Someone that I know died recently. I know, not really the polite way to start this but I figure I might as well cut to the chase. I don’t want to talk about this person specifically. I didn’t know them well enough. They have family, loved ones, that story is theirs to tell, should they choose. What I want to talk about is the effect that this death is having on me.

Deaths occur in the periphery of our lives all of the time. Someone we knew from school. Someone we used to work with. People we knew from various places and various times throughout our lives. Deaths we hear about in the news. Even the deaths of celebrities. These deaths impact our lives in varying ways. At least, for me, I know this to be true. Some hit much harder than others. This one has me slayed.

The first place my mind goes, anytime that I hear of a death, is the family. I imagine the anguish they must be going through. This is particularly difficult for me if there are children involved. This death is no different. As intensely as I feel all of that, it isn’t what I want to talk about. While it hasn’t been said directly, it appears that this death was a suicide. I’m triggered by this.

I’m no stranger to suicide. Having spent more then half of my life mired in suicidal ideation, and knowing others who have completed suicide… family members… Others on the periphery…

A significant number of these people had reached out to me in some way. Some to ask directly for help, others asking for support but in ways that were more subtle. This person included. I helped in what ways I could within my own limitations. I’ve experienced guilt in each of these instances. If I hadn’t let my own issues, my own fear, social anxiety, my own whatever interfere, perhaps I could have been better able to help.

Sitting here today, I realize that I am also experiencing survivors guilt. Like I said, more of my life than not, has been spent in the agony of depression, despair, hopelessness and suicidality. I have a deep and visceral understanding of what it feels like to want to die. To not be able to see your way past the pain. To want freedom but have no means of escape other than ending you own life. I know what it feels like to attempt to end your own life.

I also know what it feels like to survive. I was fortunate enough that my attempt was only that, an attempt. I am fortunate enough to have lived to see the other side. I no longer live in a state of perpetual pain, not in that way anyway. My life is far from perfect. There is a lot of shit that I deal with, especially with my physical health. That said, I have healed and thus know that healing is possible, in many ways.

I am feeling guilty for this. Why do I get to live, while these others do not? Why was I able to move past all of that? Why was I able to release myself from that hell? There’s nothing special about me. These people deserve healing, freedom, as much as I do. Why me? Why not them?

I was able to survive. Does that mean that I have some special knowledge that I could have imparted? Could I have helped? Did my own selfish focus on my problems prevent that?

I know that you cannot save another person. I do know this, but I’m feeling guilty for not trying. But what do I think I was going to do? Be such a good friend that they would no longer want to die? That’s absurd. No, more likely I would’ve given of myself to an unhealthy degree trying to ensure that they could not kill themselves. That is my pattern, isn’t it? Trying to save others, no matter the cost to myself? That is where my focus should be. Healing that is the only way that I can ever affect any real positive change. The only way that I can truly help anyone.