Hey internet,

This is going to be a somber issue as September 10 is World Suicide Prevention Day as well as September is National Suicide Prevention Month.

Our ribbon is teal and purple.

I attached the trigger warning in the subject line so that you weren’t surprised by the content. I want to give my readers, subscribed or not, the opportunity to protect themselves.

(This section feels odd without a wrap-up but not sure how to segue into the next section?)

Suicide Ideation

When I was 11 or 12, I decided to write a book on suicide.

And this may sound farfetched because what does a tween know about suicide, which is a good question. It’s the early 1980s and I was widely read and watched a lot of TV, especially the After School Specials on ABC that were to warn kids of the dangers of drugs, sex, and whatever else to “protect” us. Mother also didn’t monitor what I read or watch.

So, maybe that’s how I got the idea?

I also know I was obsessed with death. I still am. Sometimes when I go to bed at night, a final thought is, “One day closer to death.”

My maternal grandmother died when I was five months old, and I felt like it was my fault? If my grandmother hadn’t passed, then my mom wouldn’t have left my father, and who knows where I would be today? Why is a kid obsessing about things that are beyond their control? Another good question.

I suspect my bipolar and ADHD started manifesting itself at this time. I wasn’t sleeping, I was having mania issues such as always re-arranging two living rooms worth of furniture in the middle of the night or my bedroom. If that didn’t work, I would swap bedrooms because at various points, it was me, my mom, and my brother in a five-bedroom house. There were depressive modes. A lot of them.

Mother, however, chalked it up to hormones. Maybe she didn’t want to deal with it growing up as she had: a father who was unmedicated and in and out of institutions, getting ECT. Sometimes living on the streets. Or the sister who was also in and out of institutions who also got ECt.

And I also know I was very lonely.

It was a fucking mess.

I went to a small Catholic school that did K-8 and each class was maybe 15 - 20 students. Same kids day in, day out, year after year. You were “friends” by association. I was considered bright but there was no room for academic achievement or support. One teacher tried to help those of us who were ahead of the class, but parents complained about special treatment and that project was quickly shut down.

Back to suicide ideation and my obsession with death.

Some days I just didn’t want to be here. I felt guilty for my grandmother’s death that made zero sense but didn’t have anyone to talk to. My parents were split and beyond frayed relationship. I was expected to be a perfect kid but with the burgeoning bipolar and ADHD, that was just not happening.

I was obsessed with death because I didn’t know what was going to happen. Was there an after world? Was I just worm food? Would people miss me? Would people remember me? I want(ed) desperately to be remembered. I did not want my life to have no meaning. I wanted to make an impact.

Some years ago, I had archive.org force a crawl on exitpursuedbyabear.net and since it got crawled once, it gets a regular crawl. (I’ve had that domain 12 years!? Wow!) I’m just so desperate to be remembered and not forgotten. Who knows! Maybe someone in 2172 will read my stuff and call me a genius. It could happen.

I remember checking out a lot of medical books but while I read a senior in high school or college freshman level at age 11, the books did not make sense. I didn’t understand the complicated language or the jargon. And I think that was the point of my “book,” I wanted to talk about things so that everyone could understand.

I smile now thinking I recall how I started the first chapter. Something along the lines of, “What does an 11-year-old know about suicide…” Some things never change in how I approach my writing.

Whatever happened to my “research” and writing? Gone the passages of time.

Suicide ideation, since I’ve seemingly been thinking about it for over 40 years, is always there. Lurking in the recesses of my mind. In my deepest depressive states, hell, sometimes when I’m manic, I wonder what it would be like to not just exist. Is life really fucking worth it? I’ve done what I’ve set out to do: traveled, lived in different places, had sex (honestly never thought someone would find me attractive to want to fuck me let alone more than one person), get married. Complete my college education. So, what was the fucking point of living if none of this as going to happen?

I don’t think of suicide as much anymore. I’ve got new projects to do, new things to taste and see, dogs named after the week to own. There is a bright big world out there and I now plan to live until I’m 90. At least. I’ve seemed to have skipped the bad health genes so it could be possible. Moder medicine is a wonder. My crazy is under control.

It is this dichotomy of the ideation and the waiting to live. And I’ve accepted it. I’ve had to.

(I’m still not sure about this death thing other than I hope it is quick.)

The Suicide Attempt

I’ve only attempted suicide once, when I was 17. I’ve written about it extensively over at EPbaB on the attempt and days after and my complicated relationship with suicide and death. I also talk about my mother’s attempts in 2001.

I just don’t have the mental fortitude to regurgitate it here.

But I will tell you that as someone who is mentally ill, and specifically bipolar, we have a greater risk of attempting over the general population such as between 30 – 70% of us will try. 19% will succeed.

American Foundation for Suicide Prevention

A few years ago, I walked for AFSP in KY and raised 3x my goal. The N. Michigan walk is in a few weeks so I probably won’t do that one as I don’ t know if I’ll be in the area and the KY one is in November. Anyway, if I am walking this year, expect me to beg for money.

I had a lot of honor beads when I walked. No idea where they are. Maybe I’ll get some more someday.

Project Semicolon

Project Semicolon is a movement that began about 10 years ago when then suicide survivor Amy Bleuel, who suffered from mental illness, would draw a semicolon on their wrist to commemorate that that just like a sentence isn’t over when it ends in a semicolon, neither is a life.  Less than a decade later, Amy took her own life.

The movement has become a non-profit organization and in celebration, if you will, of surviving my own attempt, I got a semicolon tattooed on my wrist. My pal Rob got his done the same day and every year, we celebrate another year of being alive.

Volunteer Work and Writing

Once my location is finalized (MI or KY), I’m going to volunteer with local AFSP chapter. I’m also writing over at International Bipolar Foundation. My first piece on the topic of bipolar rage, is forthcoming. I’ll be dropping science over there once a month.

I’m Not Planning on Committing Suicide

I’m OK. Things are beyond stressful right now but I’m handling it. My drugs are in a good place. I’m keeping the ideation at bay. Trust me, if I’m in a bad enough crisis, I’ll get help.

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It takes a licking and keeps on ticking,

lisa x