I Finally Called the Suicide Hotline

I had never called the National Suicide Prevention Hotline (800-273-8255) before this week. Not that I haven’t needed it – goodness knows I have. But because I didn’t think it would help.

It’s quite annoying how often I’m wrong about things like that.

I’ve reproduced my best recollection of the call for you here, both to express the help it offered me and hopefully to help folks with brains like my own feel a little bit seen.

"Hi! My name's Bekah, I'll be speaking with you today. Who am I speaking with?"

I took a deep breath. "My name's Zo. It's nice to meet you, Bekah."

"And why have you called the hotline today?"

"I am one of those in emotional distress, in some suicidality."

"Alright! Thank you so much for calling, Zo. I know just that can take a lot of courage. Would you like to share some more about that? What brought that on?"

I chuckled. "I suppose so! Well depression has been a bit of a lifelong friend of mine – this feeling like existence itself is painful. And the tantalizing specter of suicide has often accompanied all that."

"I'm so sorry to hear that. That sounds really hard."

"I guess so. You gotta do what you gotta do, you know?"

"What made you call right now, specifically?"

"I called because I'm in a lot of stress and distress right now. A bunch of different factors. And I was reflecting, there's this statement. This thing people say all the time. That life is 'worth living.' And that's never resonated with me. I've never had an intrinsic feeling that life was worth living."

I paused here, both to catch my breath and to offer Bekah the opportunity to insert a vague platitude in response. She remained silent. I can't stand extended conversational silence. I continued.

"But it seems like everyone else does! And then-- and I hope this isn't inappropriate of me to ask-- please feel free to not answer if this is supposed to be more impersonal-- "

"Yes?"

"I just got so curious about folks like yourself. Suicide hotline operators. You take on this position that, I imagine, must entail significant emotional distress. You walk with people through extreme pain. And so you must believe that life is worth living with such deep conviction that you are willing to submit yourself to all this emotional distress just so you have the chance to make the case for it to folks like myself."

I paused again. She didn't speak.

"So yeah. What makes you so sure that life is worth living?" I got anxious that I had breached an unknown social contract by asking this, so I followed up. "If that's alright for me to ask, of course. Feel free not to answer."

She took several moments before responding. "Well I'm quite curious about you, Zo."

Shit. I thought to myself. I did break an unknown social contract. I can't even get the suicide hotline right.

She continued. "You haven’t killed yourself yet, have you?”

“No,” I chuckled. “Not yet. Just gotten close a couple times.”

“Why not? What’s made you stay?”

“A couple things. My religion, for one. My Christian faith is really important to me. But therein lies the trouble. Christianity convinces me that life is worth living, but I don’t really see it as true otherwise. That’s why I asked my first question – about why you think it is.”

“Ah, okay! And was there another reason?”

“Right, yes. There are people who care about me, no matter how much I want to believe they don’t. And suicide would hurt them. And I don’t want to do that.”

“Have you been able to reach out to some of those people today?”

“Yes– well, I tried my mom. She didn’t pick up and it’s during the workday, so I figured I’d give you all a shot.”

“That’s good. Can you contact one of those people sometime this evening?”

“Yeah. I’ll see what I can do.”

More silence. She broke through it. “You never answered my earlier question. About why you called today, specifically.”

“Oh, right.”

“Would you be willing to share more?”

“Sure. There’s just a lot of stress. I’m stressed about friends, about the truths of the world. Mainly, right now– this is gonna sound dumb--”

“Trust me. It won’t.”

“Well I’m in grad school right now. For now. And I have this presentation due tonight. Like in a couple hours. And I haven’t done anything for it and I’m stressed about it.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Well thank you, but it’s more than that too, okay? I’m not just gonna kill myself over a presentation. It’s a synecdoche for more shit– a small thing that takes on the weight of a bunch of bigger things.”

“Bigger things?”

“It feels like I’m terminally incapable of being productive or efficient in this world. Like I came into this world missing a key part of the control panel for being a human, and the interface won’t let me function like everyone else seems to. Or maybe it wasn’t missing at birth, maybe it got ripped out. Doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. I just want to be a normal fucking person, you know? With a normal fucking job where I clock in on time. I want to be a person with clean laundry and a clean room. I want to cook for myself without having to resort to the easiest fucking low-effort meal I have the ingredients for.” I paused. “I’m sorry, that was a lot.”

“You don’t need to apologize. That sounds really hard.”

“It is. Fuck. It is.”

We returned to silence once again. It had grown comfortable. Like a patch of soft grass we keep returning to from the emotional work being done. Soon, the break ended.

“How are you feeling right now?”

“Better, weirdly.”

That was true. Conversation, being seen in my suffering, had worked a strange magick within me. She hadn’t given me any advice. She hadn’t even disproven my claim of terminal incapacity for productivity.

All she did was listen, and see.

And that alone opened the windows of my heart, letting fresh air into the house of festering death I had allowed it to become.

Our conversation continued— she had some logistical questions about suicide and the presentation, and she even offered to follow back up with me later that day. I hung up soon after, feeling much lighter than I had mere minutes earlier.

If you’re struggling, I highly recommend the hotline. It’s a beautiful tool. And even though I didn’t get my question answered, I learned a great deal.

A genuine listening ear is true, real-world magic. It’s the same spiritual stuff as grilled cheese with tomato soup, as blankets, as love.