The Phone Call

Trigger Warning: death, suicide.

It’s almost ten minutes until I can leave work, and I’m just finishing up the evening paperwork—somehow early, despite being the only supervisor to close tonight. My phone rings. Ordinarily, I don’t answer, but because my phone is set to Do Not Disturb, there are only three people that my phone would actually override this setting and sound an alert for: My fiancee. My Therapist (whom I graduated my court-ordered responsibilities for), and my P.O.

I pulled out my phone, figuring that this phone call must be important. It was my probation officer. Only ten minutes to go before I’m officially allowed to answer my phone, because I’ll be off the clock, I answered. Because I was the only one there besides the managers… doing who knows what somewhere. (The following is mostly what I remember.)

“How are you doing?

“I’m okay, what’s up?”

“I noticed that you posted some suicide related content on a message board, and wanted to ensure you’re okay. You’re not thinking of hurting yourself, are you?”

“Right now, I’m fine. A couple days ago, not so much.”

“But you’re okay today?”

“Yes. Right now, I’m fine.”

I’ve battled suicidal thoughts for most of my life. As a child, an adolescent, a young adult, and as a middle aged adult. Suicide has been a near constant companion. Every time those thoughts creep up, I’m able to squash them down. I cry. But I keep moving forward. Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. These words are one phrase of many that ramble around inside my empty head. And part of my personality, I’m too damned determined to just give up. I’ve got at least one other person in my life who is truly dependent upon my survival. Whether that’s purposeful or subconscious, I’ll find out one day, but for right now, that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that other people do appreciate me, and I know that.

My P.O. told me about a new national hotline, 988, that’s available 24 hours a day, seven days a week. He made me contract with him that if I felt suicidal that I would call. And I promised I would. Like anybody else would when confronted by suicide’s ugly face. And again, I was fine. On my walk to the bus stop, in the chilly Boston air, a half mile walk in the dark, I felt my insides melt. I cried. Because after some thought, I realized a simple truth.

But nobody cares. Honestly, who really cares if one tiny, insignificant person named Kaitlyn offed herself? My fiancee would care, indeed. But only for a short while. It might be a month, a year, a decade, but eventually, my absence would fade. My co-workers? Perhaps. I’d give it a week, maybe a month tops, before the void of my presence fades. I’ve got no IRL friends though. My immediate family, is already passed. And whom remains of my blood ties, well, we exchange Christmas and Birthday cards once a year, it seems. So, would a random stranger who happens to answer a crisis hotline actually care about me? Most likely, no.

But some people do care about you Kaitlyn. Yes, they do. The insignificant number of people in my life do care. My co-workers care only because I do what I say I’m going to do. I pick up the slack, I help wherever I can. I hold everything together. I go above and beyond, only because I believe that when something needs to be done, let’s get it done. It’s all mental attitude. My fiancee, yes, I know she cares. She’s completely dependent upon me. I pay for the roof over her head. Supplement the food in the house because EBT isn’t nearly enough. I provide her internet and phone. At least for now. Because with her disability funding being significantly diminished, much of that is going away for the both of us.

But the real question is not who cares, it’s what can people who care actually do when a person is in crisis? Sure, we can engage in conversation. We can share empathy with one another. But sometimes that doesn’t actually solve the root problem. That doesn’t take away the physical pain. The financial stress. The mental or emotional anguish. A random person on the phone can’t offer me a better paying job, can they? No. They don’t have that authority. Let alone the trust, after all, I’m some weirdo calling a crisis hotline consumed with thoughts of killing myself. How trustworthy could I possibly be? What guarantees would an employer have that I would just not show up one day? But what would most likely happen is a police officer would be sent to round me up, place me in a cold jail cell with bad people who want to hurt me. Or, I would be sent to a special hospital with a padded room, stripped of everything I’m wearing and watched like a hawk stalking its prey. Either way, humiliation and betrayal of trust. Two things that would only reinforce the thoughts of suicide and worthlessness.

So, after thinking about this and some hearty crying, I probably won’t be using any such hotline. I’m nearly 50. I’ve dealt with depression my whole life. I’ve lived in darkness for a long time. I’m one strong son-of-a-bitch. And despite the terrors that are around the corner, Project 2025, fascism, and such, I know that I’m living in a world constructed filled with hatred and division. One day Death will visit me and claim my life. But I truly don’t think that I am Death. There is still hope, love, and some people do have empathy and compassion. But we don’t have the authority, nor the tools to actually help people who are suffering out of the problems that put them in despair.