TL;DR: Two years ago, I lay in bed suicidal and wondered why we work so hard to keep people alive without working just as hard to change the conditions making their lives unbearable. Learning about Alexandre Baril’s concept of compulsory aliveness brought that question back, along with a harder one about autonomy. I believe in saving lives. I also believe people have a right to agency. I’m sitting with what happens when those two beliefs collide.

Two years ago, I was lying in bed suicidal when I had a thought I couldn’t shake.

Why are we forcing people to continue living in hell while doing so little to change what is creating the hell?

I wasn’t making an argument about suicide.

I was tired.

I had reached a point where life felt like something I was surviving instead of living. People wanted me to get better. I wanted to get better too.

Still, I kept wondering what exactly better meant.

Better enough to go back?

Better enough to function?

Better enough to tolerate what had become intolerable?

I eventually did get better. My life today contains things I could not imagine from that bed.

I’m grateful I stayed.

I still think the question I asked was a fair one.

What did we save her to?

I recently came across a post about Alexandre Baril’s concept of compulsory aliveness, the expectation that staying alive is always the desired outcome, even when a person says otherwise.

Baril’s work goes much further. He writes about suicidism, the oppression suicidal people can experience through stigma, pathologization and the loss of autonomy. His work also raises questions about assisted suicide and whether a person should ever have the right to decide that they no longer want to live.

That last part has me wrangling.

I believe in preserving life.

I believe people deserve autonomy.

Those beliefs get complicated when someone chooses something I desperately do not want them to choose.

It is easy to believe in agency when we agree with the decision.

The harder question is what agency means when we don’t.

I don’t have an answer yet.

I do know Baril’s work brought me back to something I understood from the other side of crisis.

We put tremendous energy into keeping people alive.

What did we save them to?

We diagnose people. What about the conditions?

Someone reaches a point where they cannot cope and we have language for what is happening inside them.

Depression. Anxiety. Trauma. Suicidal ideation.

We diagnose the person.

We rarely diagnose the conditions surrounding them.

I believe systems can cause and exacerbate mental illness.

Poverty does something to a person.

Racism does something to a person.

Violence, instability, isolation and environments that require us to stay in a constant state of survival do something to us.

We experience the consequences in our bodies and minds. Then we treat the person without necessarily changing what keeps making them sick.

Therapy can help.

Medication can help.

Coping skills can help.

None of those things can make an unhealthy system healthy.

Sometimes I wonder how much of what we call dysfunction is a human being responding exactly as a human being might respond to conditions that are dysfunctional.

That doesn't make the suffering less real.

It changes where we look for responsibility.

Maybe prevention starts earlier

We know how to mobilize when someone says they want to die.

I understand the urgency.

I want us to have that urgency sooner.

What would suicide prevention look like if it included changing the conditions that make people feel trapped, hopeless and unable to imagine another way of living?

What if we cared as much about whether a life was livable as we cared about whether it continued?

This is where the idea of compulsory aliveness unsettles me.

Saving someone's life cannot mean simply returning them to the circumstances they were trying to escape.

We pulled her out of the water.

Good.

Now what?

Do we ask why she was drowning?

Do we change anything?

Or do we make her well enough to survive the water again?

I’m still sitting with this

I am alive today.

That matters to me.

There are people I love whose lives would be different if I weren't here. There are things I have experienced, created, learned and loved that the woman lying in that bed never would have known were coming.

I can hold that truth without pretending the question of autonomy is simple.

I can be grateful that I survived and still question a system that sometimes defines success as survival.

Maybe saving a life is the beginning of our responsibility, not the end of it.

Maybe suicide prevention should begin long before someone wants to die.

Maybe we should spend less time asking people how much more they can endure and more time asking what we have built that requires so much endurance in the first place.

I want us to save people.

I want us to care about what we save them to.

What’s in the Pot

What would change if our measure of success wasn’t simply that someone stayed alive, but that they had access to a life they could actually live?
Where does care end and control begin when protecting someone requires overriding their autonomy?

I don’t know.

I think they’re questions worth sitting with.

When my therapist finally uttered the words, "You have borderline personality disorder (BPD) and complex post-traumatic disorder (CPTSD)." I felt an overwhelming rush of emotions. Relief washed over me—finally, there was a name for the chaotic storm inside me. Yet, another part of me felt more broken than ever before. Naming what I was dealing with did not bring the peace I had hoped for; instead, it magnified my feelings of unworthiness and despair.

For years, I had struggled with emotional instability, an intense fear of abandonment, and the haunting memories of past traumas. These were not just fleeting anxieties; they were the core of my daily existence. Each day felt like a battle, and I was growing weary. The diagnosis offered clarity and a stark realization that the journey ahead would be arduous.

The excitement about finding appropriate treatment mingled with a profound sense of fear. What if nothing worked? What if I was beyond help? The weight of these questions pressed down on me, making each step forward feel like an impossible leap. Sharing my diagnosis with others seemed equally daunting. The stigma surrounding mental health issues is pervasive, and I dreaded being judged, labeled, or dismissed. It was easier to suffer in silence than to expose my vulnerabilities and risk rejection.

In the midst of this turmoil, I sought counsel from my pastor and a close friend. Their words provided a lifeline: "This level of healing will require different things. You will have to move things out of the way and find a new way of living. This may not include some people you love." These words resonated deeply, offering a sobering truth. True healing would demand sacrifices, tough decisions, and a fundamental shift in my life. It reminded me of the principle of unBEAcoming—letting go of what no longer serves you so you can live the life you deserve and desire.

Their advice was both comforting and terrifying. The thought of shedding old habits, environments, and perhaps even relationships was daunting. It felt like standing at the edge of a precipice, knowing that the leap was necessary but fearing the fall. This level of healing, they said, hits differently—it is profound and transformative but also excruciatingly painful.

The biblical story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace came to mind. They faced a blazing trial yet emerged unscathed because of their unwavering faith and God's protection. I felt like I was in my own furnace, the heat of my mental struggles searing my soul. I was running and fighting to escape, desperate for relief. The story reminded me that while I was in the midst of this fiery trial, I was not alone. God was with me, fighting the battle on my behalf. My role was to remain present and engaged in the fight, trusting that victory would come.

There was something more—something that hadn’t occurred to me before. In my constant running and fighting, I had overlooked the importance of stillness, of becoming unbusy. By constantly moving, I avoided the things I needed to confront. Being unbusy offers me the opportunity to deepen my self-awareness and truly understand what was holding me back. It was only in this space of stillness that I could begin to see the patterns, the old wounds, and the unresolved traumas that were keeping me trapped in a cycle of pain.

This process is not linear. There are days when the darkness feels insurmountable, and the weight of my diagnoses crushes my spirit. On other days, I catch glimpses of hope and strength, moments when I believe healing is possible. The key, I have learned, is persistence and faith. Staying present in the struggle, despite the pain, is crucial. Each step forward, no matter how small, is a testament to my resilience and a move toward healing.

One of the hardest parts of this journey is accepting that some relationships may not withstand the changes I need to make. Letting go of certain people, even those I love, may be necessary to create a healthier environment for myself. This realization is heartbreaking, but I understand that my well-being must take precedence. Healing demands that I surround myself with support and positivity, even if it means making difficult choices. This is the essence of unBEAComing—releasing what no longer serves my highest good so I can embrace the life I deserve and desire.

In this journey of healing, I am learning to redefine my worth, not through the lens of my diagnoses, but through the strength and faith that sustain me. The furnace may be hot, but it is also a crucible for transformation, and I am determined to emerge renewed and whole. By embracing the principle of unBEAcoming, I can let go of what no longer serves me, deepen my self-awareness, and step into the life I have always deserved and desired.