Leaving the Planet~The Choice of Suicide: Truths and Consequences
Suicide. The word alone strikes a thunderous foreboding chord within most people’s psyche. The topic is edgy yet delicate simultaneously. Woke trolls and fact-checking bots are undoubtedly already alerted to this post and my position on the Great Earth, trying with all their AI might to read my mind and perhaps market to my sensitivities. Whatever. Fuck em!
I dedicate this important article to those of you who have been gutted and heartbroken by this topic—so taboo that my first go at sharing my thoughts through my LoveTruth&Beauty YouTube channel when the event was fresh was not just age-restricted but met with such hatemail from the anonymous masses unbeknown to me that I unceremoniously and quite out of character took it down, and hid it so well—I’ve searched everywhere across two computers and three giant external hard drives, and it’s missing in its entirety. The raw video footage is nowhere to be found.
What techno-sorcery is this, I ask? I get no retort intuitively or logically or thinking feelingly.
I am, however, inspired to also dedicate this piece of writing to those of you who, like myself, have thought, perhaps even often, about ending it all in some form, shape, or fashion—whether casually or via “suicide ideation,” as those experts would so plainly name it.
The Aftermath
It’s been over a year, and I still cry and ruminate over those ghostly invitations that might’ve changed Angelina’s story. I’ve paid over three thousand quid to various energy healers—wishing I could clone myself and my Trauma DeArmouring Superpowers and just lay on my amethyst healing table and float myself into unbridled healing territory rather than engage grief walkers and therapists in my endeavours to stop the pain, only to fail.
But I want to thank everyone who’s reached out to me with their love, care, and condolences regarding the passing of my beloved girl, a girl I didn’t birth but who essentially compelled me to do right by her. Your tender, loving care moves me beyond words.
Know this: I have no judgments regarding anyone’s choice to take their own lives into their own hands and end their suffering in the many ways possible. I do not subscribe to the whole mortal sin narrative pushed by the Abrahamic Religions and New Age Bullshit, filled with hopeless and endless painful torture in the inescapable hellfires of purgatory in perpetuity, nor do I buy into the karmic ramifications of the wash-rinse-spin repeat cycles of life-death-rebirth, fuck yous.
I, Empath: My Attractor Patterns
I’m an empath which has opened me to a lot of abuse. I’ve had to learn some skills to protect myself from that kind of harm. Through my own direct life experiences, here’s what I know: I have an attractor pattern for sensitive folks who not just contemplate suicide but follow through. I’m not blaming myself for being the cause, but I am observant of my predisposition, along with attracting people with the same experiences.
I was raised by a very mentally ill yet gainfully and brilliantly employed NSP—Narcissist-Sociopath-Psychopath mother who also suffered from manic depression—meaning she fluctuated from being a raging violent psycho to being immobilised—in the fetal position shaking and crying and threatening suicide because of me. My little brother was unscathed by her behaviour; he was her Golden Child. I was her target, so I was either running away, endeavouring to hide from her or spooning her—comforting her, combing her hair, telling her everything would be ok. This cycle began when I was two years old. Her episodes often started when she returned home from work after my nanny departed. When I was five, she was sent to a sanitorium without explanation.
I thought she was dead. Rather than being left with my heaven-sent nanny, my little brother and I were sent off to live with strangers who were, at best neglectful and distracted by the television. I tried to run away with my little brother in tow twice, only to be barred from getting onto a bus going God knows where.
My mother suddenly returned at age six, and my life circumstances worsened. To regulate my behaviour and anxiety, I was given Ritalin, which I took only once. I realised with adult conviction that from then on, every morning, that pill would go into the Philodendron plants of the game room. My mother’s cross-over to the dark side was evident. She was more skilled at hiding her craziness, and my beloved nanny believed she was cured. So my little push-pull dance with my mother—me running away and hiding during her raging psycho bitch phases—then her suicidal emotional blackmailing of me and my spooning efforts to calm her down and comfort her resumed until I left, thoroughly checking out at 14.
Thankfully, I had already read The Kybalion when I was 12, so those shitshows of my childhood into puberty during the 1960s to early 1970s were already getting psychologically, to the best of my ability, getting sorted. However, what little television I was allowed to watch seemed to focus on psycho-dramas of women and their failed relationships ending in suicide or its attempt at the very least. I found these television movies utterly disturbing. My little girl’s strategy of pretending I was a magickal faerie way before I ever learned of and began applying the First Hermetic Principle of Mentalism worked to my advantage.
The List Begins
A girl I knew took her life a few years later in high school, and I knew her well enough to be privy to her horrific home life.
My first girlfriend, not surprisingly, shot herself dead. I had broken up with her several years previously because her demeanour was hauntingly very similar to the dramatics of my mother.
Yikes, no, thank you. I saw through my unconscious proverbial pull to save my mommy trying to save her.
When I was 20, I became step-mommy to 3 children whose father I had dated for three months, only to break it off with him because he was flaky—he left his children after the mother of his children went off to prison (don’t ask me wtf, lol) to go to India to find himself—he returned a year later, a full-on Hari-Krishna: Jacob was now Johari.
The youngest, Angelina, was nine months old. Unlike her older twin brothers, who were dynamic and engaging, Angie was a sombre infant and a very sensitive little girl. I suspect her parents partied a lot, which affected her gestation in her mother’s womb. It turned out she was a heroin addict.
Over the years, she began exhibiting similar behaviour to my mother, being very fearful, insecure, and prone to public fits of terror with blood-curdling screaming. I would be mortified in a grocery store, watching her pitch a fit—her blond hair erroneously indicating to strangers that I’m definitively the nanny, not the mom, which I was, and a most devoted one.
Fast forward to the mid-90s, Angie and her twin brothers went off to live in South America with their grandparents. I was busily travelling internationally to work with survivors of trafficking and touring with various musical groups to artfully balance the intensity of my work and building my private practice with expos, conferences, and events which cocreated satellite offices across the country.
South Beach Barbara
South Beach, Florida, was one of my cities. My longtime college friend Barbara helped me set up an office to see clients every quarter, and I would stay at her fabulous art deco home with an Olympic-sized pool. Please remind me to tell you the story of the giant anaconda that brushed up against me as I was afloat.
Barbara and I were classmates in Differential Equations. We hit it off with mutual sarcasm, but I always felt this darkness around her. Though she never blatantly expressed any suicidal thoughts, like me, she was overly responsible for other people’s lousy planning. During one of my visits, her teenage children dramatically dissed and abandoned her when she divorced their father. He promised them early access to their respective million-dollar trust funds if they stopped contacting her.
Although she hid her pain through dating habitually very inappropriate men (in my opinion), Barbara was devasted. I continued to visit and work in South Beach every few months, and gradually she became distracted. Finally, she was a no-show picking me up from the airport to catch up at our favourite bistro for cocktails and dinner. Her cell phone was off, I figured she had forgotten, which she’d done twice before, so I rented a car and drove to her house. I had my own keys, opened her front door, and stepped back outside to catch my breath; I was overwhelmed by an odour you could not even imagine.
My heart was pounding. I searched the house slowly, and thoughts about her being murdered by some strange man she was dating raced through my mind.
I found her in her beautiful bathtub; she had slit her wrists properly, she bled out, and on the vanity was a note apologising to me for being so done with this shitty world. She made me executor of her estate. For three years, I cleaned up her shitshow.
Assisted Suicide Request
Ten years ago, another longtime friend who had been battling cancer time and time again reached out to our tight group of friends and told us of her wishes to be euthanised—assisted suicide, and that she wanted to spend quality time with each of us, in scheduled shifts, and if so, we would each have to sign an agreement to specific terms, one of which was a legal disclaimer/quitclaim—whatever you want to call it.
Though euthanasia is illegal in all 50 states, assisted suicide is legal in ten jurisdictions—Washington, DC, California, Washington, Oregon, Colorado, Maine, New Mexico, Hawaii, New Jersey, and Vermont, and perhaps upheld in Montana via a supreme court ruling. It’s a good idea to re-check legality throughout the rest of the world.
I was the only friend who declined. I never saw her again and was ousted from our group of friends.
Through my suffering at the hands of the worst of the worst human behaviour in men and women, I have fancied retribution by asking the Universe to handle the details or send forth a comet that would take the planet and humanity out. I have often thought of putting a gun to my head and ending the shitshows. Still, my faerie nature always prevails, and a glint of light shows itself, and another urge is abated.
One Last Crying Wolf
After being estranged for four years, Angie reached out to me just after Christmas 2021. It was Christmas 2017 when my stepchildren made closure with me at the request of their birth parents to sever ties with me as they all forged becoming a family; better late than never, I guess.
But family is something I’ve always yearned for. I’ve endeavoured to create a family, only to let it all go with various divorces and breakups.
After all my contributions, I felt abandoned and betrayed, particularly by Angie. Historically, with her emotional outbursts and abusive tendencies, which broke my heart, she made me wary, so I created the rigid boundary of No Contact.
After talking it over with my partner and my supervision group, I was distraught with her outreach and decided not to respond.
The Finality
No one goes unscathed with suicide. That’s a fact. Even my psycho ex’s father killed himself in a dramatic fashion, which affected those he reached out to before he took his life many years and years later. My beloved’s younger brother recently took his life in a horrific manner.
Even today, I’m tasked to deal with the tricky truths and consequences of her reaching out, my non-response to perhaps her plea for help (or not), and her passing at her own hands. Then moments later, a fun memory of her daintiness, her clinging to my legs as a toddler, afraid to forge ahead of meàMars, I can’t, her ethereal nature so unaligned with this Matrix world.
We grieve and mourn our losses and loved ones in unique and varied ways. One size does NOT fit all. What are your thoughts and feelings about suicide? Please feel free to reach out. With the Matrix shitshows, we shoulder so much pain and suffering alone. Please seek help from friends, family, and your community.
And remember: Allow yourself to grieve. Tears are the soul food for our broken hearts. Let them flow!
Ok, my loves, that is my speech. Thank you for holding a sacred space for me to share my vulnerability and challenges in the real. I hope this is helpful.
Beaming tender loving care,
Marja (Mahrr-ya)