It was about six or seven years ago that I decided to sponsor a child. I had two primary reasons for doing so. The first was because it would help give a family some hope for the future, that they might know that someone (albeit a faceless person they’d probably never meet) cared. I could afford to do it, so why not?
The second reason was decidedly more selfish. I had fallen for a woman, fallen hard, and she broke me. I pretty much knew it was coming, but it still fucking hurt. So, in an exercise of twisted logic, I reasoned that if I sponsored a child, something to which I would be expected to make long term commitment, I wouldn’t kill myself. Over the last couple of months I’ve started to question the wisdom of that decision.
Ever since that moment of heartache, I developed what I refer to as a ‘switch’. I like to think that I have control over it, that I can turn the switch to ‘off’ to save myself if I think I’m going to get hurt. It doesn’t always work. But as handy as that switch can be, I don’t want to be cold and heartless; I don’t particularly like that person. Pain can be beautiful, invigorating. Suicide will always be at the back of my mind, like an angry dog waiting to bite when my back is turned. It has been there for many, many years, and I have no doubt that I will give in one day. But not yet.