A number of years ago now when I wrote the Depression blogs
I was asked to write a third part in the series. As it was on a rather heavier
subject, I did the adult thing and hid away from it! But one can’t run away
from things forever, and if it can help even just one person, then I guess it
is worth it. So here is the warning that the following contains talk of that
most hideous side effect of clinical depression – suicide.
Mentioned up front.
You see, people get the wrong idea about suicide. Time and
again, somebody famous dies that way, causing a lot of arm wringing in the
press, and you can see thousands of comments on social media about how selfish
it is. “They didn’t think about all their loved ones!” “Its the cowards way
out!” “I can’t see how rationally you could so such a thing.”
Well, fucking duh!
Trouble is, people look on the subject from their own
privileged perspective of having a completely fine and working brain. It’s not
rational, because of course it isn’t bloody rational! But here’s the thing,
things which seem irrational seem rational in the diseased mind. That’s why its
called mental illness. It doesn’t make someone all warped for the hell of it,
it warps reality to a way which makes the insane seem rational to the mentally
ill. Trying to understand it through the prism of choice is to entirely
misconstrue the whole thing.
Which is not to say there aren’t some rational people who
decide to off themselves. I doubt its many, because the whole concept involves
a deal of irrationality (your mind calmly deciding things would be better off
without you existing), but it would be binary in the extreme to claim it
doesn’t happen. So I say that as a disclaimer. But, if so, its certainly in the
smallest possible minority.
Now, I talk from experience here, but I can only talk of my
own experience. These things are unique to each person, and whilst they chime
with others, some might have entirely different aspects.
Yes, I have tried to kill myself in the past. But I haven’t
in nine years (and counting), and by hook or by crook, am still here.
So, let’s go down memory lane.
It was Christmas 2005. I lived with Shim and his then
girlfriend in our two bedroom flat in Maryhill. Actually, moving out of my mums
house was one of the things that wasn’t a catalyst – it gave me a chance to
gain, in time, a slight independent streak. I had already failed the essay
which wound up in me having to repeat second year of university. (Damn you
James Joyce!) Unbeknownest to me at the time, I had had a mini-breakdown, which
wasn’t diagnosed until the new year. There was also an event I don’t wish to
discuss (as it would break a confidence while the people are alive) which
scarred me somewhat, as well as my having been heavily involved with dealing
with the breakup of a friends abusive relationship. And, to the delight of any
passing Freudians, there was the sexual aspect: a passing chance of a gay
romance which I instinctively ran from, and completely missed the window of
opportunity on. So it goes, and it would have been messy, what with meeting my
wife a few months down the line, but one lacked omnipotence of that fact in
December 2005!
So I was out with friends, and everything seemed to go well.
Then we were at a pals house, and slowly, things started to turn. The walls of
darkness, if you will. The demons began to speak. I wound up left alone. And
so, instictvely, one began to look around. Nothing sharp, no paracetomol.
Bloody hell, didn’t they keep anything useful? All they had was the 2 bottles
of Southern Comfort, one of Jaegermiester, some Jack Daniels and a good few
other things. And so I elected to drink as much of it in one go. And in one go,
I mean...in five minutes.
One thing I do recall is the life lesson, that if you drink
a entire 1.75l bottle of Southern Comfort right at once, it goes right to your
head and the room gets a bit psychedelically. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!
I was rather instantenously drunk, and hideously ill, and
content in the knowledge that it would soon be over. I knew this as I had, in a
matter of curiosity which came to mind at that moment, read about how much
units are needed for...well, you know.
My friends, thinking I was drunk over the course of the
night, dragged me home. Shim could hear me trying to lock the door for a good
five minutes before he got up, and practically dragged me to my bed. Suddenly I
was up again, in the loo, for a good hour. Puking.
The puking continued all the next day. I felt better, less
suicidal, I mean, but ill as hell.
Also...not dead. I spoke to a Doctor friend, told them about the level
of intake, and watched their face light up in horror and demand I went to a
hospital immediately. I didn’t go, I remembered my dad’s words, about the
people who’d taken aspirin overdoses, felt fine after, but then it kicked in a
few weeks later and they were doomed. I felt myself to be of a similar state,
and decided to take the consequences with good humour. I felt as though I
deserved it.
More puking. I wrote a suicide note absolving Shim of any
blame in my imminent death, which I then hid, forgot about, and he found over a
year later when I’d left! This was another example of me trying to be kind and
considerate, and due to irrationality, actually freaking people the fuck out.
So it goes.
Come the New Year, Shim noticed I was mysteriously teetotal
at the bells, but said little – probably as everyone else was too drunk to
notice! I couldn’t face any more booze, in fact, I let Iain drink the rest of
my Jack Daniels supply (which at the time, was akin to David Cameron visiting a
foodbank).
I also began to notice I wasn’t yet dead.
But I did feel ill.
So, 2006, January, claims of unwellness, blood tests at the
doctors. Came back in reasonable health. Just the black dog to deal with, and
my first run of CBT.
I wish I could bullshit you all with a grandiose tale of how
I survived. I haven’t a clue. I put it down to one of three options.
1) Because the Southern Comfort goes to your head
too quickly, while I assumed I had taken a safely fatal amount, I was actually
under.
2) The vast amount of vomit puked up the fatal
amount, so I just had “drank too much” ills rather than “going to die” ills.
3) Dumb luck.
With all my memories (and the testimonies of others) to
hand, 2 and 3 seem like a combination of the likely answer.
And if there are holes there, so be it. I can only tell it
exactly as I remember it, and, as you can see, my narration is stimmied in
parts by the irrationality of my brain at that time.
This goes to show why I dislike the whole “cool failed
suicide” celebrity culture. Nobody is a culture icon because of a failed
suicide attempt in their history. Don’t be fucking stupid. It’s not cool and
its not fashionable.
So, with that, lets get to the heart of the manner.
At no point in that time was I acting in anything remotely
close to what I’d call a rational manner. It was, like another mind had
overtaken me for the period. A symbiotic possession due to being worn down by
its relentless attacks, perhaps, but so it goes.
But that was the prolonged attack.
This demon has other guises.
The prolonged attack is the easier (for ME) to fight
against. It is a slow building and long lasting one, so the sin of omission can
work against it. Do nothing, then you still breathe and it passes!
The more dangerous one is the impulsive one.
It’s like, when you are at a railway station, and the train
is rolling into the station, and then there’s that trigger impulse in your
mind: “Jump”! It comes out of nowhere, it passes in seconds, but you have to be
really on guard against its possibility, else you might well act on it before
you even realised what you did. In railway stations, I always stand as far back
from the edge of the platform as possible, and on the underground, hook my arm
around the platform seat. For safety.
Because, you know, one day by the time you realise its happened, yer
dead.
Similarly when walking over one of the bridges on the Clyde,
its like a Siren call. You have to look ahead, and keep walking. The water is
alluring in its call to the demons.
I counter the longer lasting one by distraction. DVDs, lying
in bed, etc. Anything to make one forget. And the shorter one by screaming
internally and counting to ten. I wouldn’t say its a foolproof plan to deal
with these things, but then, I haven’t died yet.
But what I would say is that when either arrives (either the
after of the quick, or the current of the longer one) talk to someone. When I
was sixteen, and when I was at uni, I didn’t. Even though I had a lot of
understanding people who could help. You lose yourself within the myriad of the
mental. It blocks you from common pursuit.
But in 2010, when I took badly ill again (well, took is the
wrong word, as I was permanently ill with some good and bad times, but you know
what I mean), I decided to do something I’d never done before. I told someone.
Within minutes, Mandy was arranging the help I couldn’t
arrange for myself.
And nearly five years on, I’m still a hideously ailing
person in the mind, but also, I’m not yet dead.
So really, don’t hide away. Talk. People don’t ignore these
things.
But rationality doesn’t come into these actions. So next
time another Robin Williams style tragedy happens, less of the “selfish”
talk. All that does is act as
confirmation bias for the next tragedy.
Instead, keep breathing. And talk.
Good luck.
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