I Now Sing the Songs Life Wants to Hear

by Levi Mericle

Listen to Executive Director Gabriel Nathan read this post aloud:

It was dark in my eyes; I’m sure of it. Like midnight in a Boston alley without streetlamps. The only thought in my head was that of suicidal relief. Life had a vise grip around my existence, and all I wanted was to release the pressure. I was fourteen and desperate. Desperate to meet death and shake his hand. I don’t remember what day it was, the time, or even the month of the year. But I remember the flowers, a lot of flowers on the ground. Because I pictured them at my gravesite when I saw them. And my mother would pick them from her garden and place each one by my casket as she’d weep. So, I believe it was summertime.

It was hot, but not as hot as New Mexico weather usually felt. We were at K-Mart shopping, and I was pushing the cart down the aisle with my mother by my side. Death was everything I’d ever wanted at that point. I didn’t give a fuck about toys or junk food, CD’s or movies; all I wanted was to die. My mother knew I was having mental health issues and was trying to entice my interests with worldly goods, trying to keep my mind distracted. But I hated the world, and everything in it. I wanted to leave this earth with every ounce of my being. So, nothing sparked my interests, nothing really mattered. My mother turned her back for a few seconds to look at an item and I bolted. I ran as fast as I could, through the aisles and out the front doors. I had a mission, a goal to end life at all cost. My head felt heavy, my heart was like a broken toy, refusing to fulfill its purpose. The only thoughts I had were those of death. Living for me was no longer an option. It was no longer my priority. In a matter of mere seconds, I found myself in the middle of the street yearning for a car. But Tucumcari traffic on a good day was slower than molasses, so I had to find another opportunity.

I was running through backyards and alleyways, contemplating my plan. I was about twenty yards away from Tucumcari boulevard, which was the busiest street in town. Several cars were heading down the road in my direction, and I knew this was my chance for death. But right before I leapt into oncoming traffic, in the distance, I saw my father’s old pickup truck barreling down the street. I was near an abandoned hotel, and I decided that hiding was my best bet to avoid being captured by my father. What I didn’t realize was, I hid behind glass doors that were completely transparent. I saw out of the corner of my eye that old pickup truck whipping around faster than I’ve ever seen my dad drive in my life. I ran the opposite way, heading toward the boulevard once again. But before I could run ten yards my exceptionally fast father caught up with me and tackled me to the ground.

That was my first attempt to run away and end my life. They admitted me into a psychiatric hospital in Albuquerque, New Mexico. From the very start of my admission, I was petrified. This was the first and only hospitalization I had because of my mental health. I felt like I had entered a prison and was serving a sentence just for being sick. They restricted my visitation with my parents, they strip searched me and examined my body, they watched my every move. I felt like a criminal. And my parent’s hearts were broken, their spirits weakened. They mentally and almost physically lost their little boy. I can remember the terror in their eyes every time I tried to leave this world. As if I were killing a piece of them with every stroke of my blade, and with every pill I popped. I wasn’t just ending my life; I was robbing them of theirs.

From the age of fourteen to nineteen I probably attempted suicide six times. At that time, I was heavily sedated with Thorazine, so some of my memories within those years are a bit hazy. I was also a cutter, and I felt a release every time I would tear my skin. It was a way of releasing the pain within myself. And to me, it felt absolutely amazing. I felt inadequate, and incomplete. My mind was failing me at every turn. Failing to make me feel normal, to make me feel happy. Every time I cut my skin, I pretended it was my new normal. It was my special drug of choice, my new dirty habit. And I felt adequate again.

I fought so hard that day to end everything. And despite the pain in my family’s eyes, I still wanted to leave them. I was so mentally obsessed with death, I didn’t care who I was hurting around me. All the things that mattered in my life quickly dissipated like morning dew and were replaced with suicidal rain. It took me until my early twenties before the urge to die started to ease. I felt crazy. Every single ounce of energy and thought processes in my mind were spent on suicide.

But I made it through that day and many days after, thanks to the relentless actions of my parents. I was more depressed as a teenager than I ever thought I could bear. But every time I was tempted to dive in front of a car, or slice my wrists with a razorblade, my mom and dad appeared, keeping me alive at every turn. Every cut I made was a scar they wore. Every mental pain I felt, they bore the agony right alongside me. Parents like that, I felt, I didn’t deserve.

This instance I first described to you was one of the many events when I attempted suicide as a teenager and young adult. Countless hours were spent monitoring my every move because my parents never knew when my next attempt would be. The endless board games we played to keep my mind occupied, the hundreds of mind-numbing movies watched, was time sacrificed to keep me safe. And my parents never once complained. The selflessness of their actions is something I’ve always strived to become.

It was like a light switch was turned off. When I was young the urge to die was so engraved in my mind, I couldn’t see normalcy anymore. Thirteen was the age I died inside. It felt like a never-ending mountain of suicidal thoughts. Every time I tried to climb down; another hill emerged. Everything that seemed foreign before was quickly becoming more and more like home. My home life was wonderful as a kid; my parents and siblings were great. Yet, I was still missing something within myself. The ability to be sane again. Aside from having cancer at two-years-old, my childhood couldn’t have been any happier. But I was as lost within myself as I had ever felt.

Now as a grown-up I reflect on those moments. I analyze every painful past memory I have and try to sculpt new memories for the future. I won’t lie; it was Hell growing up. Both in my mind and in our home. It was a battlefield, a war zone, a complete realm of chaos. When I would attempt death or run off to cut myself, I could see the fear in my family’s faces. Of all the struggles in life, I’m sure thinking of your child dead is one of the worst pains a parent could feel. So, when I say it was chaos, it was because of the look in their eyes.

I felt I was a prisoner of life. Living moment by moment, day by day, was emotionally and mentally draining me. That’s why I tried so hard to die. But my mom and dad wouldn’t allow that. And despite every suicidal moment, every hateful word said in anger, all the anguish I caused throughout the years, they resiliently kept pushing me to stay alive. For every time I had given up and given in, they never did.

Being an adult with bipolar disorder is never easy. But being a teenager with bipolar disorder seemed like an endless supply of misery trapped within my mind. I started having bipolar symptoms at the age of thirteen. It wasn’t until my first suicide attempt and hospitalization when I was fourteen, when my parents got me psychiatric help. It took me many years to overcome these suicidal thoughts. But with the perseverance of my parents, I have overcome so many obstacles in life. I hate to admit sometimes how screwed up I felt as a teenager and young adult. Sometimes I get weepy just thinking about the pain and worry I caused my family. But I held on. I found my tomorrow. Every single day I wake up in this magnificent world, I count it a privilege to be in it. I’m still bipolar. That will never change. But I have healed a part of myself that had been broken for so long. And I’m happy!

Tomorrow is never promised, but we should seek it at all cost. We should strive to wake in the morning, kiss our loved ones, smile at our neighbors when we grab the newspaper, lay our heads down at night on comfort sheets and then repeat the process. It won’t always be sunshine and roses. As individuals diagnosed with bipolar, we can’t expect everything to be perfect. Lives are chaotic, times can be hard. But we need to hang on. We need to stay alive. So, find what you love in life, and hang onto it like a death grip. Find supporters who will listen and care. Because you are worth fighting for; you are more valuable than you will ever know.

I have sung many tunes of death in my life, as my mom and dad know each melody by heart. My teenage years were rough to say the least. Every attempt at life by my hand, was boldly replaced by the loving hands of my parents. Gripping and fighting the demons right alongside me. My teenage years seemed like decades worth of pain, but I made it through thanks to the indispensable strength of my mom and dad. The songs I now sing are because of them. And I will sing the tune of life until breath leaves my lungs. And my eyes will shine forever bright until that day arrives!

I only have two words I want to say to my parents now. Mom and Dad, thank you!

If you or someone you know may be in crisis or considering suicide, please call, text, or chat the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988.

​EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR: Gabriel Nathan | EDITOR: Laura Farrell | DESIGN: Leah Alexandra Goldstein | SITE ORIGINATOR: Bud Clayman