Suicide.

Every time a suicide happens with a celebrity, or suicide is brought up on the news or it's floating around social media, I am brought to an icky place in my memory. 
It lingers for a few days before I can really shake it. 

My Dad killed himself when I was just 4 years old. 

Hazel's age.   

He was heavy in to drugs and in a bad place in his life.  I'm told that he didn't see a way out and I'm told that he felt the lives of his children would be better if he wasn't a part of them. 

Maybe that's true. 
I can't be sure. 

But, what I know for sure is that I will never be okay with his suicide. 

I was 4 years old and have only one memory of my Dad. 
A memory that I'm not even really sure if it was him or not. 
I don't remember his voice or the way he smelled. 
I have no memory of him being with me or my sisters. 

I don't remember a thing.   

And yet, I'm still not okay with his suicide. 
 I'm mad at him for leaving.
 I'm confused that I don't have answers.
 I'm angry that I can't remember. 

Suicide is something I will never be okay with. 

And yet, I still have empathy for those who are suicidal. 

I hurt for them. 

For how lonely they must feel.
...and how terrified.
...and afraid.
 
To be suicidal, to me, means that you feel you have no other option. 
You are at the end of your limit. 
You can't see a way out.

 And that must be a horrifying feeling. 
That must hurt more than any other hurt. 

I've never been to that point in my life. 
I've never even come close to that. 
But if you have, I can empathize. 
I can relate, in a weird way. 

I have thought a lot about what my Dad must have been feeling in that moment.  And I don't want anyone I love to ever feel those feelings.  I don't want anyone I know or love to ever feel that alone, or afraid, or depressed. 

Reach Out. 
Call. 
Text. 
Come Over. 

I'm here, and I am not going anywhere.