THE DEEP
BY ALBERT WRIGHT
Albert Wright discusses his mental health struggles, including suicidal ideation. There is a wealth of information available online. Immediate help is available call/text 988 to reach the suicide and crisis lifeline.
This is my story. It's not the first one to be put down on paper; it's the fourth. The first is in my journal; incomplete yet, seeking its end. The second one is curled up into a paper ball, tossed inside a plastic bag within a paper one waiting to decompose. The third one is written down, forced to be contained, waiting to be submitted for an assignment. It's not good. There's no life in it. Submit it I shall, but only for closure and proof of my self-centeredness ... and control of my narrative.
This story ... this is the one waiting to come out. This is the one I'm reluctant to share with others. This is the one my mind comes back to. This is the one seeking to escape through my pores, wanting comfort. This is the one that wants to speak to others ... not simply through words on a page or read out loud to others. It yearns to share feelings ... needs ... life. It yearns to share my secrets.
The third story was written last night… slow and methodical. Hours put by before its completion — the pen laid down, me pushing away from the desk and rubbing my eyes. This story started when I began reading the Psalms, followed by my prayers and the Shema. It grew as I snuggled into my blankets and listened to songs spoken in Hebrew — a language I don't understand entirely but am working on. It hid during the night, but blossomed in the morning and throughout the day. It was picked in the afternoon during a period of introspection and contemplation. It didn't grow on its own, help was provided throughout its stages. And time will tell if I place the right words in the right place.
Have you thought of suicide? About how many would come to your funeral? I have. I have many times ... in many places .... in many lives. Some thoughts remain the same, while others change. But, at the core is a sense of not belonging ... not being wanted ... not being loved. My earliest memory of being dead came when I was twelve or thirteen. The thought was simple ... "lf I died today; how many people would come to my funeral? Hundreds ... tens ... none?" This scenario played over and over in my head. I allowed it to grow and nourish itself. It hid for many years. I thought about how I would die, how long it would be until I was found, and what my obituary should say.
I recall living in some low rent apartment complex. They were located on the east side of town and called Green Briar Apartments. We moved there in the sixth grade after moving back to Oregon from Colorado. As a kid I always fit in wherever we moved ... I suppose this was for several reasons. Making acquaintance and calling someone a friend was different — something I didn't do. How do you trust when you constantly feel abandoned? And, I knew we wouldn't be here long, two years at the most. It was just the way of life. I remember being in my room upstairs, laying on my back ... alone. I remember seeing my dad walking in, thinking I was asleep. I remember him unbuttoning my pants. I remember ... numbness and rolling over. I remember him leaving, no words spoken. And, I remember this happening again the next day. I remember shame and anger deep within. I remember thinking ... how many people would come to my funeral if I died tomorrow?
I'm fifteen, a sophomore in high school. The house we live in is the twelfth since my mother gave birth to me. I'm watching TV when the phone rings. I answer. Dad is on the other end. He tells me Grandpa died — a car accident ten miles from his house. He tells me to call Mom and let her know. I put the phone on the ringer, then put it back to my left ear as I dial the number where she's babysitting. I tell her. I hang up ... less than a few minutes on the phone. I go back toward the TV when the phone rings again. It's Dad again. He yells at me because I did what he ordered me to do. Now, I'm ordered to go comfort Mom ... without delay. I hang up and leave, grabbing my bike. I ride the few blocks to the house where she is babysitting. I don't remember locking the house, being with her ... comforting her, I remember thinking ... how many people will come to his funeral? Will it be more than mine?
I'm thirty-six and driving on HWY 22 toward Detroit Lake. I've been temporarily assigned to assist a peer on his project. My phone rings and I answer. It's my wife. She asks me if I can pull over. I said sure, wondering why. She starts talking and I half listen. I'm curious as to what she wants, but anxious to get to the site. I don't remember how long she talked before she lets me know while I had been deployed years earlier she had connected with another guy. She looked at is as being raped, though she never fought or said anything to him.
This happened on two separate occasions. She became pregnant. She had an abortion. I remember feeling numb and anger and bitter. I remember thinking why is she telling me this now? I remember looking out the windshield thinking how easy it would be to drive off the road into ... I remember thinking, how many people will come to my funeral?
l'm forty-three and sitting in jail. They have me on suicide watch, though I don't know this at the time. They had me remove all my clothes and gave me a padded over-shirt to wear. I have no blanket or pillow. It's cold and the light remains on. I tried to lay down and sleep but it's elusive. I ask for a blanket, and they give me another padded over-shirt. It's green, the same color as the other one. There's a camera in one of the corners. I have no privacy. I remember being numb and cold and ... and void of all thought. I remember lying to the jail official… a counselor?? ... that I wasn't thinking of suicide because I was. I remember wondering how many people will come to my funeral when I take my life.
I'm forty-seven and sitting around a table with other Inmates ... convicts ... felons ... Adults-In-Custody ... and two outside guests. It’s a faith-based class called Reboot and it’s specifically designed for Combat Veterans. The two outside guests drive one hour twice a month from Eugene to give us support. Today, we're on week eight ... in a class started a year ago. There have been challenges throughout the year and we're finally moving forward. The discussion today is about suicide and why there are twenty-two suicides a day from Veterans. Chris, one of the outside guests, asks a question. Richard, the other outside guest, adds his voice once a few of us respond. He looks straight at me and I return his gaze, intently listening to his words. I give a nod every now and then. I look toward Chris and hear his agreements. I've been quiet this whole time. Richard looks at me and asks my thoughts. Another individual speaks up and I wait. Richard repeats his question.
I think about it and ponder my words before I respond. I talk about Dr. Chris Warren and his work on self-deception. How in it, there's a concept of being in a box. We see others as objects when we're in this box. And, when out see them as people. We can't get out without the help of others ... they help us recognize we're in the box to begin with. I brought this up because I talked about my thoughts on suicide ... how I felt I was in the deep ... in the abyss looking up and seeing the light from afar. I felt the weight of the deep over me ... crushing ... what another called a heavy burden.
I brought this up because the question of how we find joy here in prison was raised. I said I find joy by helping others ... they help me get better. I remember responding to a question about suicide and my association with it. I remember letting them know I have wondered since I was young on how many people would come to my funeral if I died. And, this didn't go away when I grew up. I remember the answer to my question coming while responding to Richard … I remember the answer being two ... two people loved me enough to come to my funeral. Two people stayed with me in the abyss. Two people ... is enough. | AW
Digging deep. Thanks.