out your "inner Oprah," but talking genuinely alleviates the stress, and there are some really effective medications out there that can help. You won't regret it.
