If Just One Person (The Suicide of Shari Jensen)

I could be you. I probably was you . . . before I became me.

It didn’t happen overnight. My downward spiral started years ago. Once upon a time, I was happy and young and pretty. I had my whole life ahead of me and a heart full of bouncing optimism that kept me smiling and cheerful. That was 20 years ago though. Things have changed. Now?

I’m furious at everything and everyone.

The anger’s building and I can’t turn it off.

It’s only a matter of time before I unleash it on someone who doesn’t deserve it.

So lately, I’m thinking more and more about cashing out before I get any more twisted and bitter. I really want my friends and family to remember me with some love in their hearts. If I open my mouth and say what I feel, they’ll never look at me the same way again.

My suicide will be hard for them to understand, though I’m not convinced it will bother them for too long.

And at this point in my depression, I don’t care.

I’m going through the motions. Trying to get through each day with my sanity and liver intact. Money’s tight so the liver’s got a good chance of staying healthy since I can’t afford scotch anymore. Sanity? Well, now. That’s another thing entirely.

So, this is me. Shari Jensen.

Shari Jensen could be your sister, your mother, or your best friend. She’s everyone and no one. She’s an ordinary woman suffering from depression. She’s middle-aged and divorced. She has a dysfunctional family and forgetful friends. She appears strong, but deep down inside, she’s screaming for help.
Her story is hard to read, but it’s a reminder that even apparently strong, successful women can feel lost and alone behind the mask they wear for the world. It’s a reminder that just one person can make the difference between life and death.

Content warning: This story contains a first person, brutally honest expression of depression and despair, as well as a graphic depiction of a suicide.