I’m gonna say it: today was strange. A person I worked for last year committed suicide on Monday night. While I know their reasons, they aren’t mine to share, but I can understand and sympathise with their underlying motive. That I can talk about.
There are a million stupid “think about the suiciders!111one” posts floating around social media. They’re stupid, forgettable circle jerks that exist to make you feel good about having done something. You clicked the share button? Go you.
Choosing to commit suicide is…seductive. All the stupid painful shit in you life rolls right off your back because it doesn’t matter anymore. There’s a profound sensation of peace which makes it easier to go ahead.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Thing is, suicide is the unhappiest path reached at the end of successive, branching, unhappy paths. To be there means you’ve gone past all the normal pressure failsafes of friends and family and escapist video games where you’re a mighty manly Shaman.
The problem with these failsafes is that Ireland makes it easy to not talk: The family said nothing about suicide before, during or after the funeral. The priest who gobbled on about gods and bosoms and coming home didn’t mention suicide. The friends had heard nothings; there was visible shock when I related how and why to some of them afterward They were shocked because nobody had said it.
It’s 2016. Ireland has gay marriage, fairly-okaish recognition of the transgender rights (compared to Saudi Arabia), and a growing movement to repeal stupid abortion laws. We have super duper fast hyperspeed Internets and one of the highest qualities of living in the word.
And for all of that people are still dying because they are afraid to talk about mental illness. Fuck it, talk to somebody.