Surviving a Twist of Fate, Part 2
The following information contains lived experience with trauma and suicide.
*Reader discretion is advised*
There are moments in life where everything comes to such a crescendo that nothing is the same afterwards. Trauma can take years before you are willing or able to reveal it all. For me, that day is today. Six years ago, the start of 2018 was mired by confusion, miscommunications, undiagnosed autism, and a genuine need for help. Then, I attended a Kevin Hines film premiere that inspired me to follow in his footsteps.
So I reached out to a community program. I offered to give my May Is Mental Health Month presentation for them. It took two months before they responded with a decision. But I was undeterred. I was no longer shy about sharing my suicide experiences. Hines’ film seemed to change me. I needed to explore my trusting community and do more. Without knowing I was autistic, however, my empowerment was a recipe for disaster.
Since December 2017, I attended a committee that periodically met to discuss ways of improving suicide prevention. This is where I found out about Kevin Hines’ film premiere. At their meeting in June, I gave a demonstration to show what I could offer for suicide awareness. I had requested to register a vendor table for one of their events. In September, they were chairing an Out of the Darkness Walk for suicide prevention.
For three long weeks, I waited patiently for their decision. Finally, I received an email from the co-chairperson dismissively informing me that their answer was no. I accepted the decision. But their attitude set me off because I noticed that they had avoided giving me a direct response much sooner. I sent out two aggrieved emails to this co-chairperson. My intent was to move on. Theirs would be to turn my life inside out.
Up until this moment, I failed to attain social or economic integration on my own. To compensate for the lack of these essential needs, I devoted myself to mental health volunteering as an escape. At the committee’s July meeting, they changed the location of where it was held. I had to go back home and send a very confused email asking what happened. They had taken my rebuke of their attitude towards my request as a threat.
I already made it clear that my dispute ended with those emails. But I was barred from their meetings until further notice. My thoughts turned to the dozen community leaders who attended and now likely believed I was dangerous. I pleaded my case to the second co-chair, but to no avail. I was given no chance to defend myself. On August 10th, I was banned from then on. I read their email and curled into a ball on the floor.
When I awoke the following Monday, August 13th, I felt as if someone was sucking the life out of my heart. My last remaining reason for living, which had been to help people, was being ripped away. I ate a bagel as if it were my last meal. The thought of leaving a note never occurred to me. I lied to my parents by telling them I was going somewhere and that I would be back. I left and drove to a familiar park with a view.
I can still see it with ease when I close my eyes. It was like part of me was already gone. There was a slowly deepening flutter in my chest. Probably butterflies. When I sat at a specific bench, I tried to rationalize the dismal reality of my life being adrift and my expulsion from the volunteer community. In 2003, I attempted suicide. In 2014, I relapsed with a suicide plan. But I had not admitted to myself that I had relapsed yet.
What happened next still makes me feel nervous. My mind set into motion. I attempted to analyze my predicament. I was overcome by something unusual first. My thoughts drifted to those who had overreacted and knowingly discriminated against me. If I were to end my life, no one would ever be held responsible. That was unacceptable. My sense of right and wrong was angry. I could not let them win. They might hurt someone else.
But my mind kept going. In a pang of despair, I thought about what it meant to die. Once you are gone, you cannot come back. There are no second chances. This is where it got scary for me. Ending my life would not solve any of the problems. Therefore, unable to rationalize a way out, I felt that I was trapped — forced to live out the remainder of my life, knowing that death would solve nothing. A sad twist of fate.
The person who left that bench, as well as from peering out over that handrail, was not me. Someone else left the park that day. He was a shattered pane of glass who no longer looked the same in any mirror. It took me a long time before I could admit to myself that I was someone who could overthink suicide and survive. My former counselor believed this was what is called a cognitive distortion. As scary as it was, my logic was sound.
I overthought death itself. Fuck. After my autism awareness took hold in early 2022, I quickly became terrified of sharing this with anyone else. I could not live with myself if, by explaining it, someone else might suffer the same fate I did. Unfortunately, all I did was survive. All I did was try to run and forget that it ever happened. I learned nothing from it, nor were those responsible ever held accountable.
It would take the death of a complete stranger to force me to face the truth…
Concluded here in The Tragedy of a Wake-up Call, Part 3.
