Suicidal ideation is more complex a concept than suicide. It is defined as “the contemplation of ending one’s own life” that can “vary greatly from fleeting thoughts to preoccupation to detailed planning” (from A Site on The Internet). This is one of the reasons it’s so fascinating: a person can possess whole internal narratives in which they prepare their suicide, perhaps write notes, live their final moments and experience their own death, without ever actually acting on these thoughts or bringing them into concrete existence. On the other side of this, a person can have the most fleeting thought of suicide and in an impulsive moment act on it.
A lot of fantasies of suicide remain just that, fantasies. It’s been seven years since I could honestly answer the question “do you have thoughts of suicide?” with the word “no.” These thoughts can be inspired by desperation, helplessness, anguish, a seeming total lack of other options, or they can stem from exhaustion, a longing for quiet, or poetic ideas of being remembered in death. I have imagined that I might look almost pretty lying in a coffin with my eyelids closed. I have waited patiently for my skin to clear and my hair to lengthen before beginning to plan seriously and with intent. I once planned my suicide via freezing to death in the snow because I thought it was aesthetically pleasing. Even in death I am vain and terrified of ugliness, as desperate to capture prettiness as a wounded animal is to avoid the jaws of a predator.
I have told myself repeatedly that it will be necessary to perform the act of suicide within the next ten or fifteen years, before my looks deteriorate even further. (I am not crying for help, I am simply explaining the contents of my own suicidal ideation; a lot of it is and has been related to the body dysmorphia). This is my customary state of mind; oftentimes, especially lately, it gets worse and I start thinking in the short-term (not even thinking, really; it is a horrible, amorphous and awkwardly heavy sensation like being smothered in your sleep or having your limbs chained with weights).
Today I’m trapped. To be perfectly frank about it, I know I need inpatient or residential treatment but it’s out of my reach. The mental health system in Ontario is failing a lot of people, and I’m no one special, I’m no one who deserves preferential treatment. I do know this. But when I look in the mirror I see a disgusting creature, not a woman. When I sit through the minutes of each day and count my heartbeats or recite the Lord’s Prayer or the Hail Mary (the repetition of memorized words seems more effective than benzos, these days) I feel terrified, out of my own control. People sometimes say they feel they have a “void” in their life, that something is missing. In those moments I feel I AM the void, I am the absence of meaning. Suicidal ideation is perhaps my brain trying to rectify that, to correct the aberration that I feel is my own face, my own form, my own internal substance (or, as I perceive it, lack thereof). I feel I am trying to right a wrong, correct a mistake.