I've thought so often about suicide.
The act itself, the logistics of preparation, and implementation, as well as the fallout for those left behind.
I'm joyful to say the latter thoughts always win out over the former.
The compassion and love within me continues to elevate my spirit beyond calculations of taking a bottle of Oxycodone into a park, picking a beautiful spot, and drinking myself into the next adventure.
My mind flits back to my experiences of death.
My father, who, upon losing his battle with life, fell limp as his spirit departed. The strike of realisation that I had been left behind hit my heart with a sickening blow, and I was changed forever.
And then, just as I was coming to terms with the feelings of loss, another realisation released a secondary hit to my heart when I stood in front of loved ones with terrible news.
My mind flits once more to finding one of our kittens dead in our garden many moons ago. I found the poor wretch, small and weaker than the rest, I'd hoped she would survive. But 'Inca' our tortoiseshell kitten just didn't make it. My heart went out to the little mite and then my heart sank further when I heard a voice behind me. My 5 year old daughter, enquiring as to the whereabouts of her pet.
These two incidents keep me straight. Recalling the feelings associated to finding death, and then having to pass that to other people, are so immense and damaging.
I could not, in all good conscience, cause such potentially irreparable harm to those I love.
Life is a process of weighing love and compassion against fear and anguish. Having love and compassion for those closest to our hearts , increases the love and compassion we have for ourselves.