It’s the middle of autumn. November. A wintry wind has been whirling around my world the last week or so. This wind knocked the power out twice within a week, which was less than pleasant for me. A power outage is a very reliable trigger for me, one that ramps my anxiety from 0-60 in a fraction of a second. And yet, somehow I got through it, less anxious than I expected. I was even productive during them, somehow. Perhaps I’m starting, step by step, inch by inch, to move past this particular trauma.

It’s the middle of autumn, and the leaves are fiery red and burnt orange and fallen, crunching and mulching underfoot. The sun’s rays come at oblique angles, painting the world amber. Everything looks richer, more saturated, yet paler, as if the days know they’re getting shorter and want to wring every bit of color and light out of the remaining hours.

It’s the middle of autumn, and the image of death is upon the kingdom of plants. The sky becomes grey and prepares for the coming of winter, the coming of the snows. The world is melancholy and haunting, hunkering down, canning its preserves, preserving its life. The harvest is ready, and the fields are become fallow.

It’s the middle of autumn, and I become even more melancholy myself, more pensive; my thoughts turn to death and life, to questions of depth meaning. It’s funny – this is my favorite time of year, but also the most treacherous time of year for me. This is the time when all of my suicide attempts and near-attempts have happened. I think I’m starting to figure out why.

In the middle of autumn each year, I enter my “existential” headspace. I begin to wonder whether anything really matters. I think about our existence as mere atoms and molecules, quarks and leptons. Concepts like “life” and “consciousness” begin to feel like nonsense. I wonder whether life has any purpose, whether my sense of self is nothing more than an breath that fades away. Life and death feel so arbitrary: does it really make a difference whether I live or die?

This existential headspace descends upon me from time to time throughout the year, but most reliably, most intensely, in the autumn. Something about the air, the light. The leaves, the chill. The meaning – the lack of meaning. And while I dwell here, I frequently think about suicide. And this autumn is no exception. December may be the season of the spirit – and November is the season of the soul.  

Some examples of the way my mind turns to thoughts of death:

I just finished reading a book called November of the Soul: The Enigma of Suicide by George Howe Colt. Less of a book and more of a tome, over six hundred pages about the history of suicide, the rising and falling stigma of suicide, the biology of suicide, the survivors of suicide, and much more. I was surprised how the ethics of suicide have changed over the centuries, sometimes it has been a respected decision, and sometimes a dreadful taboo. The book’s a few years old, but it’s well-researched and written from a non-judgmental standpoint. Who would want to read such a book? Well, me for one. Especially in the autumn.

I also just found a podcast called Suicide Noted. The host has honest, judgment-free conversations about suicide with guests who have either had suicide attempts or have lived with suicidal ideation. I have only listened to one episode so far, but I found it so refreshing to hear people talk about it honestly without resorting to tired prevention cliches.

And just a few nights ago, I attended a financial aid seminar (to prepare myself and my bank account for my older son’s upcoming college career). The leader told us to look everywhere for scholarships, because there are scholarships available for everything (she specifically mentioned “scholarships for if you are tall and scholarships for if you make your prom dress out of duct tape”). So what did I do with this information? It’s November, so as I walked to my car after the seminar, I was searching the internet to see if there were scholarships for survivors of suicide. And yes – I found some scholarships specifically for students who had lost a close family member to suicide.

Now I know how this all looks. But please do not worry about me right now. I am not actively suicidal. I am fascinated by suicide right now, and I do think about it a lot. But I have no intent to do anything about it. I have no plan, no method in mind. I just think about it. I’m no danger to myself. I’ve been a danger to myself in the past, but I am not right now.

I’ve slowly learned over the past few years that my melancholy nature is not the same as the depression I live with. They’re distinct, and while they may appear similar to others, within me they’re very different things. Depression, when it hits, makes me sad, makes me hate myself, makes me feel like I am worthless and terrible. The existential and melancholy headspace, when it arrives, makes me wistful and moves me to think about meaning and death. Either one of them by themselves is safe.

It’s when they both arrive at the same time that I’m in danger of doing something hurtful or fatal to myself. If I am in an existential headspace when I hit a depressive crisis, then thoughts of suicide can turn quickly to plans for suicide. I’ve been there before, many times. I’ve been a danger to myself. And I’ve come frightfully close to the final cut on a few occasions.

And that, I think, is why the autumn is such a dangerous, fragile time for me. Because it’s almost a certainty that I’ll be melancholy in the autumn, so any time a depression arises in the autumn, I’m going to be in danger. So again, I will reiterate that I am not depressed right now, so you need not worry about me. That said, I know that I need to be alert right now. Because I’m at risk now – if a depressive crisis hits me before the first snowfall, it could be bad.

And I wonder if this is unique to me, or if everyone who is at risk of suicide experiences something similar.

I guess I should admit that I also wonder if any of this is true, in the end, or if I’m just inventing a fiction to explain what I’m experiencing. I guess I’ll never know for sure.  What do you think? Do you have any experience with thoughts about suicide, but you’re really not in any danger? Do you have a time of year when you get weird and melancholy? If you have ever been at the edge of suicide, does my theory resonate with you?

Photo 1 by Julia Kadel on Unsplash

Photo 2 by Riccardo Farinazzo on Unsplash

Photo 3 by Racim Amr on Unsplash