Suicide is a dodgy topic. I have absolutely no doubt that there have been many studies, books and articles written, possibly even films made about the subject, from varying perspectives, by persons far more learned than myself. Some may be 'educational', advising worried families or professionals of the signs to look out for; others may be looking at the aftermath, the shock wave of tragedy that is caused when a person makes the decision to take their own life. What went wrong? What could we/they have done to prevent it? Who is to blame? Why did this happen?
Amidst all of this, it is still a subject of shame. It's not illegal any more (here at least) and for most of us the thought that we might apparently be speeding up our passage to Hell is of little consequence in the thought process. Of course, if memory serves me correctly, the shame here used to be two-fold in that the family were left with a loved one who had ended their life in sin both against God and against the law, and that they could consequentially then not even be buried with their family. And that's without the grief and confusion as to why that person took their own life in the first place.
Ok, so most of us don't, or at least I hope wouldn't, be thinking along quite these harsh religious lines any more. But there is still shame in that perhaps, in some way, we do intrinsically believe that suicide is a sign of weakness, of not being able to face life, "the coward's way out". I think it is far from a cowardly thing, but neither it is something to be glorified. I think - assuming one is of as sound mind as one can be at that time - it takes immense courage to knowingly end one's life. I would imagine it is actually far more difficult to end one's own life than someone else's, although arguably, in certain circumstances, we may take our own lives willingly in order to spare the life of someone we love.
I have never committed suicide, obviously, as I am sitting here writing this. I therefore feel that I am not actually worthy to sit here and write about the subject, not ever having truly reached the point of no return. But then, as I started writing this and thinking about all those learned people who know so much more about the subject than I do, unless they've attempted and 'failed' to commit suicide (which is another grey area), they don't really know either. I'm not here to judge; I just hope any readers of this don't either.
I think what I want to get at is this concept of being 'suicidal': what does it mean? The obvious definition is that it is to 'intend to take one's own life', or relating to this if talking about a third party. But if you have ever spoken to a doctor, counsellor or other mental health professional - or indeed any variety of people really - the term is used rather loosely I think. Almost over-used. A bit like 'depression'.
You see, I have thought of suicide at many times in my life, including today, hence writing this blog. Sometimes I think about it, in quite an abstract way, as I suppose I am doing in a written form here. Sometime I consider doing it, although fortunately those thoughts are usually only the very briefest of neural connections and are quickly pushed aside by the bigger Survival Instinct boys, wagging their fingers in a very disapproving manner. (At this point I should add that I like to think the Survival Instinct neurons are somehow bigger and stronger, and obviously have waggable fingers, but even with my limited knowledge of the sciences I fear this may be a vast over-simplification. Please do not quote this bit as fact on Wikipedia!) However, in my own experience I would say that what I have thought and felt should be described as 'pre-suicidal' rather than 'suicidal' feelings, yet I know from filling in fairly routine questionnaires and answering basic questions, as well as at times being the one to ask them, the line between 'pre-suicidal' and 'suicidal' is a very movable one.
Let's skip the details as to how we get to that point, but there is a point that I'm sure most people reach at some moment in their life where they feel not so much that they want to die, but that they don't want to live. This is what I personally term 'pre-suicidal'. This point is itself a kind of metaphorical crossroads, although I have also found that choosing one road does not prohibit finding oneself on the other. Let me elaborate: in one direction there is the self-hatred, humiliation and weariness that goes with realising that the life we have is not the one we planned, or wanted, or want now. We might be disappointed, disillusioned, in despair, possibly even in fear. But, and this is the crucial bit, we wish for something else, something better, to have someone else's life, a different life. With that comes hope: we might not see it at first or even at all, but we might just find the strength to find something to aim for, to find that inner desire to make ourselves better and be better for ourselves. It probably won't be easy and even if the path to a better life is clear, it may be beyond our capabilities to reach it.
Then there is the other road, which looks very much like the first one but for that crucial difference: no matter how we twist and turn, we can't see any sort of better life. We can't envisage anything but the failure and crushing humiliation that we have experienced from this one, and all we can consider as an escape route is some sort of end. In fact, we long for that end. All the things that may have made sense before no longer seem relevant or important: who cares if the mortgage paperwork is in order or people know what my last wishes are? We just want this torture to stop. There is no epiphany, no long-since-suppressed childhood ambition that comes to the fore, no courage to seek out something different, because there is no different. Anything other than the very dark place we are in at that moment in time is false, and every effort we have made to do anything in the past has been part of that fallacy. That is the point at which I feel alarm bells need to start ringing.
I am lucky, and I know it. I am blessed - or cursed - with what I used to describe as a bloody irritating grain of hope, stuck somewhere like an itch. Maybe it's those Survival Instinct bits of my DNA, or maybe it's just insight. I know myself. I know that even when those briefest of unthinkable thoughts of ending my life lead to the logical argumentative questions I ask myself about how to make it better, but come up with nothing other than that deep, pitiful stomach-wrenching sob, I know that I am capable of feeling better. I know that whilst I cannot see it now, let alone believe it, I know that there have been times in my life where I have laughed freely, where I have felt excited about something, where I have felt popular and lucky to have the life that I have. I know that whilst I cannot possibly say that those feelings are any more tangible than the complete and utter wretched despair that I am feeling at that moment, I know that they felt just as real at that time as this current feeling. I know that there are times when I feel on top of the world, near invincible, that the world is my oyster, no matter how old or poor I may be at that time. Sometimes that itch is so very very gentle that I don't even notice it, and that battle becomes a sub-conscious one. I have had moments in my life where quite possibly, in medical or psychological terms, I have tried to kill myself. But my thoughts at those times were not explicitly of dying, but of escaping the torture. It is controversial even to myself, but on one occasion I experienced the most spiritual enlightenment that I have ever known, a real, deep knowledge, nothing to do with any taught or orthodox religion. I know now that what I believed at that time was just my mind's way of rapidly sorting itself out, and I continue to be a non-believer in anything of a religious nature, but there is a part of me that feels that whatever that was about, it both reassured me that death was not to be feared and simultaneously brought me back from the brink I hadn't even realised I was at. The details are long since gone, but the powerful feelings that were evoked remain etched in my weary brain.
Am I 'suicidal' then? Have I been? Am I at risk in the future? Probably, and I still don't know what anyone else could possibly do or say should they find me or anyone else in that state. I guess all that anyone on the outside can do is see the signs that lead to the crossroads, and keep that person safe long enough to allow them to find their own way back. It's not much, but it could be the difference between life and death. Watch out for each other peeps; there's more of us that find ourselves on these roads than we may realise.
ADDITION:
ReplyDeleteI learned last night that a lovely, lively young lady that I briefly had the pleasure of working with, training in fact to partly take over a role I was leaving, killed herself this week. We were not friends - our lives were on different trajectories at that time - but we got on amazingly well for the 2 weeks we knew each other as good colleagues, and I certainly left that role feeling that at another place in time we would most certainly have been friends too.
I cannot even begin to comment as to why she made the decision to take her own life, but oddly my first reaction was "was it work-related?" I immediately chastised myself for this thought and today, on reflection, I sincerely hope that it wasn't anything so singular and so absolutely trivial in the scheme of things as work. The problem is, that when in whatever place it is that people find themselves where suicide becomes a serious decision, nothing is trivial, and yet everything is. None of us can possibly second guess what is going through that person's head, and nor perhaps should we try.
I have been lucky enough not to lose anyone directly to this curse, although I have seen those close to me suffer the pain of losing someone. I have suffered bereavements and have questioned the universe in my search for answers as to why things had to be that way, but nothing compares to what I've seen others go through as they struggle to come to terms with not just the death of someone they cared about, but the absolute illogicality as to why that person, who it seems, was most often the life and soul of the party, would take their own life.
I write this now in memory of all those who have taken their own lives, and to reach out to all who may ever think of it, and to all who are left behind with the devastation of never really understanding why.