Nobody Is Laughing

Suicide And The Suffering
By Phil Scovell

Author's Note.

     None of these stories are fictional.  Three of them are
personal experiences.  I could not have written this four years
ago because I wanted to die.





     She stuck the barrel of the gun in her mouth.  It was heavier
than she had anticipated.  It was awkward in her trembling hands. 
She had never handled a gun before.  This one she had stolen from
her boyfriend's house.

     The pain and fear and anguish and guilt flooded her mind;
filling it.  She couldn't stop it no matter how hard she tried and
she had been trying, too, but nobody believed her.  It was more
than she could bear.  Something felt physically clamped to her
head, her brain hurt, and her mind flopped around like a fish out
of water.  She couldn't stop it.

     "You aren't worth it.  Kill!  Kill!  Die!  You'll never be
worth anything to anybody; not even your children."

The thoughts slammed around inside her head so violently, they
felt as if they were living things; biting and snapping and
tearing at the very fiber of her mind.  She wanted just some peace
of mind.  She wanted out.  There was no other way now.  She pulled
the trigger.

     Nothing happened.  the gun wasn't loaded.  Her failure made
her feel even worse.  She had failed yet again.  She sat and
cried harder than she had ever cried before.

     I had been awake for days.  I heard voices, day and night, in
my head but I couldn't tell anybody.

     "Mr. Scovell," the psychologist said, "I need to ask you some
questions but I want you to know something up front.  On this
form, there are two very important questions.  I want you to know
about them in advance.  If you answer yes to either of these
questions, I will have to report this information to the proper
authorities so listen very carefully and think before you answer. 
Ok?  Here they are.  Are you suicidal or have you recently
attempted to take your own life?

     "No," I lied with absolutely no inflection to my voice.

     "Ok.  I'll write that down.  Now, the second question is, do
you feel you want to harm someone, including yourself, or have you
had any homicidal thoughts, that is, do you feel like you want to
kill someone or even hurt someone?"

     "No," I said most convincingly.

     "Ok, very good," she said as she wrote.  "This next question
isn't as critical but it is important so please be careful with
your answer.  Do you hear voices telling you to harm someone or
telling you to do harm to yourself?"

     "No," I lied woodenly and without expression.

     This woman would never know I had lied because I never went
back to see her.  she would never know what the voices had been
saying in my head and how I had become so frightened of my own
thoughts, I took all the medication the doctor had prescribed the
day before, and through them away.  The voices had been telling
me to take them all and they would let me sleep.

     The depression was something he felt no one understood.  He
was almost right.  Digging around in his desk drawer he found the
screw driver.  He needed to tighten a screw.  He sat holding it in
hand.  The fear washed over him like a bucket of filthy water had
just been dumped on him.  He wasn't afraid of killing himself; he
was afraid he might use it on someone else; someone he loved.  He
put it back in the drawer, and he took his pocket knife out and
put that into the drawer.  He couldn't tell anyone; they'd think
he was crazy.  Maybe they were right.

     The man awakened in the middle of the night.  He felt the
fear immediately but tried to ignore it.  Ignoring it never
worked but trying to face it made it worse.  He made his way into
the bathroom.  He almost felt he was in a dream when he heard the
voice.  "Kill your wife and everything will be ok.  You might as
well do it; you know you are going to anyway."  The raw fear in
the broken crippled tormented mind screamed silently for the
voices to stop.  He knew that he did not want to kill anyone but
the voices tried convincing him it was real and he was a preacher. 
Why wouldn't they stop?

     The woman told me that whenever she entered her kitchen to
get something, she stayed away from the silverware drawer as much
as she could.  She likewise stuck the fingers of both hands into
her mouth and bit down hard on them.  She was afraid she would go
and pull one of the knives out and stab herself.

     He lay next to his wife listening and waiting for her
breathing to slow so he'd know she was asleep.  His mind just
wouldn't let him sleep any longer.  He had even gotten lost
earlier as he drove through the night streets trying to clear his
mind.  He finally couldn't remember where he was and had to use
his cell phone to call his wife.  With her help, he was somehow
able to find his way home.

     Now they had gone to bed, but he couldn't sleep.  He had made
up his mind and tonight would be the night.  It wasn't worth it. 
Nothing was working for him any more.

     Holding his breath, he listened.  His wife breathing had
slowed and she was breathing deeply.  He waited for awhile longer
and then slid quietly out of bed.  Once free of the blankets, he
made his way downstairs.  He closed the garage door from the house
behind him.  Opening the car door, he climbed behind the wheel and
started the engine.  He rolled down all the windows.  Maybe what
he didn't have the courage to do himself, the carbon monoxide
could do for him.

     Reaching into the car, his wife turn the keys and the engine
died.  "Come on back to bed, honey," she said and opened the car
door.  "It isn't time for you to die."

     "I'm going to hang up on you and kill Carla," the voice on
the other end of the phone said to me.

     "Oh, that doesn't sound like a good thing to do," I replied.

     "Well," the defiant voice said, "you can't stop me.  I'm
going to do it."  "I'm going to make her hang up and then I'm
going to kill her."

     "Are you forgetting something?" I calmly suggested to the
alternate personality at the other end of the phone.

     "No, I don't think so.  What's that?" she demanded.

     "Lord Jesus," I replied, "Would you tell Marsha what it is
she is forgetting?"

     Silence.

     "Did you hear him?" I asked.

     "No," she replied as if she were stomping her foot.

     "Were you listening?" I asked.

     "No," came the single word answer.

     "You have to listen.  Ok?"

     "Well, all right.  I'll listen," she finally agreed.

     "Lord Jesus," I repeated, Show Marsha what she is
forgetting."

     "Oh, I forgot about that," the voice said with surprise in
her voice.

     "What did you forget?" I asked.

     "He said, if I kill Carla, I'll be killing myself.  How can
that be?  That can't be right," the stern voice of the little girl
said.

     "Did you forget who you are?" I ask gently.

     "Oh, that's right.  I forgot that," she said.  "I'm part of
Carla so if I would kill her, I'd die, too."

     "That's right," I agreed.  "Why don't we find out why the
little girl is hurting and why you have to work so hard to
protect her and then you won't have to be so angry.  How does
that sound to you?"

     "That sounds good.  I just don't want Carla to hurt any
more.  People were so mean to her.  I was just trying to help."

     "I know, and Jesus knows that, so it is ok.  Let's just ask
Jesus to help us and you stay around and help, too.  Ok?"

     "Ok," she said and her harsh tones began to fade.

     The man carried his rifle out of the back of his house and up
into the hilly ground behind his house.  He walked for quite a
ways because he wanted to get far enough away from the house so no
one would see him.

     Climbing up to the higher ground, he sat down on a rock and
cried.  He wanted to die.  He had tried for so long to fight off
the anxiety attacks and the voices that told him he was a failure
and should have never been born.  Why had his dad hated him so
much.  He never did anything.  He was just a little boy.

     He cried until there were no more tears and then picked up
the rifle.  He knew with the barrel in his mouth, he could barely
reach the trigger but it wouldn't take much.  He could even take
off his shoe and trigger the rifle with his toe if he had to. 
He'd do it, though, no matter what.

     Laying the gun back down, he cried again and prayed.  "Lord,
there has got to be somebody who knows how I feel and can help me. 
I am going to go down to the house and do a search on the internet
one more time.  If that doesn't work, I'm coming back up here and
finish what I started.

     Seated at his computer, he typed in a search string.  A
website called SafePlaceFellowship.com popped on to the screen. 
He clicked on it and began to read.  Within moments of reading a
man's testimony, he picked up the phone and dialed long distance.

     Suicide isn't something anyone wants to do.  "Then why do
some do it?"  Good question.  They are hurting wounded people. 
"Aren't they mentally ill?"  What's that have to do with it? 
"Well, don't they have something like a chemical imbalance in
their brain so that causes it?"  Let's say that's true, just
because we think we have to have a reason.  The medical
professionals call the "reason" a diagnosis.  Would you not agree
that suicidal people have a reason for why they want to die? 
That one is a no brainer.  Of course, they have a reason and it
isn't because they are happy.  So what is it?  It could be any one
of a hundred reasons.  A divorce, a death of a child, the loss of
a best friend, hearing from the doctor you have AIDS, or cancer,
or your baby is dead and has to be taken are but a few examples. 
It could also be something as basic as the feeling of failure in
your life.  I know that one from personal experience.  It could
even be something of which they aren't even aware.

     The Bible is pretty clear, in fact, Jesus said, "The thief
cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am
come that they might have life, and that they might have [it] more
abundantly," (John 10:10).  If you are suicidal, it isn't you
wanting to take your life but the Evil One wants you to think
that.  Oh, no, he isn't going to take credit for it up front but
he will pay for it in the end.

     sure, there are hundreds of reasons not to kill yourself. 
Your family will miss you, your friends will miss you, some who
really loves you, and hasn't expressed their true feelings, will
be deeply sad at your death.  All these things don't help the
wounded and suffering person at all.

     Then there is the issue of sin.  Some churches teach that you
will go to hell if you take your own life because it is murder. 
Others say that isn't true.  The truth is, however, taking your
own life could create even bigger problems for you.  For now,
let's just put the theology aside concerning the right and wrong
of this issue.

     Jesus wants to bring healing and direction into your life
while you are on earth.  You are His plan.  Read that last
sentence again.  I'll repeat it.  You are His plan.  He wants to
give you abundant life in place of what the devil wants to
destroy.  The word "abundance" means something like sitting a
glass in your sink under the faucet and then turning on the water. 
Let the water run until the glass over flows.  Allow the water to
continue overflowing the glass and that is what Jesus has for you.

     If you need help getting to the root of the problem, that is,
what is causing the suicidal thoughts and feelings, let's talk.

Safe Place Fellowship
Phil Scovell
Denver, Colorado
Mountain Time Zone
Phone 303-507-5175
Web:  www.SafePlaceFellowship.com




He's ready when you are.
www.SafePlaceFellowship.com