Suicidal - My Story

“But what is happiness? It’s the moment before you need more happiness.” – Don Draper, Mad Men

We’ve been here before, haven’t we? The burning misery, the incessant crying, the obsessive madness. The suicidal compulsion. Never ages, only evolves.

What led to January 3^rd was a quick change in… not fortune, but mindset. There’s scarce fortune in life. Two months prior to that, I wouldn’t have thought I would get this bad again. 2018 was one of the best years of my life, and a much-needed tonic for the disasters of the two prior. Graduation, employment, award win, the World Cup, memories for a lifetime either side of that. 

And yet, it happened again.

I never thought that I had ‘beat’ depression – I don’t think anyone can once it’s taken hold of you – but I was confident I was over the worst. For about 12 months, the sleepless nights were rare, the undereating was infrequent (overeating not so much but I'm working on it), the worries had subsided. The past seemed to be put to bed, at long last. But every moment of my existence remained amplified, every minute pounding and thumping away at my mind.

Midway through November… I just snapped. I was overcome with it all again, coated over the top of my skin like an exo-suit. I became that person again. That was me. I had no choice. I wrestled with it until the New Year, determined to try and win this time. I lost. I always lose.

January 3^rd. 115 missed calls. 4,063 unread messages. In the moments where I want to die, the moments where I lose my reluctant religion of things ever getting better, I’m annoyed to be surrounded by such thoughtful people.

A month of isolation followed, though plans and visits were frequent in a latency period filled with drunk and drugged testimonies of my friends’ burning misery, incessant crying, obsessive madness when they knew I set out to commit suicide. Perhaps this leads to a wider point, that suicidal people recognise how their actions will impact the lives of others, and yet they still feel so awful inside that they go ahead. That’s the real showing of how gripping depression is.

I got a cat. Coco.

I experienced the best moment of my life.

The best night of my life.

A new job.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s both a little and a lot. It doesn’t solve my problems, but it certainly doesn’t exasperate them. I’d rather be in this position than the one I was in last winter.

It’s always hard, even when it seems like it isn’t, but I keep going. This is my life now. I won’t ever be rid of it, the 20-stone monkey that I’ll never beat. I’m not the only one.

Actions have consequences, words have power. Take care of one another.

Immortals.

Mental Health Awareness Week 2019

Nothing poetic this year. Nothing beautiful, anyway. ‘Intent is lost when the reader interprets it’ and all that crap.

In January, I set out to end my life. I’ve been working with Channel 5 on a documentary about that experience and the road to recovery which will air in the summer. Quite literally a story for another time.

Sometime in mid-March, I was on the end of an unprovoked attack from someone I used to call a close friend, where he blamed my mental illness for holding him back in years gone by and proceeding to mock me for it. He then sent me a voice note goading the fact that he was mocking my mental illness. To this day, the intent, those motiveless and malicious haunt me.

A couple of weeks ago, after I attempted to cut him out of my life, he tried to apologise to me, saying he did not realise the impact his words would have. However, this is a man who too has experienced problems with mental health.

And… that’s pretty much it. I wanted to tell a story this year because I have nothing else left to give. It’s like a personalised version of waking up and tuning into GMB whenever Piers Morgan is on it and shouting some inane nonsense about PC going mad.

In years gone by, I’ve used these occasions to spread words of optimism, that things will get better. I sincerely hope that I’ve been able to help others. I have nothing for myself, though.

I couldn’t tell you how long I have left. At this point you might be thinking how shit I must feel if this is the outlook I’m having. Words would fail a healthy version of myself, let alone the down-on-his-luck and unemployed one.

I’m well aware I’m risking a lot by saying what I say, but hey, I’ve been told it’s good to share how you feel. Even if it costs me future jobs. This is how I feel. The footnote for stories long forgotten.

Bridging the Gap: The Lifelong Battle with Mental Health

There is not a name for the fear of someone reading your thoughts, an irrational fear that strikes everyone at some point. Maybe that’s a good thing, not having a colloquialism for such a concept. Unlike some complicated feelings, there is no German language substitute for this universal anxiety.

But what if they could read your thoughts. Not the ones where you’re bitching and whining, scheming and secretly loving, but your real thoughts. How are you doing? Are you okay? Do you want to talk? Would tongues stay bitten or would prayers be answered?

One moment doesn’t lead to suicide. One moment might be all it takes to choose suicide, but the means aren’t necessarily equated to the process. All it takes is two tiny nerve endings to strike in unison in your brain, two tiny heads nodding in agreement, the devil and angel on your shoulder coercing a plan to end it all.

The nights, the long, endless nights. The sleep deprivation, the oversleeping. The stark weight gain, the stark weight loss, over and under eating at the same time. A completely normal life driven by the insanity inside, the feeling that you should be institutionalised, locked away for fear of health and safety. The fight that no one sees, the battle, the final battle that only you can face. The most important day of your life.

The final battle. Your final battle.

Time to go.

The music blasts through your headphones, the bass your heartbeat, the rhythm your conscience. The loudest silent disco in the world and only you’re invited. The tears - not streaming, more strolling - down your cheek, a warm contrast to your cold skin, your tired skin. The hot fudge to the ice cream sundae. But you are tired of fudge, and tired of sundaes. You are tired. Tired for no more.

Time to go.

That box. That cursed box. The tomb, a sarcophagus rich in memories that would make Tutankhamen look like a pauper, a peasant. That golden box.

The notes are written, your last communication. Less poetic and more efficient, at least in your eyes, your tired eyes. There is too much to say to the people who mean it when time is running out. You could speak for days about the people you love, but how long when the clock is ticking? Do you have the courage to hang around for extended goodbyes?

Time to go.

You wish you did have the courage. The courage to speak up, to say what you’re feeling, but the fear of burdening those close to you takes over. The fear controls you. Fear of anyone and everything. So what do you do? You carry on. Pretend it isn’t there, let it manifest like the tumour that it is.

You have been mocked for your problems before, suicide and mental health jokes are almost commonplace, how do you expect to be taken seriously?

Time to go.

A bedroom becomes the stereotypical padded room, the white padded room, armed in your straight jacket and a million and one thoughts driving you beyond the far borders of insanity, the country line a blur in the background. This is Hell.

The turning of the knob, the creaking of the floorboard, the slow ample slump towards the outside world. 

Time to go.

The warm tears frozen by the wind, the harsh offshore wind. Layers needn’t be important where you’re heading, never again, not where you’re heading.

To the bridge, the final battle, the hardest battle. All that ever is and was of your existence comes to an end right here. The most important day of your life. 

You need to be 100% sure this is the right decision. But you are only 99%. That 1% urges you to make one last plea, one last cry that some fibre of you wants to carry on, to try again, to live. 

The hesitance of a definitive act, the most definitive act there can ever be in life, on the most important day of your life, is what saves it. The dawdling, the brief calls, the mumbling and the weeping, the choking and the crying.

The blue lights roll over the bridge. The police are here. They ask if you’re Sean Walsh. They put a blanket around you and plead with you to take a seat in the van. Have you taken anything? Can we call someone for you?

You pass over your phone, and they ring the last person to try and contact you, who they deem would be most important. It is Katie.

The brightest star you know, the kindest soul, here in your hour of need, the hour of need. She smiles, not in usual happiness and eagerness, more relief and assurance. You don’t need her to say “you’ll get through this”, it’s written on her face, it’s in her hug, her arm intertwined with yours. This was the most important moment of your life. The most important day of your life.

You get better. You get stronger. You eat more. You drink more. Your focus improves. Your work improves. Your work falters. Your focus falters. You drink more. You eat less. You get weaker. You want to give up again, but now you keep going. 

Rinse and repeat. Pick yourself up and go again. The good and the bad, for better and worse, sickness and more sickness. Win and lose, win and win some more, lose and hurt like hell.

That was my experience, an experience I’ve never talked to about anyone since it occurred. Not to friends, not to family, not to any therapists or tutors.

The collective strength will always outmuscle the singular. There is no successful mercenary in life, for joy is spread, love cannot be isolated, exclusive for one. 

A prescription may help, a counsellor may help, but the building blocks start at home, wherever that may be. The exercise to lead a normal life, to keep afloat, to give yourself another chance at happiness, you can’t go alone. 

There is no quick fix, of course. If there were, then the world would be rid of mental health problems as soon as they surface. The stigma remains and needs to be challenged. The jokes are all too commonplace, and it's a big reason as to why people don't speak up. Happiness can’t be quantified by a bank balance, a job, a moment, a holiday. Life is the most complicated experience to explain, the longest experience you’ll ever have.

Normality will never be fully restored, but we do our best, do our best to rebuild and regrow, to adapt and survive, to ensure the life we lead is a happier one. After all, strip us of our material assets and you are left with just two things - ourselves, and the people around us.

Every now and then a celebrity will commit suicide, an event will roll around that brings mental health to the attention of the masses, and suddenly everyone is all for being more open. Outside of these timelines, all seems forgotten. The timing of this piece isn't a reminder as such, but a continuity piece among the wider narrative - people still go on in suffering.

Look out for each other. We are all we have.