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.