Suicide: in the spirit of sharing.

SUICIDE.

In the spirit of sharing: A story I've never told. 

It seems the sudden and tragic death if famed comedia Robin Williams has shocked and saddened the entire world. He was pure genius, often our only way of escaping the sadness of our own lives. 

I, too, suffer with depression. This is a story I've never shared in detail before. Some know a tidbit. Some know a detail. But until now I've never shared so much about one of my darkest hours on earth. 

A little over three years ago, I walked out of the door to my temporary home in Scotland with nothing in my pockets but one cigarette and a lighter. 

I walked a Mile to the graveyard, where I sat on the church steps for an hour or two, praying somebody would find me and take me inside, to tell me I would be ok and that life was worth living. 

Nobody came. 

I sat there all alone on the front steps for hours. Finally I moved to the back of the church where I found a spot in the grass and talked. The only body around was one far beneath the earth I sat on. The headstone was dated back to the 1700's, but that didn't matter. I needed a friend, and he was the only one around at the time. Still, I was alone. 

I had been ruthlessly tortured for months, used as nothing more than a pit bull for dog fights. I was nothing. I was garbage. I shouldn't have been alive. I should be in a box under the grass beside my friend in the abandoned, forgotten church yard.  I was a coward. I didn't deserve to live if I couldn't stand up for myself and break away from my imprisonment. 

Finally I realized - nobody was coming. There would be no miracle. There was no Suicide Hotline, and they wouldn't have been able to help me, anyway. Nobody would save me. It wasn't a movie. Nobody cared. Nobody reached out. Nobody told me it would be ok. Nobody stood beside me when I needed it. Nobody. 

I trudged my way to the train tracks. It would be a fast ending to a miserable existence. I would die immediately upon impact, my body never having the time to send pain signals to my brain. Lights out, like a snap of the fingers. Or neck. 

I sat beside the train tracks. I pulled out my cigarette and my lighter. I lit it. I inhaled. Slowly I let the smoke curl up from my lips and escape into the air, just as my spirit would in another five minutes. This would be my last cigarette. 

A kindly soul with his young child approached and he asked me for a light. I offered him my lighter and even told him he could keep it. He insisted he give it back when he was finished, as he would have no further use for it. I wanted to tell him, neither would I. But I had to wait until the child was gone. I wouldn't dare end my life with a child watching. I would never scar an innocent mind like that. 

 As I sat waiting, I heard the train clack-clacking down the rails. The rhythmic beat marched up with words that seemed to float in from nowhere. In my mind, I wrote a sad and haunting poem that sticks with me even today. 

I got up and practically ran the full distance back to my prison. I needed paper. I had to write it down lest I forget it! 

The only thing that saved my life that day - the ONLY thing - was my writing. So the next time you hear me say I'm passionate about it, maybe you'll better understand why. 

It wasn't a stranger. It wasn't even the kid. It wasn't some miracle. It was me. Simply put, it was my writing. And I knew I could never leave this planet without sharing at least some part of my writing with the world. 

I wanted to die, but I NEEDED to live. 

Need help? In the U.S., call 1-800-273-8255

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

LA Weather Report

As with all things in life, there are drawbacks and positives to warm and cold weather. I prefer to see things in a positive light, however.

Yesterday the weather was perfect - sunny and warm, I drove home at 5pm with the top down on my bright red 1995 Honda Del Sol. The slight breeze in my hair, the wind on my face, I felt warm and comfortable in short sleeves. Here it is March, when the rest of the world is huddling close to their fireplaces to keep warm, and I'm driving home with the top down.

On the days like yesterday I know there is no possibility of going to bed early, though I also knew that was exactly what I needed. I had been up far too late the night before, knowing full well that I had to wake up at 6am to go to work. Going on about 3 hours of sleep, having the top down on my drive home was merely a trick to keep myself awake for the hour drive. Even that failed to work in the end. I nearly fell asleep as I pulled into my own street.

I have only one window in my tiny, upstairs apartment. Nothing separates my bed in the loft from the hot roof of the building but about 2 inches of painted white wood and 2 feet of air. When I climb up into the loft, I have to sit on the edge of the bed and roll onto it's soft surface. I have to be careful not to sit bolt upright in the middle of the night for fear of knocking myself unconscious with a support beam across the ceiling. So, on the very warm days such as yesterday was, I could easily gauge the temperature in my bedroom as being up near 100 degrees, while downstairs was much nearer to 78.

This morning the weather report was something else entirely. People here in Southern California are bundled up in sweaters and coats. They are cranking up the heaters in their cars with the remote buttons as they watch the wind tousle the trees from the safety of their warm homes. I've come to the conclusion that Californians are a spoiled people. While they "suffer" at 58 degrees this morning with a slight marine mist blowing in from the clear ocean views surrounding us, the people in a small town between Glasgow and Edinburgh are freezing away, watching the snow as they walk to the grocery store.

It's a crisp, breath taking 37 degrees over there right now. People are huddled up with their families in front of those fireplaces. The girls are learning to braid by practicing on one anothers hair and positioning flowers here and there amongst the strands. The small boy is sitting in his room reading a good book, warm and safe under the covers his mother so carefully flattened over his bed when he left for school this morning. His father, a big man known the town over as John, wanders into his son's room and speaks to him in a lyrical tune of a voice most Americans wouldn't understand. Then, he picks his boy up, tosses him over his shoulder, and carries him down to the dinner table. The boy giggles the entire way. His sister squeals when she sees the sport and begs to join in, beating her Daddy on the arm as any protective big sister would. The children take their father to the ground, giggling and squealing the whole way. He plays with them like a big Labrador retriever as his lovely flaxen haired bride watches on from the kitchen doorway, smiling to herself.

"Now John, you be easy on them," she says from the doorway.

"Now Louise," he scolds "If you'd like to stick up for them, you can't very well do it from there, can you?!" He grins a wide, mischievous smile at her, and she knows that if she doesn't disappear around the doorway, she would be next! Just as she ducks around the side, he jumps to his feet and begins chasing her through the house, threatening to tickle her until she pees her pants. She squeals louder than her children and heads straight for the stairs, swinging wildly behind her as she goes, hoping to make contact with his head or chest as he snarls.


I remember with fondness, those days I would play on the floor with my own father as my Mom would scold him from the kitchen for playing too rough with us. Dad didn't do it very often, but sometimes he would chase Mom round and round from the kitchen to the living room. Finally they would end up in a balled pile on top of the couch. They would kiss and my brother and I would both "Eww" ourselves out of the room.

What I wouldn't give to have that waiting for me when I went home tonight. I hate being tickled, but I would gladly give up the freedom of NOT being tickled in order to have the man I love being the one chasing me in the first place. He'd catch me half way up the stairs, we would fall in a heap, and he would make me laugh until I hurt. Finally, he would gently kiss me. He'd look deep into my eyes, and me into his, and I would know that I finally had my happy ending. Then - the cat would bite me on the toe as he so often does, wanting to play along.

116 days.