The Violence in our Heads.

Illustration by Keith Negley, featured in The Violence in our Heads.

Assisted suicide and mental illness.

I've thought about suicide before. More precisely, assisted suicide. There are times when I've been in such pain, it seemed a kindness to myself. But, I don't want to hurt myself. I don't want my mother finding me. I don't want to horrify those I love.

So, a few articles around assisted suicide and the mentally ill have crossed my path, and I've finally had the time to read them. First, Assisted Death: Decision Extremely Complex For Those With Mental Illness - over on Huffington Post.

Last week, a parliamentary committee recommended that Canadians with psychiatric disorders that cause intolerable suffering should be included in any regulations governing physician-assisted death, which becomes legal June 6 under the Supreme Court of Canada's landmark ruling a year ago.

I actually reached out to the doctor quoted in the above article. The parliamentary committee is touching on legislation that directly affects me and people like me. I'm not saying I plan on applying for assisted suicide, but I would like the option. I also would be a great example of the type of person who could talk their way into an approval. There are points and counter-points to all of it, and it should all be discussed.

There's also this post over on Broadly, This Man Wants Doctors To Euthanize Him Because He Can’t Accept His Sexuality, which first, says a lot about homophobia and shame, but also talks about how in Belgium the laws around assisted suicide include mental illness.

A Stolkhom lawyer:

"It's possible to have euthanasia for recognized psychiatric disorders that cause you unbearable pain and hopeless suffering."

I ask how a mental illness resulting from an inability to accept being gay might fit within the law. "Events in your life—such as the death of a loved one—can cause you to develop depressive disorders. In the same way, the difficulty of coming to terms with your sexuality can cause someone to be depressed. 

"That's potentially what fits within the context of mental disorder in this case."

To be clear, the assisted suicide here is because of his depression and anxiety. Due, seemingly majorly, to his being in a lot of pain regarding his being gay (and no doubt other underlying issues). As said by the article:

The case serves as a depressing reminder that the discrimination experienced by some LGBQT people in their formative years can have a hugely scarring and lifelong effect. "Unfortunately we still live in a world where hate and discrimination directed toward lesbian, gay, bi and trans people can lead to many of them feeling distressed, alone and even suicidal," says a spokesperson for Stonewall, an LGBT charity. "We still have so much left to do until all LGBT people are accepted without exception."

This is timely. Days after a possibly-closeted man murdered 49 LGBTQ/Latinx club patrons, and injured 53, there's a lot to discuss regarding homophobia, being closeted, self-hatred and toxic-masculinity. It all intersects. It all compacts. It all kills.

Hear me when I talk about psychological pain.

You have to understand that I do have a frame of reference. I have an IUD thanks to debilitating cramps and heavy flow that had me thinking I might bleed to death. I fell down a flight of stairs on my ass once. Recently actually. I've been tattooed all over. I've been pierced. I've had strep throat and bronchitis, more than once. I had a bad bout of pneumonia. I've had wisdom teeth removed. I've had vertigo. I've woken up to partial face paralysis thanks to Bell's Palsy.

I've known emotional hardships. My father died at home of a major heart attack when I was 13. Within the next two years I would go on to lose both grandmothers.

I've had my heart broken. I've known gradual, increasingly degrading, unhealthy "love." I've carried deep shame. I struggle with feeling like an unlovable piece of shit, often. I've had friendships disintegrate during the most difficult times of my life. I was so desperate for care, but I was too much for those around me. I was too desperate.

I've been isolated. Though I'm working my way away from certain habits, like a wounded animal my nature has me wandering out to the middle of a field to die alone.

I can't seem to trust people. Especially not lovers. So I've had none. None since the first, none since the shame of it all.

I can stand on my own. In strength and in defiance but also in fear.

I also know myself. I've worked hard and struggled tremendously to access help. I've drudged through my life at times, yes, but I've continued forward. Whether at a snails pace or only staring forward through a cloud of despair, I'm still here.

Understand that when I talk about psychological pain I mean it. These words are not theory. They aren't loose descriptors. When I saw "psychological pain" I mean the kind that seers the chest and often over-whelms the senses. It's an invasion of your nervous system. It's acid in your veins.

Understand that your brain is a fucking wizard. It is everything of who you are and how your complex, ridiculous body works. You can wake up tomorrow in a new world tomorrow, due only to your brain. You sneeze and the colour blue vanishes from your perception. Sudden amnesia and you devastate those around you.

Understand that the brain's magic owes you shit. And for some of us, we know that in an unavoidable way.

With the early days of bell's palsy, the right side of my face was entirely paralyses. My right eye did not blink. Never in my life before that point, had I thought about the importance of blinking regularly, or of my privilege for having been able to take for granted my blinking for 32 years.

And so, I was made aware of the fragility and the impermanence of the most routine of functions.

And for some, that is the absence of chronic, psychological pain.

My wearing an eye patch and having a face that was visibly drooping and unresponsive meant questions and concern. These visible wounds could not be ignored. Doctor's visits are readily acceptable. Being tired, and reduced hours are understood and encouraged.

Where is this understanding on days on which I wish I were dead?

Where is the understanding of this other language I have, this language of "having spoons" or of "needing to shut down."

Is it easier for you if it's science fiction? Life support functions fall to critical and I do all I can to just stay alive.

What of fantasy? Curses that damn. Feelings of being targeted, of you being singled out. Of feeling plagued. Of being limited. Deep pains you deserve.

My pain is not easily described.

My pain is real. It exists. I survive it often.

Hear me when I talk about psychological pain, and understand that for the most part, those of us suffering are struggling for access to care.

I've known many kinds of pain.

This pain is actively trying to kill me, and yet it's the easiest to ignore by the medical establishment. I walk right by you, and you don't notice. There is no gaping wound.

What kind of fucked up is it, when you wish you had it, the physical symptom. My demon lesion. It's an obvious fucked up. And on good days, there is no proof. Just the lingering fumes from difficult days both behind and ahead.