…is never the fucking answer. Can we please all get on the same page as me about this?
Suicide has tangentially and not-so-tangentially appeared in my life. I have had serious depressive bouts on and off over the last couple of years and in conjunction with ongoing stresses in my life, I found myself deeply suicidal in 2010. Two weeks after my birthday in May I wound up sitting in the around in the casualty department of Galway’s University College Hospital waiting to speak to a suicide counsellor. I had taken to walking in front of cars out of a vein of self-hatred (this is the incident which inspired this blog’s name).
With the support of counselling services and the shoulders of family and friends I crawled out of the pit and started to slowly work my way back into human society. After my first day of school I feel confident enough to declare that I’ve beaten the depression for now (even with our difficulties, Mariah). I do know that I’ll always have to keep one eye to windward again its unwanted return.
I’m happy to also to report that – knock on wood – I haven’t had any friends who’ve killed themselves, although I’ve had scares. I spent a few days in 2007 and again in 2008 desperately calling the family of a friend in Florida after he made clear to me that His Hour Had Come. In both instances he was saved by timely intervention by the authorities and family members. He’s still here. Today I have a second friend who still wrestles with it. You know who you are. Yes I care whether or not you are still around on this green Earth, even if I don’t get the time to sit down and actually talk to you more than once a month.
And early this morning I was saddened to learn that friend of a friend committed suicide yesterday. It never is the answer. There’s nothing else to come after you do it. No afterlife. No pearly gates or even fire, brimstone and pitchforks. Nothing but broken families and dear friend who will miss you.
Just don’t do it.