Suicide runs in my family.
A few weeks before I was born my Uncle, or the man who would have held that role, Mums brother, committed suicide.
I don’t know why and although I’m sure I was told when the time was deemed appropriate, I cannot recall details.
Unfortunately I can vividly recall the 27th August 2015 and the presence, on my doorstep at 3.00am, of two policemen who, solemnly and carefully, informed me that they had forced entry into a house in Exeter and there discovered that my Mother has killed herself.
So, that’s how it goes.
I know it’s a difficult topic but it has to be addressed.
I am suicidal. I have suicidal ideation. I have a plan. I have the pills. My doctor knows, my mental health team knows, my partner knows.
Yet nobody actually wants to talk about it. When I tell them I just get a nod of the head and a “Well, don’t do anything silly” and we move on. Nobody asks why, persuades me it’s a bad idea, wants to get to the heart of the matter.
The Crisis team believe the fact you’ve eaten recently means you won’t go through with it but even the condemned have a last meal. It’s as though simply by talking about it you aren’t serious, it won’t happen, so why should anyone show any interest or pursue an active role in prevention ?.
I’m suicidal because I can’t abide living. I find my job stressful to the point of physical pain, I don’t like where I live, I have no interests or hobbies, I am cursed by Anhedonia, my body is wracked with pain, stiffness and weakness through Fibromyalgia and the after effects of two strokes, I have mental fogging, zero self esteem, hate my body and consider myself an utter failure in life.
But none of that matters.
It doesn’t matter because I can’t get people to see how desperate I get, how far I fall.
It’s as though they’re saying “We dare you to do it!”, because that’s the only way I’ll be taken seriously.
It’s like I’m being forced to try. Or forced to die.
I’m Autistic. I panic, I get anxious easily, I stress easily, I’m terrified of dying…yet I’m terrified of living. It’s not that I want to die but rather I wish I’d never been born.
So what do I do ?
Suicide. More and more that becomes the appealing option.
And it shouldn’t be.
But trying to talk about it ?.
That’s a dead end!