Suicidal thoughts

Want to Know About Dying?

You want to know what dying does to you?  It gives you all kinds of crazy thoughts.  Every time I go to the doctor’s office or out to run errands, I think about not coming back home.  I think about driving as far as I can, then abandoning the car, and walking as far as I can, and then just lying down and dying.

Naysayers will jump on that one. They will say, if you really are dying then you would never think about suicide.  You would cherish every day you have left, and want to live every minute.  I say to that, “Walk a mile in my shoes.”  People who live with you do not want to see you cry every day.  They don’t want to be reminded that you are dying.  They don’t want to hear about you aches and pains and complaints.  They don’t want to share your depression.  They don’t want to die along with you.

So, I think about it.  I think about just dying my way and giving it up.  I think about driving away and never coming back home.  I convince myself that it would be easier for my family.  I convince myself it would be easier for me.  I sit at the wheel and ponder taking the wrong exit and driving until my money and gas tank runs out.  I think about it so much I even look at maps trying to choose a road that goes on and on to nowhere.  There are a lot of them in the Death Valley area.  Then, even as I write this I think I better not reveal too much in case I make the choice to go.  I don’t want anyone looking in the right place.  I think about what it would be like to just drive and drive without a destination, without nay worries, without and stress.  I think about it.  I think about it a lot.

Then something happens.  Like this week, the baby got sick.  He was running a real high fever and my husband, like many husbands who are clueless with kids, didn’t know what to do to comfort the baby or bring down his fever.  It stresses me terribly.  When I’m gone, my husband will not know how to comfort the baby when he’s sick.  And I can’t fix it.  I cannot train him to take care of a baby in the short time I have left.  I haven’t the energy.  I haven’t the time.  I haven’t the desire.  The only desire I have is to drive away.  I know it’s the depression talking.  I know being sick with a bad cold is making it worse.

I try to focus on positive things.  You know – be one of the brave courageous fighters!  And then I think, “Screw that.  Who cares?  I sure don’t.”  Be courageous for whom?  My husband?  His life is going to be bombarded with things he has never had to take care of before.  His life will be blasted with pressures of single parenthood and taking care of someone with dementia.  I’, sure that my being brave will help him with all that *sarcasm intended*.  As for being brave, I cannot even find reliable child care for him.  He may lose his job over this just because we have no sitter for the baby when he works.  I just want to drive away.

At a time when I’m the one who needs the support, I am the one who is working hard to be sure stress does not overload the ones I leave behind.  It’s so much more than I was doing prior to the diagnosis, and at this point my energy reserves are so low. 

This week I spent a two hours at the Social Security Office with the baby in a stroller.  Only another mother can relate to entertaining a baby in a stroller for two hours.  I took snacks and toys, and did the best I could.  Now add to that being so tired you can barely raise your head and being in a room full of more than 50 people with that noise and busyness and commotion.  When my number was finally called, I went to the window (my sixth trip), and was told that I didn’t have the right papers – again.  I flipped this time.  I said, “Here are my notes.  Here’s the last idiot I talked to here, along with the names of three other idiots I spoke with here, and I wrote down exactly what they told me to bring, each and every time – and as you see, each time they asked for something else.  I have ALL the papers you have requested – ALL OF THEM.  I’m dying and I’d like to have the card before I die.  Is that too much to ask?  Now, take the damn papers and give me my damn Social Security card or I swear I am going to have a melt down that requires you calling an ambulance to take me away!”  At that moment, the security guard came over.  I guess I raised my voice.  I guess enough of my buttons had been pushed that day.    The guard didn’t say anything.  He just stood there a bit menacing.  The man behind the counter took my papers and told me the card would arrive in the mail in two weeks.  And all I could think was … why did they make that so hard?  My papers were wrong until I threw a fit and then they were okay?  Right!?!  *sarcasm intended again*

And all that made me think about the minutes, the precious minutes in my life that I have left that are being wasted by other people.  My doctor wastes them making me wait in his office for up to two hours for my scheduled appointments.  Social Security makes me waste them.  Welfare makes me waste them.  Welfare is another office that sends you away dozens of times in search for more and more different papers.  Each worker tells you they require something different or something more.  No one ever asks for the same thing.  And at Welfare, you sit for hours, and waste nearly a full day every time.  “Helpful People” are constantly telling me to go apply for benefits to help with my income.  It’s evident that “Helpful People” have never had to wait for hours on a hard chair in a very noisy place, over and over again, when they feel like crap, just to abused, ignored and harassed by the workers behind the counter.

I just want to drive and drive until the road ends, and walk and walk until my legs give out, and then lay down, preferably in a cool or cold spot and go to sleep, forever.  But I guess that’s coming soon enough without the drive or walk.