A Suicide Story
We dread Monday. Look forward to Hump day. Thursday is close enough to Friday. All the fun starts after that. But nothing happens on Tuesday. That’s when I decided to kill myself.
I keep this story locked in a box, buried deep in a closet, labeled, “Don’t ever open.” It’s not a feel good story leaving you warm and fuzzy, or one to reminisce on Christmas and say, “Remember that time . . .”
No one talks about suicide unless you want to suck the energy out of any three mile radius, or be labeled a “freak.” So I never told anyone, save for a select few, that I played with the idea often.
Oh don’t get me wrong. I didn’t hate the world. I had good moments too. Long conversations with grandma. Presents in December. Baseball card collections. Chasing after girls. Dreaming of playing in the NBA . . . Unfortunately these little “breadcrumbs” never sustained my hunger for something more. So on a casual summer afternoon, I stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours, playing scenarios in my head.
Should I do this?
Does it make sense?
What’s my little brother going to think?
And what is Lost really about?
After a while I succumbed to the dark voices. My head crashed onto the floor and the empty bottle of pills rolled away from my hands. I stumbled in and out of consciousness barely making out the chaos when they found me in a pool of vomit.
“OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.” My brother fell to his knees and cried over me. “CALL THE AMBULANCE. CALL 9-1-1. MICKEY WAKE UP. WAKE UP–”
I lay there thinking I really did it. Soon I’ll be . . . dead.
Oh that was the plan.
But for some reason . . . I made it past the tense moments in the emergency room when mom screamed, “WHAT’S GONNA HAPPEN TO MY SON. WHAT’S GONNA HAPPEN TO MY SON!”
Then I made it through the next day when neighbors gossiped about “the kid who tried to kill himself.” And then I made it through the next month when everyone stared at me like I carried a radioactive turd in my hands. Now ten years later . . . I still get weird looks. That’s why I seldom let anyone know.
So why did I try to commit suicide that day?
There’s not a simple answer.
But my best is simply: I grew tired of “breadcrumbs?” They never satisfied. Never fulfilled. And it always left me starving for more. It’s a feeling of emptiness. I’m guessing your neighbor who’s gone, the kid in high school you never talked to, and perhaps the reflection in the mirror, grew or is growing tired of the little bits and pieces too?
Is it coincidence then that Jesus refers to heaven as being like a feast?
He said, “Tell those who have been invited that I have prepared my dinner: My oxen and fattened cattle have been butchered, and everything is ready. Come to the wedding banquet.”
The Creator of the Universe who spoke the world into existence is the host. Angels and mountains bow at his name. He is the Alpha and Omega. Lord of lords. King of kings. Demons tremble when he comes. He holds the whole world in the palm of his hands. Everything under the Heavens belongs to him. Yet He who has everything invites you and me, vapors in comparison to Him, to this feast.
This truth would have made a huge difference for me on that Tuesday afternoon.
But no one ever told me.
That’s why I’m telling you.
Jesus called himself the bread of life–not the breadcrumbs of life. He will satisfy your hunger. He will leave you full. So revel at his presence. Get comfortable in your chair. Breathe the moment in.
Take and eat. Live another day.
Find more of articles like this at www.thehushproject.com
CC Photo by madamepscychosis on Flickr.
