So Glad to Be Alive!
YES, three times I tried to commit suicide. But—Oh! Now I am so glad to be alive!
I came from a broken home. My parents were never happy together, as far back as I can remember. When they finally were divorced, I was sent to a boarding school. Then during the holidays my sister and I were sent to different relatives, because my father, a merchant seaman, was unable to care for us. We both grew up feeling that we were not wanted.
In my teens I left the Roman Catholic Church, as I felt its teachings were contradictory. I could never believe in hellfire torment, nor that my destiny was to be in heaven. To me, death was just a period of peacefulness. And as for any meaning that life might have now, I seemed to exist for no purpose.
Marriage did not solve my problems. Things began to get on top of me. Occasionally I would go out to visit friends, but so often they would say, “Oh, I’m just on my way out!” or, “Can you do me a favour and do this for me?” I found myself running around after them and they were not giving me the attention I felt I needed.
I sat and read books most of the day. I stopped cooking and baking. I stopped talking to people or doing anything apart from the bare necessities. People around me just ignored me, or I thought they did. It was all so strange. I felt miserable, lonely, and desperately in need of somebody with whom I could talk. But there was nobody. I had shut everybody out of my life! All of this led to my first attempt to take my life.
Why Suicide?
When a person plans to commit suicide (and so many do plan it very carefully), the people around him fall into three categories. First, there are those he loves very much, but he feels that he has failed them somehow. He thinks that these loved ones will be much better off without him. In the second category are those whom he wants to strike out against. He feels that he has been so badly hurt by these that the best way to hurt them is by killing himself—then they will surely suffer pangs of conscience. In the third group there are the people who he believes do not care about him at all, and will not care even if something happens to him. Looking back, all three played a part in my thinking.
The time came when I could no longer cope with all the things going on around me. I loved my children dearly, but I became genuinely convinced that they would have a better life without me since I was so incapable. Then, when I had a quarrel with my husband, I reasoned that my death would surely be a blow against him. Finally, I had nobody around me who cared and to whom I could talk about my problems.
I planned my death carefully. I turned on the gas and lay down to die. Strangely, at that very moment my husband telephoned to apologize for our quarrel. Getting no answer, he came home from work in the nick of time. Alerted by the smell of gas, he smashed the door down and saved my life.
When I came round, I was very upset and very angry. My acute frustration soon led me to my second attempt. Again, I had had a dispute with my husband, but, rather than facing my problems, I was only capable of running away from them. If only I had known how to cope—but I did not.
I put on my heaviest coat and walked for miles, down to the river Thames. I reasoned that, as I was unable to swim, the heavy coat would soon drag me under the water. How right I was! But, quite by chance, a police boat was in the vicinity of the bridge from which I had jumped. Within five or six minutes I was dragged aboard. The police told me that if they had been any later, I would have been pulled under by the sheer weight of my wet clothing.
I injured myself in the jump and spent many months in a hospital. As a result, my children were put in protective care. The authorities tried to rehabilitate me with religion, psychology and psychiatry. But they never got very far.
After my discharge, I was taking pills to wake me up, others to relax me, more to put me to sleep—up to 20 different pills a day! My children, I could see, were greatly disturbed. Bringing them home just once every week, as I was permitted to do, was doing them much harm. So once again I decided to free them, by ending my life.
Late one night, I went to a very lonely spot, the most desolate place I could think of, and swallowed my supply of pills—all of them. I really should not be alive today to tell the tale. But in the early morning a man living nearby was awakened by his dog and decided to take it for a walk. He found me lying in the grass. I was rushed to a hospital and my stomach was pumped out.
When I woke up, I burst into tears. I was so upset, so miserable. I felt as if I were in a very dark room. My loneliness was so intense. There was no one to whom I could turn. My life had been saved, but for what? I so wanted to die.
My Lifeline—Prayer
My husband kindly set up a new home for me and the children, and I resigned myself to taking care of them until they were old enough to care for themselves. Then I would see what I would do with my life. I still had a defeatist attitude.
One day my husband had a conversation with one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. When, at my husband’s invitation, the Witness returned, I spoke to him. I had always had a respect for the Bible and was absolutely amazed at this man’s knowledge of it. For every question I asked him, he gave me answer—a beautiful Bible answer!
As you can imagine, I was in a very depressed state at that time. Although instinctively I knew that there was a Supreme Being, I had never known how to get in contact with him. Yet this man could pray—and he taught me how to pray! I remember asking: “Why pray in the name of Jesus? Why pray to God? Why not to Jesus Christ? or to Mary?” From the Scriptures came the satisfying answers. It was as if somebody had just opened a door to me, and how gratefully I entered through it!—Matt. 6:9; John 16:23, 24.
Within a matter of weeks, I started praying in a way I had never prayed before. I found that I did not have to attempt to stand on my own. I did not have to do everything by myself. (Phil. 4:6, 7) At that time I had been smoking 60 or 70 cigarettes a day. But within a matter of three or four weeks I quit the habit. I no longer needed that crutch.
I soon found great joy and contentment from sharing with my neighbours the comfort that the “good news” had brought me. Added strength came to me from my association at the meetings at the local Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Within six months, in May 1975, I dedicated my life to Jehovah God.
All this thought of suicide started more than 10 years ago. I still get depressed now and then, when things get on top of me, as I suppose everyone does. But now I have a ‘strength beyond what is normal.’ (2 Cor. 4:7, 8) I have Jehovah’s help. No matter how miserable I may get, He always comes knocking at my door—not literally, of course, but in one way or another He comes as if to say: ‘You are not on your own!’
My lifeline of prayer is always open. I am truly grateful. I have my life, a loving family and a purpose in living. For what more can anyone ask?—Contributed by an “Awake!” reader in England.