Homelessness in Denver almost drove me to suicide

Suicide is such a dark topic. The only reason I’m writing about it is because I truly almost committed it.

At least I thought about it very closely. I came up with three possible ways of ending my life. I even made arrangements with someone to carry out one possible method.

I didn’t really want to write about this. Then I realized people need to understand just how bad homelessness is.

I had been accused in my life many times of “being suicidal.” Every time these accusations were unfounded. As a bipolar person I have been known to get upset now and then. But never, ever, had I been suicidal until I became homeless in Denver.

I can remember one afternoon during a blizzard; I was in the woods trying to stay dry. But I did not have a tarp to lie down upon or to cover myself with.

I was wet and I was cold. I prayed, “Dear God, please remove these thoughts of ending of my life. Please give me just one sign that life will get better.”

I remember being so cold I began to sob. I was somewhere in the woods along the North Platte bicycle trail. I was exhausted but far too cold to sleep.

I truly just wanted to die.

Slitting wrists ‘how women do it’

On another night I remember being chased out of Union Station by security for falling asleep. I had not been allowed to sleep anywhere for two or three nights and could barely stand. I remember walking back and forth, up, and down 16th Street Mall, trying to figure out where I could lie down for a few minutes. All the bus benches were taken by other homeless people.

On that night, I had no backpack, no nothing. All my belongings had been stolen, which happens a lot when you are homeless. No sooner do you accumulate things such as a blanket, tarp, and water bottle, and another homeless person comes along and robs you.

I remember feeling so low, so dejected, so irrelevant, so unwanted that living seemed worse than death. That night I began to think about places where I could jump off a freeway overpass to my death. Places where I could just jump off a bridge onto traffic below.

But I decided that would be far too painful an exit. There was a much easier way to do it.

Although someone told me, “That’s how women do it.”

Social worker keeps giving me razors

I had decided I would slit my wrists. I even told a social worker at a day shelter that I was going to do it. This social worker continued to offer me razors every time I went in there.

I’m not kidding. But I can tell you that every time she did that it made me feel worse, and I finally told her what I thought of her and never went back to that day shelter again.

She didn’t like my politics.

There were times I put the razor to my wrist. I thought about it. I wondered what it would be like to just slip away. Would it peaceful? Would anyone care?

I decided that indeed, no one would care. I no longer had any family – my parents were dead, and my brother and I have not spoken since my father’s funeral six years ago. And I don’t care to speak with him ever again.

I had no friends. When I became sober, I lost all my friends back in Illinois. Sure, there were acquaintances back there who maybe thought of me know and then, but for the most part I was not a person who was in anyone’s daily thoughts.

What did I have to live for?

I knew that if I really wanted to kill myself, I could make an even easier exit than by slitting my wrists.

I knew a guy who dealt massive amounts of drugs – all kinds of drugs, every kind of drug you can think of – in the parking lot of the Crossroads homeless shelter. I could just ask him to whip up a fatal concoction of something for me to take. Pills to swallow, something to snort or smoke, whatever.

So, one night when I was feeling particularly low, I went to see him. I asked him if he could help me end my life.

“Oh sure, no problem,” he said.

He fumbled around with a few things in his car and handed me a pipe. “Here you go.”

I felt about like I did when the social worker kept giving me razors even after I told her what I planned to do with them. There’s something about finding out nobody cares if you live or die that maybe makes you start to care.

The reason I did not kill myself is because I had faith that God was going to work a miracle in my life. And He has.

Medication saves my life

I may not do jumping jacks for joy when I get out of bed each morning, but I’m also medicated. The truth is I am happy right now. I always have found great happiness in my writing and my current gigs are a great fit.

Once you’ve been homeless, you find gratitude and joy in even the smallest of things. I live in housing for the formerly homeless that is a converted hotel. One of the perks is the comfy hotel bed. It’s super comfy. I melt into it when I go to bed each night.

I’m grateful for the few new clothes I’ve been able to buy. I always have enjoyed wearing nice clothes when I’ve been able to buy them. When I was homeless, I sometimes had nice clothes; other times I wore rags. You wore what people gave you.

Every time I take a shower in my apartment I grin from ear to ear. It’s the fiercest water pressure I’ve ever had. And the hottest water. I have my lavender soap, a pouf, a rosemary and mint shampoo and conditioner.

After being homeless, the most sacred daily ritual I have besides prayer is a piping hot, sudsy shower.

If I weren’t medicated, I’d probably be a bit manic right now. Things are going well. I can’t believe I almost ended my life.

But I did almost end my life. I thought long and hard about it and I almost did it a few times.

Thank God I did not kill myself. I pray for every soul on this earth who is suffering so much they no longer want to live.