I’ve decided to make this post, and publicly (kind of*) talk a bit about suicide. I suppose the trigger to do so is the recent death of Sinead O’Connor.
Nobody (at the time I first posted this) – at least nobody I could find online – has said yet exactly how she died. But there’s a distinct possibility it may have been suicide. I didn’t know till reading about it yesterday and today (in the wake of her passing), but her son Shane hung himself in 2022.
I’m not a fan of Sinead O’Connor, to be candid. Ok, I do like Nothing Compares 2U. But as far as I know that’s the only thing she’s done I like. I’ve watched the Father Ted episode that lampoons her (Rock A Hula, Ted) much more frequently than I’ve ever listened to her.
So, in all honesty, and meaning no disrespect to her, her family/friends and fans, etc, her death is merely an excuse for me to say out loud that I myself have often been suicidally depressed.
I’ve had thoughts that to be dead might be preferable to being alive since my mid-teens. And in nearly all the subsequent years it’s been such a commonplace idea or desire for me that it’s become an unthreateningly banal thought for me.
In all that time I never really got too close to acting on such thoughts. They were, by and large, just nasty passing ideas and emotions.
But that has changed somewhat in the last six months. In this recent bout of depression, which comes on the back of a long and happy period of contentment, I’ve tried twice to hang myself. I’m most definitely not proud of this. But I don’t want to be ashamed of it either. And I suppose I’m allowing O’Connor’s death, and that of her son Shane, to give me license to speak of such things.
One thing that reading about Sinead and her son has done for me, is give me a better perspective on the fall-out and damage such actions have. One of the problems is, the suicidally depressed person tends to be very solipsistic and inwardly directed. AKA self-centred. And they may even think most folk will actually be glad they’re gone.
Teresa, my wife, knows about what’s been happening with me. But up till I made this post only a very few in my closest family also knew (plus my doc’, and some ‘professionals’, or care-workers). But just recently I’ve started to ‘confess’ about it to a few friends. And, whilst I was very anxious about it, I think (or is that hope?) that it has been a good thing.
I can’t speak for the suicidal at large. But I have learned over the years that those prone to such thoughts might go through several stages, over time. I’m not going to pretend to try and be at all scientific or rigorous about this. I’m just writing about my experience.
My first stage was just thinking about it a lot. And back then I very rarely ever thought far enough down the road towards acting on it. I do recall looking at knives and wondering how messy it might be, or plain difficult, to successfully stab or cut oneself.
The second stage, at least for me, is when you start to think, plan, and research the idea. You may by this time have thought so much about it you find yourself thinking, well, I need to know how to act on these thoughts, at some stage.
And the third stage is the transition, having thought about it an awful lot, and researched it a good deal (can I get some pure helium? For example; not easy!?;), and maybe even laid some plans, to beginning to act on these thoughts. For some that might mean stockpiling certain pills. For others it might be writing goodbye notes.
On two occasions in the last six months, both during sleepless nights, in the wee small hours, I’ve got out of bed, and gone downstairs to fashion a rudimentary and makeshift noose, from whatever I can find, and then tried to hang myself.
Hanging oneself isn’t the method I’d choose ‘on paper’, so to speak. A suicide bag kit, with an inert gas would be best, as in most effective and least painful or messy. Overdosing on pills is out. And I’m too lazy to go somewhere like a train track. Plus I really don’t like the public aspect of that type of suicide. °
° Traumatising one’s near and dear is bad enough. But traumatising random strangers? That’s a step too far!
Anyway, the first time I actually really tried – prob back in February? – I went to my workshop shed, and made a noose from a length of blue nylon cord. With a very simple noose around my neck, I attached the other end to an extremely strong fixture on a roofing beam, and then slumped, letting my legs go limp.
I don’t know how long I hung there. It felt like several minutes. And it was very uncomfortable. As time passed, I felt extremely foolish. So I just stood up. The roofs in all of my several sheds are way too low to hang from them, with feet dangling above the floor.
After maybe five minutes of just standing there, quite possibly mumbling to myself, I had a second go. This time I tried to get the noose better positioned to cut off air supply, and possibly even blood supply.
The second go was even more physically uncomfortable. And again, although it may only have been seconds, it felt like I hung there for several minutes. I was hoping and half-expecting to slide into unconsciousness. And from there I thought things would ‘naturally’ take over for me.
But this didn’t happen. So once again, in the face of considerable pain and discomfort, I simply straightened my legs and stood up. Was this all just a half-arsed attempt? Or was I really serious? I’ll confess, I really don’t know. It seemed serious enough to me at the time. But with hindsight?
Anyway, I removed the rope, and went back inside our house. I woke Teresa up, and confessed to what I’d done. I can’t recall much of what passed after that. Poor Teresa!
My second attempt, much more recently (but I forget exactly when!?), might make a good tragicomic scene on the small or large screen? Again it was around 3-4am, not having slept at all. And, once again, whilst depressed, sad and upset, I was also kind of ‘blank’, or dead inside.
This time the first thing I did on going downstairs was call The Samaritans. I don’t think I was even thinking of suicide yet, at this point? I was just very depressed, unable to sleep, and maybe wanting some form of help. Or just someone to talk to?
There have been periods in the last six months when I’ve called The Samaritans daily (or nightly), sometimes multiple times in a day. In previous bouts of depression- sadly I’ve had a fair few over the years – I’d been very critical and dismissive of their service. But now I’d become so down and desperate I was starting to find them actually quite helpful (on occasion).
The funny thing is (funny peculiar, that is; not so much funny ha-ha, I guess?) that despite all the time and energy put into research and potential planning, for me at any rate, the move to acting on these thoughts can be shockingly swift and easy. And not just easy, but also surprisingly and banally blank, possibly emotionless?
Anyway, on this particular night, after over 20 minutes with no one answering the line, the suicidal thoughts kicked in. Teresa had hidden the nylon cord. But there’s always something to hand.
On this occasion one of Teresa’s longer knitted scarves served my purposes. Interestingly it was a similar blue to the nylon rope I’d used the previous time. Just coincidence. So, I fashioned a very rudimentary noose at one end, and then secured the other to the highest bit of our stair furniture I could get at.
The first comic part of this tragicomic moment occurred at this point. Chester, our cat was on the stairs, near where I was fixing the scarf. He thought I wanted to play; and started attacking the scarf. Bless him!
But I wasn’t made happier by this at the time, nor was I deflected from my grim but soulless resolve. I put the noose round my neck, drew it pretty tight, and, as previously – low ceilings etc, again – let my legs go limp.
This turned out to be a very different experience to my previous effort. The knitted wool of the scarf, which one might’ve thought would be softer and more comfortable, quickly drew very very tight around my neck, as my weight went onto it.
This time I did feel my breath being cut off. As intended. And, very rapidly – within 20-30 seconds – I sensed my blood vessels must also be getting seriously constricted; I felt myself going into a swoon. My vision even darkened.
Despite this being what I supposedly wanted to happen, the shock of it actually happening really alarmed me. So much so that I just involuntarily stood up. My head was spinning, and the noose end of the scarf was still extremely and uncomfortably tight round my neck. My heart started pounding. I felt panic mounting.
Then… a lady answered my Samaritans call? I’d left my phone, still in the interminable queues we all experience, on our dining room table. ‘Good morning’ – it was about 3.30am – ‘The Samaritans, can I help you?’ a female voice asked.
I was still dizzy and light-headed, and very much tethered to our stairs, in such a way that I couldn’t get to and pick up my phone. I tried to explain this to the lady, on the line, but I was stuck dizzy and in a state of shock and confusion. I suppose this is chance to use a rather fine word; I was rather discombobulated! I don’t recall exactly what I said now. But I probably sai something like ‘Could she bear with me’, whilst I tried to untether myself!
At first, and before I could talk to her properly, I tried to loosen the noose end, around my neck, as it remained worryingly and painfully tight. But try as I might I was getting nowhere. I managed to stretch it, and thereby take a hood deal of the pressure of my neck. But this slightly panicked effort just tightened the noose part more.
Because I was a bit woozy, it took a minute or two to think of untying the other end. Once I’d thought to do that, it proved much easier. But the scarf itself remained tied to me until quite some time after the subsequent Samaritans chat finally ended.
Looking back on this now I can see the comedy in the scenario. But at the time it was pretty grim! Anyway, it’s now 2.20am. So I ought to try and get some sleep. Don’t want to precipitate a third attempt, do I?
* Not that many folk know of let alone read this blog! So it’s hardly that public.