The shambling suicide beast is what I call it. In the darkest times of my despair, it would arrive, from somewhere on the dark horizon of my mind it would appear, on the edges of my perception, it would come crashing through my inner landscape to bear down on me, crushing the will to live from my soul.
I wasn’t constantly suicidal. Some days were OK, most days weren’t. On a scale of 1-10, where 1 is “I’m going to kill myself”, and 10 is “I can’t believe how great life is” , I look back and think maybe I was at a muted 3 with frequent forays into the depths of -5. Nowadays I would say I flow right around a 7.
In the times when things were just drab, gray and lifeless, it was a constant struggle to function. I knew taking my own life was wrong but I couldn’t stop thinking about it, how great it would be to just check out, to not be here.
The shambling suicide beast that was out there was something I had created. It was ominous, dark, heavy and loathsome. It was huge and nondescript, massive, colossal, dark and shadowy. It contained all my darkest fears, my anger at myself, my failures. I had pushed all my dislikes, frustrations and otherness into it. It grew each time I put something else into it.
In retrospect, anthropomorphizing my suicidal intent was in a way a gift. The beast wasn’t me, it was something else, part of my inner landscape that I had created. Maybe I could tell it to go away, to back off, that it had no power over me, that I was stronger than it was.
Even now, it’s still there, it lurks on the periphery of my consciousness, I can feel it. It’s smaller now, it is smaller than I am. It doesn’t dare approach me, I have knowledge of its flawed machinations.