In the mid nineteen-nineties I used to fantasize about dying, in fact it was my dominant thought process. With nothing but spiraling bleakness ahead, I found little to get me out of bed other than the next drink. I detested my job, I despised anything approaching responsibility, I hated the realization none of my time was productive or creative in the slightest, but most of all, I loathed the mirror. All the possibilities my future once held, and moments directly in front of me I used bounce around with enthusiasm over, had long since faded to grey. Why try and salvage a life that had nothing to offer even if it could be fixed? When a car is hit by a train no one ever thinks the vehicle should be repaired, simply junked. Such was my logic. Honestly, I’m glad these days I didn’t own a gun. I did, however, contemplate other forms of ending my existence. Driving off a bridge was probably the most common. In January of nineteen-ninety-five I decided to go ahead and drink myself to death. This effectively pushed me to my recovery in July of that year, and the reason for this evaded me for many years, but the short answer is I finally gave up trying to fix myself. I decided there was nothing in my head I could activate to make life better; no information, no motivation, no fear from within could be leveraged to lift me out of hopelessness.
Suicide was a real option for me, and while I don’t agree these days with those who make this decision, I damn sure empathize. I’ve alluded to this topic many times on this blog, but this entry carries a more focused look at what I can offer on the subject. I’ve known people who have died by their own hand and I can say for sure, the tidal wave that follows the act, no matter what the self-destructive person thinks, is enormously catastrophic. Most times, when the dominos fall, the damage is permanent. Cheerful people become withdrawn, optimistic ones lose the will to follow their dreams, and sometimes, sometimes, they inspire others to follow in their footsteps, which expands the devastation of previously peaceful lives to profoundly distant borders.
So, so far this sounds like a standard stance on the subject, but the REAL reason I’m writing this entry is to reveal a secret no one lost in utter desperation knows exists. When one stands on the very edge of oblivion, when they are a single breath from their last, when light is nothing more than a memory, THIS is where hope and redemption resides. This place, thinner than a razor’s edge, cradles a power greater than most, even those who are happy and productive, will ever encounter. It’s the catapult to a life of unimagined joy and peace. All it takes is the willingness, while standing on this spot, to let go of everything you were previously convinced of. This IS the price of deliverance. Doing this never occurs to most when facing the final step, so they plunge headfirst into the abyss, all too often ignorantly pulling others with them. All one must do here is cry out for help without holding onto the need to defend oneself. When we ask others to take over our lives, when we remain open to EVERYTHING while questioning nothing, when we drop the accumulated baggage of our lifetime, we are swept by the winds of the universe to a plane of existence few experience.
Those of us who have met the rare souls who have made it back from the brink will tell you these people are the best people they know. They are kind. They are grateful. They are trustworthy and reliable. They are envied by many for having the ability to face life with confidence, but most of all they own a tendency to have unconditional Love for everything, and that includes their reflection. The reason for this is simple, when one has visited hell, everywhere else looks like heaven.
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With Love and Compassion, Daniel Andrew Lockwood