What a perfect reblog for Suicide Awareness Month… I’ve been posting about Suicide awareness and PTSD all month long and this is a perfect post to wrap it up.
Thanks for sharing your experience.
The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling. -David Foster Wallace (Infinite Jest).
Also, check out this other post by Luke Atkins — “Suicide.”
REMEMBER, “SUICIDE IS 100% PREVENTABLE“.
LIVE LAUGH … BELLE PAPILLON
Have you ever stumbled upon something so magnificent, so awe-inspiring, so beautiful that you were lost for words? Were you forced to stand there for a moment, emotions heightened, and smile, take it all in, before dispatching yourself back to reality?
This overwhelming feeling crushed me when I—from the first row—saw Cristiano Ronaldo score a sweet goal live in Madrid; as I came across Vincent van Gogh’s powerful The Starry Night while in NYC; after I tasted the green chile queso—on my last night before college—at my favorite restaurant, Mr. Mesero; once I heard Local Natives’s heart-wrenching second album, Hummingbird; the minute I turned 18 (which, fittingly so, struck while I was jamming at an ODESZA concert)— it was at these times that I truly felt free, like I, out of nowhere, was a relatively independent adult who had freedoms and choices, those which allowed me to do anything in…
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