Close The Trap Door;
How Death Became An Option
I first became suicidal at the age of seven.
My biological father had come to visit me. Little did I know it's had come to visit my mother, who was staying in our spare room. I wanted him to deliver me. To help me escape. I waited patiently for his arrival. He came in a car. I actually can't remember how he looked. But he asked me to get my bio mom, who was in the house.
I thought to myself. If I could be extra good and extra kind.
I could show him that having me as a child wouldn't be complicated or difficult. It wouldn't be challenging. I could practically raise myself. So fathers day was soon to come. We made these gifts for fathers in my second-grade class. I was so excited and delighted. I knew for a fact that this gift would woo my father. My father would see that it wasn't much to bear, and he would deliver me. He would save me from my existence. My biological mother was in the house too. But I was deathly afraid of her. So whenever she was around, I only spoke when spoken to.
He was my ticket out. He said he would return. He said he'd come back, but once my biological mother was gone, so was he.
I came into the room I shared with my guardian and cousin. My guardian had my diary in hand while my cousin translated. She asked me questions, "So you hate living here, huh? You think your daddy gon' come get you?!" She chuckled at my naïveté. I felt ambushed, ashamed, belittled, angry, embarrassed, and powerless. I was told it was dumb of me to think he'd return.
I opened my heart to a diary, and my heart was returned, shattered. It was a stinging burn to think anyone would love me enough to save me. It was a joke ever to believe I deserved better, cleaner, safer or different. I was the tall nail that needed hammering down to size. So, I was hammered down to size.
My father never came back. So my gift stared back at me until I threw it in the garbage can. But what felt so violative was the reaction— them going through my diary and then the exposure to my caregiver. The list of people I could look to for safety became non-existent. I had found my sister, but she was gone. My mother was nothing more than a violent, homeless, addict with a mental illness. And my father turned out to be an absent man not worth remembering. After so much disappointment, I decided I would never share my feelings. Never write my thoughts in diaries. Never trust people.
There was this sinking feeling I couldn't describe. I knew life would never get better. The hopelessness I experienced knowing I had eleven more years until I could legally be an adult. I had no way to describe that level of despair.
One day, on the radio station 106.1, KMEL, I heard a song. Tupac rapped, "I see no changes. I wake up in the morning, and I ask myself, is life worth living? Should I blast myself? I’m tired of being poor and even worse I’m black. My stomach hurts, so I'm lookin' for a purse to snatch. Cops give a damn about a negro. Pull the trigger, kill a nigga, he's a hero. Give the crack to the kids who the hell cares. One less hungry mouth on the welfare."
THAT! He had the words! From then on, I had an exit I could lean on. I could simply die; death was my final piece of freedom.
If this cruel world had given me no other autonomy, even when my very body ceased to be mine, the world had gifted me death. The comfort that my life was mine even if my heart stopped beating, felt like a warm hug. After seven long years of abuse and neglect on this Godforsaken piece of shit planet, Mrs. Simon's student, Vanessa’s best friend, Christine and Joe's daughter, could choose to die.
My suspicions about the peace of death were confirmed. Soon enough, I'd see a dead body up close. He lay motionless on the concrete floor right outside of my apartment. Red, blue, and white lights unevenly illuminated our tiny piece of East Oakland. Me and my cousin peeked through the blinds. He had no covering; he just bled. He was my baby sitters husband. They lived right next door to us. We saw him walk out of his house just a few hours earlier, and now, his step was stolen and I could never have been more jealous. I looked at him in envy. He was dead, so that meant his pain was over. Why didn't I think of doing that? Why couldn't he be me? Why couldn't I be dead like him;
- Cris
This writing is Part 1 of a series called, Close The Trap Door. In this, I will explore my lifelong struggle with suicidal ideation and how 23 years later, I am reframing my life without suicide as a palliative option. If you or someone you love is being overtaken by thoughts of self-harm or ending their life, pick up the phone and call 911. Our nation's mental healthcare system is shit, but either way, I'd love to meet you one day alive and well;