I have been doing this blog for nearly a year. I have been extremely open and uninhibited in regard to the things I choose to share, especially when it comes to my mental health and struggles. There is one topic I have avoided. Suicide ideation is an all-encompassing term used to describe thoughts, wishes, contemplations, and preoccupations with death and taking one’s own life.

I am not sure why I have so adamantly avoided talking about it. A quick online search will give you an array of statistics on the subject. It is a difficult topic to quantify but everyone at least agrees that the risk of suicide is higher for people with multiple sclerosis than the general population. According to some, it is nearly fifty percent higher.

Fifty percent of MS patients will experience a major depression related to brain MRI factors and disease-related psychosocial challenges. Nevertheless, depression is under-recognized/treated. The standardized mortality ratio (SMR) indicates a suicide risk in the MS population that is twice that in the general population.

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC6713681/

It was one of the first things my psychiatrist asked about within minutes of our first appointment. He asked nonchalantly as if it was the tenth time that day he had posed the question to the person sitting across from him. I suppose, for him, asking people if they have ever thought about killing themselves is just another day at the office. For me, it was a loaded question.

I knew he would ask. However, until that moment I was not sure how I would respond. I tried to make eye contact so he would not think I was hiding anything in my answer. Then I would glance away, equally afraid he would see something I was subconsciously hiding. What a nightmare. It was a simple “yes” or “no” question. Why was it so hard to answer? I knew I was in a safe place and anything I said would never make it past the confines of that room. I answered truthfully with a small nod of my head and a feeble “yes”. I took a deep breath and prepared to explain my answer.

Yes, I suppose by definition I have suicide ideation. I think about suicide a lot actually. However, not in the sense of ending my own life. My thoughts tend to center more around others who have gone through with the act. I am not concerned with “how” anyone chose to do it, but more with “why”.

I understand how hard MS is. I also understand a lot of people have it a lot worse than I do, but I am one of the ones who definitely got the shorter end of the stick with this disease. It does not take a lot of imagination to figure out why someone would feel suicide is the only way to have a last bit of control over their body and thoughts. What I want to know and understand is what gets someone to that point. I suppose my obsession with knowing is so I can better educate and prepare myself should I start approaching that point myself.

For now, as dark as it gets sometimes, I tell myself there are still good things yet to happen. There are lots of struggles ahead, but between those times of hardship, there will be smiles and copious amounts of love that I do not want to miss out on. My words to him were, “I still have too much to see and do”. As long as this planet exists and I am able to explore it, I want to be on it as long as possible. As long as there is a furry animal that needs me to feed, water, and love it, I want to be here for it. As long as family and friends continue to call, I want to see and talk to them. These past few weeks have provided some clarity into why others may think and feel differently on the matter, though.

I have been sick for approximately three months. It began March 5th with Covid, continued a few weeks later with another upper respiratory infection, and progressed from there to pneumonia. I have been miserable almost every second that I have been awake which is a lot because it is impossible to get a good night of sleep. When you have MS, an infection is never a simple manner. You may feel better in a few days or a few weeks, or, in my case, a few months (and counting).

I cough nonstop. A dose of medicine is useless, so I double it. I go from coughing every minute to every two minutes. It is better than nothing, so in four hours I take two more doses. I avoid public places when I can, but I have appointments to attend. I sit in the waiting area and unwrap one throat lozenge after another, drawing more attention than the cough itself. It is exhausting. My lungs hurt, my throat hurts, and every muscle in my torso is sore. I inhale albuterol and steroids. I swallow one pill after another. None of it works.

Having an infection also means fever and increased fatigue. I struggle to move my legs or raise my arm from the moment I get out of bed. I sway and wobble with every step. It is exhausting. By the end of the day, I lift my legs into bed with my hands. I lie down and daydream instead of actually dreaming because sleep is impossible. The next morning it all repeats. It is nonstop and relentless.

A few days ago, I was standing in the shower with tears streaming down my face. I leaned against the wall and held tightly to the safety bar to keep myself upright. Mounting fatigue and frustrations had finally defeated me. Hot showers are physically detrimental but do wonders for my anxiety. It was a carefully chosen battle. What I wanted more than anything in that moment was a break.

I had spent every second of the last three months sick and exhausted. I was, and still am, physically and mentally at the end of my rope. I had never in my life so badly wished for just a day, an hour, or even a minute to be able to come up for air and catch my breath. I needed an escape from the sickness. I needed to step away from everything that was happening to me and regather myself. Even if it was only for a minute or a few seconds. I wanted it to stop.

There is nothing I can do to stop it, though. It is out of my hands. There will be no break. There will be no cure or recovery. I have a chronic illness that will only end when I die. This is me coming to understand why a person may end their own life.

I suppose suicide is so hard to talk about because the mere mention puts people on alert. I have never wanted to talk about it because I did not want others to be concerned. I have a psychiatrist I speak with. He is not worried I am going to take my own life, and neither am I. This is hard, but there is still a lot to stick around for.