I Wanted To Die

Oh such a touchy subject, one it has taken me a year and a half and some 400 blogs to get the guts to confront head-on, but here it is. That S word far more horrible than any S word I have mentioned so far. Suicide. It is the leading cause of death among Fibromyalgia patients. I know my personal experience with the beast and I also have witnessed a barrage of fellow patients succumb to the dark and hopeless thoughts that can infect and consume one's mind. It seems nobody is immune. Far too often I see many devastating examples of what happens to a Fibromyalgia patient with miserable medical care, an apathetic family/social support network and a job they simply cannot do anymore. I have seen others with entirely too much on their plate racing through life at top speed with no idea how to slow down, careening toward imminent disaster. And sadly still I have seen too many simply in too much pain that continuing to live does not make any sense. It just hurts so damn much. 

All of these are common triggers for Fibromyalgia patients to head down that fatal fork in the road. Living in constant and pervasive level 8 pain that everyone tells you to take Advil for is bad enough. But simply the fact you have been told to take Advil for level 8 pain just because they don't know the cause of it, now that is simply unforgivable. So we take our wounded selves to the corner and try and lick away the scars, the damage, the pain. But this is a pain that goes far deeper than muscle aches and stiffness and insomnia and all the other maladies that come with Fibro. This is total mental devastation.

I was the careening at top speed toward imminent disaster kind of Fibrate. And I sped, and I hit. It was 2006 and I had just been given the ridiculous diagnosis of Fibromyalgia. I broke because I was one sick girl still expecting, and expected, to accomplish what I had always done, but without the physical capabilities to do so. The entire medical system I had been raised to believe knew all knew nothing. I saw no other option than to get my husband to leave me so I could die without guilt. Nobody knew how to take my pain away, nor did they understand how bad it was. If there was no chance ever of improvement why on earth was I continuing to torture myself and those I loved with my pathetic, pain-filled presence? I was desperate, demolished, broken.

I can't tell anyone how to get out of that place, I can only tell you I was able to and I have seen countless others come back from it as well. Meds and therapy, lots of both, and that tiny little pit of Hope resurfaced in the bottom of my gut. It grew and grew because I watered her and fed her and verbally encouraged her to bloom. I ran circles around her chanting and praying and shaking medicine sticks in the air. Basically I told Hope she had to come back to me because it simply was not possible to live without her! Slowly, very slowly, I tried to figure out how to put my life back together again, but I knew that would not happen until somebody could figure out what the hell was wrong with me! So here we are five years later. I have researched it all and tried most therapies under the sun. And yes, there was actually something real wrong with me. I have improved but am still a shadow of my former self. Or am I? Am I actually discovering my true self, hidden and buried under all the junk life had thrown at me? Did getting sick slow me down enough to set me right? These are things we will never know but I am grateful to even be here today asking these questions. Hope did come back to hang out. Sometimes she comes and sometimes she goes, but her burning ember in the bottom of my soul cannot ever go out again, for I simply am not letting her go!

Thanks for joining,

Leah