Grief Beach Repeat: I Called The Suicide Lifeline (And So Can You)

A republished newsletter for World Mental Health Day

Oct 10, 2024

Hi beachgoers. I haven’t written in a while, partly because I’ve been wondering how to keep this project going, and partly because there are things I don’t quite know how to write about. A few weeks ago I lost a friend to suicide, and I haven’t figured out how to memorialize him. I wish I’d been there, or that someone could have reached him. And because it’s #WorldMentalHealthDay, I thought I’d repost my letter from a time when I needed to reach out to someone and did. Living is hard and we don’t need to—in fact, we must not—do it alone.

This post was originally sent on June 29, 2023. And hey: I lived, bitch.

TW: This post deals with suicidal ideation. I think more of us struggle with these thoughts than we like to admit in polite company. I thought I'd share my experience of reaching out for resources, rather than — as I often do — trying to suffer through them alone. Please do this if you ever feel it may be useful. If not this way, please reach out to someone. Reach out to me.

A few weeks ago I hit a low point.

People who don't suffer depression have trouble understanding sometimes that the peaks and valleys of your brain chemistry aren't always directly correlated with the timeline of stressors in your life. Sometimes you just find yourself in a pit. I was in a pit.

The thing is that I've been in a pit for a while, the kind where it feels like every time I try to scrabble up the wall it just excavates a wider hole for myself. I have gotten so much better at knowing when to ask for help, but I've been asking for help from the same people for so long. And one day that week I was convinced they were getting bored of my having the same issues all the time, like just fucking get out of the pit, I don't know what to tell you, and I didn't know what to do, and then I had a thought about what I could do but it would very, very, very much have been the wrong thing to do, and so I did something else.

I called the suicide crisis hotline.

The National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline was established just about a year ago, in July 2022, with an influx of federal spending to simplify and streamline access to mental health services. Like 911 before it, it represented a nationwide effort to facilitate an interconnected network so that callers could be directed to professional help in the region they called from. And with the new, easy-to-remember number accessible from any American landline or cell phone — 988 instead of the previous ten-digit (800) 273-TALK — the hope was that people using it could get in more quickly, spending less time alone.

I was skeptical the moment I dialed the number. I'd heard horror stories about would-be volunteers waiting around to be deployed, and AI chatbots shitting the bed as we let them try to deal with people in crisis reaching an ED helpline.

But before I could second-guess myself, I got a soft click while my call connected, and a gentle voice asking, “who am I speaking with today?” And immediately, I was crying.

Her name was Jocelyn. I know being patient was her job, but she was so patient as I tried to choke out coherent sentences about why I was calling and what I was feeling. Even lying prone on my bed, my voice was shaking like I was on a footbridge over a ravine in a hurricane, my lungs gripping in my chest. I've never expelled so much snot while on the phone with another human being.

In the moment I started talking, my feelings shifted. Not to relief, though, not at first: to dread. I realized I was anticipating having to sit through the suicide negotiation cliché. And I understood that if I heard her say: “you have so much to live for!” then I was going to have to hang up. I KNOW how privileged my life truly is. That's exactly what makes moments like that one so profoundly mortifying, that I can't just suck it up and keep going through my darkest and least rational thoughts.

But Jocelyn didn't pull that shit with me. When she asked me if anything was going on to trigger those feelings, and I told her, she said, "that's a lot of transition at once. That makes sense." And maybe at face value it doesn't sound great to tell someone having suicidal thoughts that what they're thinking makes sense — but it did feel more validating than being in a shame loop about having those feelings to begin with. And it put me at ease, and let me keep talking as my breath settled back into rhythm.

She thanked me for calling. "I understand how it can almost feel easier to talk to a stranger," she said.

And yes! I realize the irony in writing about this to all of you now! But it was true. I told her that I had always been someone who was uncomfortable asking for help, and that I had been so down for so long by this point that I was convinced that I was outstaying my emotional welcome with my friends. A hotline seemed easier.

I told her that I knew it was time to do something about these thoughts. I told her suicidality runs in my family. My Tante Claudie, who died as a teenager. My Uncle John, who came back from the war not understanding how he could be expected to stay alive. And with the knowledge of this genetic predisposition, part of me is able to reassure myself that these thoughts are chemical rather than rational, a compulsion I can choose to address with professionals. But living with the legacy of these deaths, the other part of me is also aware that irrational or not, that compulsion could eventually get the better of me if I don’t take it seriously and get help.

Jocelyn was quiet for a beat and I thought I'd lost her. "Can I tell you something?" she said. "I just got chills."

She told me that she too had a family history of suicide, and that I'd put to words something she'd struggled to articulate. "And that's really important," she said. "By acknowledging this, you’re doing more than you think you are to take care of yourself and the people you care about. You called today because you’re working to break that generational cycle of trauma. I think you should give yourself a little more credit. I’m really proud of you."

After that she helped me make a plan. Who could I tell about these feelings? How would I approach it? And more urgently: what was I doing to get through the rest of the day?

I told her I had some friends coming over later. She was relieved. She asked if I would be able to tell them what I was going through and I felt another pang of humiliation. I wasn't sure. Jocelyn said she understood my apprehension, but that she really thought it would be better if I did, especially if they cared about me the way I thought they did. She reminded me that just a few minutes ago, my coming clean didn't just help me, but helped her find ways to process her own feelings, and wasn't that worth offering to people I loved?

Anyway, she asked, what would we be doing later? I said that we were getting together to eat dinner and watch the season finale of Yellowjackets.

"OK, wait," she said. "I've never seen it but I've seen posters. Can you explain Yellowjackets to me?"

And I laughed and launched into the premise, talking as excitedly as if to a new friend. The reality of where I was mentally was present and understood. It's not that I was "fixed" because I now seemed happy. But neither was I irrevocably broken just because I'd been wrestling with such dark thoughts. All there was to do now was to use that energy, build momentum, and forge a path forward.

I apologized to her. I said I'd felt guilty about using the lifeline, knowing that I was only experiencing ideation, not active planning. I said that the call had really helped, but I worried I was taking resources away from someone who more urgently needed them.

Jocelyn said I shouldn't. She assured me the service was meant to be there for people in moments of crisis, whatever that crisis looked like for them. I didn't have to beat myself up for not waiting until it got worse.

"And anyway," she said, "I had been waiting around for a while when I got your call. We were meant to talk."

We were meant to talk, friends. To many more years of conversations.

Yours in survival,
Arielle

Three Things Offering Joy

Paint by Numbers. It's no secret that my anxiety loves a project and hates a decision. It's why I love a recipe, or a knitting project — I love anything that tells me what I need and what exactly I need to do with it. I picked up a paint by number kit on a whim while doing a recent Target run for, like, sunscreen and oatmeal, and I've been plugging away at it in the yard with slow, precise strokes in shades of pink and yellow, which is so good for turning off my brain to anything but what's in front of me.
Beating stuff up. I don't know whether it was reading my last Grief Beach, or the one before it, or just the general ~vibe~ I'm giving off, but my mom recently asked, "Have you ever thought about kickboxing? I just feel like you probably need to punch something." And guess what! I did! I've been going to Rumble and my first class was a Pride Month special with proceeds going to The Trevor Project, so I got to take not only my own life's frustrations but also my rage at transphobes, conversion camps, and reactionaries making our children's lives worse out of fear and confusion and malice, and whale on some water bags about it. Do I need my own gloves, for like, my daily life? Don't answer that.
Perfectly Cut Screams. Sure, mental health services are great, but if I need to suddenly be giggling instead of sobbing this is going to do the trick a lot more easily. This is so stupid I want to buy everyone involved a pizza.

What I'm Reading

I have spent so much time in the lobotomy aisle of the internet and all I have to show for it is some of the worst sex of my life.

—Raw Dog: The Naked Truth about Hot Dogs by Jamie Loftus