When there is no further left to fall, then there is no reason to worry about the long list of inestimable tragedies that may or may not take place.
This is it, here and now, the bottom. This is where there are only two choices, which is to remain or rebuild.
That’s all . . .
In the time it takes to make a phone call,
an entire life could change
one could end
one could reappear
one could wither
one could fade
. . . or . . .
one could stand
and find a way to retake the stage
Also, when there is nothing else to lose, there is nothing else to worry about. So stop worrying.
Except for self, of course, and except for the long, so-called road to personal redemption; there is nothing and no one else to consider, except for this: Ground Zero.
This is it. After all has fallen and all the attempts to save what could no longer be salvaged, after all the tries to save face, and after all the energy has been expelled to put on a brave face; the foundation has given way, and now, adding color, it often seems as if insult came to meet injury with a sick sense of humor.
And you wallow and you wither, and you faint and you fall—but eventually there is nowhere left to fall, no place else to go, and nowhere else but here—exactly where we are, in the pit of emotion with no other company than the constant recollections which cause us to question anything and everything we did up until this point.
The mind thinks too much. The last words spoken somehow resound and echo, repeating themselves in a state of awkward discomfort—and we try to recompose, we try to fix this by saying something else to save ourselves but the next thing we say only comes out worse.
The mind can be a tortuous place, which I feel and agree, but yet, I see no reason to interact or intertwine me and my past nor can I change the unalterable arguments that happened before now—but yet, I’ve tried.
And yet, I have relived conversations again and again, but to no avail because no matter how many times I try; I can try until I die but I cannot nor will I ever be able to re-litigate the past or change its results.
There were times when, admittedly, I would cringe when an old memory of an old conversation came to mind. I would shut my eyes, tightly as ever, and clench my body is if it were possible to squeeze this moment so tightly and force this out of existence. But no. This never worked
When there is no further left to fall and there is nothing else left to do, there is no better time to pardon the past.
And there’s that word again. Pardon—as in, please, pardon me; as in forgive me, as in please absolve me from myself; absolve me from my memory, forgive me Father for my sins, for I have never come to confession, nor have I ever fallen this far down, which I swear, me in a wooden coat would never see the light of day again.
Years ago, in which, what seems to be another lifetime—I woke on the floor of a bathroom. I failed at my failure and by this I mean I failed in my attempt to end the endless conference in my mind.
I mean, I tried but it didn’t work.
I woke up on the floor, awaking in convulsions and coming out of a dream state, which I felt was me at the edge of life and the equivalent of its afterward.
I had no further left to fall. I had nothing left in me. I had nowhere to run anymore and no way to deny the ongoing thoughts that would not stop or let me find a moment to catch my breath.
And that’s just it—I just wanted to breathe.
I just wanted a moment to catch my breath. I just needed things to stop but nothing would; not the anxiety, not the pain, not the anguish, and not the long list of inestimable tragedies that may or may not take place.
No matter where I ran, I could not get away from my aftermath. No matter how I tried, I could not stop the ride I was on.
I just wanted to push a button. I just wanted the craziness to subside—which I used to know how to do with a substance that was no longer an option.
I could not escape me or my guilt, nor could I escape my regret or my self-fulfilled prophecy, which, subconsciously and self-destructively, led me to be where I was, on the floor, shaking in convulsions after the knot I tied around my neck gave way—
When there is no place left to fall and there is nowhere left to run; I had retreated to the point where I could not retreat any further—there was nothing left to prove and there was nothing else I could do except for one of two things. Either remain or rebuild.
I chose to rebuild.
It is not easy to confess myself as a suicide survivor. However, life is not easy and besides, no one among us has the right to point fingers, judge, or even say they’ve not had moments in their life when the end wasn’t in close consideration.
So why do I tell you?
Why do disclose myself?
Because, why not?
I have earned my place at the table. I have fallen several times since and made terrible mistakes. I have hurt my growth, nursed my wounds, and learned to stand again.
Why do I admit to this?
Because, why not?
Why not admit to vulnerability?
Why not admit to sadness, to depression to anything and everything that once held me back.
I tried to deny this a voice for decades and where did this lead me?
I can tell you where.
I was in an emergency room at an upstate hospital, talking to a guy with a clipboard and a white coat, and answering a question like, “On a scale from one to ten, how likely was I to try and kill yourself today??
No, I chose to rebuild. Pain and all, I chose to stand. I chose to let myself breathe rather than strangle myself with my thinking.
I chose to break free.
When there is nowhere left to fall, know that this is the perfect time to stand back up.
It can happen. As a matter of fact, it does happen.
People do recover.
I did . . .
And so can you!