I. Am. Not. Suicidal.

Let us please understand one thing very clearly before any further words transpire.

I. Am. Not. Suicidal.

It is very important to state this from the start because every time I write about this subject in a public forum, the response is swift and voluminous. Usually it's about 50 phone calls and emails from concerned friends, family, former lovers and those I barely know coming flooding in the next day. Begging me to please 'don't do it'. Sobbing implorings to go seek therapy, forcefully asserting that life is worth living, threatening to call 911 to save me from myself. Therefore, it is imperative to understand from this moment forward that...

I. Am. Not. Suicidal.

However, to be truthful, there was a point in my life that I was. I know the depths of depression and void of self worth, the illusion of irretreviable mistakes, scourges of unjustifiably magnified regrets that make large amounts of sleeping pills and alcohol, a noose in the closet or a bath tub full of razors seem attractive options to my ultimate exit as opposed to the gracious acceptance of old age and passing away in my sleep. 

Yes, I know how it feels to be that desperate and hopeless. I also know that I'm not the only one who has suffered alone and has somehow been drawn back from the rim of that dark and bottomless crater. I love my life and feel a great responsibility. 

When I was in college, I was given the oppurtunity to write a weekly column for the school paper. I did so for two years. One week my column dealt with the subject of teenage suicide. Immediately upon publication, a deluge of friends, teachers, near strangers and others I never even knew read my articles came to me with urgency and great concern. They inquired of the state of my mental health, begging me not to off myself, while a few were near tears. I sincerely appreciated the outpouring and assured everyone that I was fine, which I was.

Then a young woman I barely knew sheepishly approached me and said 'Thank you for writing that column.' She told that she never knew anyone else had ever felt like she did. She went on to say that now she didn't feel alone anymore. The thoughts of dire worthlessness, personal responsibility for everything wrong in the world and ineptitude to fix anything, the implicit knowledge that if I weren't here anymore, no one would notice and everyone would just plain be happier without me; thoughts I knew all too well, were for her beginning to abate and she was starting to remember what it feels like to be happy.

It was late afternoon, the sun was setting on distant end of the sidewalk where we stood, away from a congregation of the cool kids, both of us trying like hell not to cry. To this day, that was one of the most important dialogs I've ever had with a fellow human being. She taught me the importance of not mincing words or pulling punches when I write. To know that for every one who doesn't get me, there are many that do. To never speak with any less than my total heart and soul because there is someone out there who needs me to be brave more than I need me to be brave. That no matter how bleak, no one is ever alone, no pain is insurmountable and no grace unattainable. 

If you have read any amount of my writing, you know I don't put on kid gloves and dilute the vocabulary. Since that conversation, I am aware that it is my responsibility as a writer and fellow human being to lay it out, guts and all, upon the altar. Especially since being blessed and cursed with a heart bag, tear ducts, wound scars, angelic visions and belief in our creation as large as mine. I have to write like this, there is no other choice. I know perfectly damn good and well that I'm not alone in any of this and nobody should ever feel they are anyone less. I may not know who you are or what you're going through but as long as I have anything to say about it, please know, you are not alone and it will get better, I swear to God. 

I don't recall

the first time

I cried

in front of you

I was probably

not drunk

or fishing for attention

just honest saying

fuck it all

this is me

accept this part

or let's each

go back home

It was probably

about my father's illness

or my mother's hatred

and my own deception

of myself and how suicide

was more delicious

than hanging around

this shit hole

I trusted you

though not completely

half expecting you

to lash out

with a witless knife

like so many before

smelling an easy target

and so much fun

to bring down 

in a storm

of feathers and helium

an explosion

so deafening

the satisfaction

exquisitely momentary

as a back alley

orgasm

I cried

on some forgetful night

giving a shit

as I expected

most to do likewise

passing between

feigned compassion

and flittering recognition

of one's own heart

splattered 

across the couch

nude

I begged

go the fuck

back to bed

there is nothing 

you can do

pardon me

while I plead

for an oasis

of sleeping pills 

and alcohol

in the middle 

of this desert

and all the serial killers

who erased 

my voice mails

I am rendered

invisible

amongst your prayers

I have descended

unmemorable

into your history

even your hatred

has forgotten me.

Please never lose sight that no matter how hopeless it seems, none of us is ever really alone. I hope no one ever leaves this place until we each realize how much we matter to each other and are loved by those we have chosen to forget.

All my love always,

Max