Mom, If You're Reading This...
First Letter: Saving My Life
Trigger warning: this includes content concerning suicidal themes.
I’m thirty years old as of April this year. I was supposed to be dead by now.
Roughly six years ago, I was planning for physician-assisted euthanasia with Dignitas, a non-profit organization in Switzerland. I live in the state of Washington where this is only legal for terminal patients dying of incurable disease. In fact, I believe this to be true of any state within the US. Understandably, there is a lot of red tape around the subject considering that mental competence is quite gray when it comes to mental health diagnoses. However, in other countries, the red tape on euthanasia for mental health isn’t as intense, particularly in the Netherlands, Belgium, and Switzerland (first country to legalize euthanasia at all).
It’s twisted, but because I wanted to be responsible to the people I loved, I was going to wait until I was thirty.
I had a lot I still needed to accomplish and I believed the process of the application with Dignitas could take years (probably). I felt like, in addition to writing an entire horror anthology, I could cajole my family and friends into the idea bit by bit within the timespan of six years. I imagined it was something like convincing a dog to jump off a cliff by throwing meaty treats over the edge: cruel, but not impossible. Of course, it sounds ridiculous now, but I really thought I could do it. I really thought if I showed them how well I was organizing the process, and how mentally tortured I was, they would warm up to the idea. I had final letters. I had (have) a will set in-place. I had plans for my last dates with each family member. I fantasized I would make the announcement to my coworkers over holiday drinks.
I was de-lu-lu. Hardcore.
Here’s how I imagined the process:
I’m hopeless and racked with OCD intrusive thought disorder. The worst one, too. Pure-O. I have already tried to end my life at least once (a trial-run). So they see I’m committed.
I reach out to Dignitas in Switzerland and tell them. They ask for my medical records.
I give them my medical records.
They see the evidence: a lengthy list of medications I’ve tried. They see the history of substance abuse. They scan the notes of all my therapists and psychiatrists. They see the BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) diagnoses. They’ll see the details of my most recent attempt and unanimously agree with me: time to get this over with. And they do it as a vote session in a conference room over instant coffee and Swiss water.
They pay for everything: the flight, food, and lodgings for my last days. According to my last requests, they’d take me for one more hike, since I’m physically still in good health. My Norwegian best friend (name omitted) is there. We drink french press in the Alps and look out solemnly across the alpine rock and fields of wildflowers.
When I’ve had my last fill on life, they lay me down ceremoniously and administer the best opiate high of my life. (PSA: they don’t administer opiates. I don’t think.) And off I go, dying in the arms of my Norwegian friend.
They pay off my student debt.
De. Lu. Lu.
After I turned twenty-five, I began telling more people what my plans were. I would tell them by using this punchline:
“Dead by thirty”
Someone sees me smoking? “Dead by Thirty”
Someone offers me a cupcake? “Dead by Thirty”
Someone disapproves of my drug usage? “Dead by Thirty, baby.”
I was more direct with my closer friends. I told them straight-out what my plans were. Then I’d run away and let them deal with the emotions without me.
A little note: I was hospitalized after my first attempt to end my life. For about a week, I was committed to a flight risk facility in a well-known hospital of Tacoma, WA. (I remember seeing those words on the sign next to the locked door, “Flight Risk.” A wonderful euphemism, if I ever saw one.)
Most people I came to know in that facility weren’t there because of depression. Most were there because of OCD or high levels of anxiety. Some with addictions; some with eating disorders. All of us too high-strung to cope with every day life. Hopelessness was just the end-result.
If you can’t tell, I didn’t get very far into my application with Dignitas. I submitted my initial request and this was part of the response:
“Whether your situation will meet the prerequisites for an accompanied suicide with Dignitas depends very much on the quality of the medical file, the reports you can provide.
We need medical certificates with clear diagnosis of your illness, a description of its cause and development, proof of all therapies you have tried (with or without success) as well as an in-depth psychiatric appraisal concerning your capacity of judgement and discernment in regard of your wish for a self-determined end of life.”
Generally these applications will then also require the verification and consensus among several mental health physicians. The rules may have changed since, and of course there is more. I’ve simplified this process for the sake of word-count. But you get the idea.
I got as far as collecting records from my therapists and doctors. I had my official request and case for euthanasia written and ready to submit.
So why am I thirty and still here?
After six years of un-learning the convictions of my anxiety and Pure-O (and depression), here is what I’ve done instead:
Lots of dr*gs. Mostly the good kind. (Some of the bad kind.)
A threesome.
Dated girls and a couple They/Thems.
Saw live music.
Helped some bugs cross sidewalks.
Painted.
Tried being Poly for a second.
Got more tattoos.
Got waxed.
Had my first (and, God, last) one-night-stand.
Camped.
Took dancing lessons.
Hiked a lot.
Smoked a lot
Got a kitten
Had a few painful breakups.
Lost a ton of weight.
Tested for STIs.
Got HSV1? (Jury is still out on that one.)
Definitely got HPV.
Went gluten-free a couple times.
Gained a lot of weight.
Read a lot of books.
Wrote some cool poems.
And, really, so much more.
I’m writing this first letter because, in my thirtieth year, I have chosen to do something else with my new decade. It’ not quite as dramatic as dying, though my family acts like it is.
I’m jumping ship.
I’m leaving my job. I’m leaving my apartment. I’m leaving my pet, my clothes, my books, my mattress and bedframe. I’m leaving my scratched-up TV stand, the raw piece of meat that is my couch, my TV, my bong, my legal documents, my car. I’m leaving my friends, my exes, my parents and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters. I’m leaving it all with a small and fragile savings, and I’m f*cking off to Mexico with a one-way ticket.
I’m saving my life.
And, mom, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry.
Maddie
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