I’d conquered a high drop from a bridge, but could I conquer hanging
from a noose (obviously I did, or I wouldn’t be scribing this now would I?). I
did, yes, just about. Hanging – piece of piss. My arse. It’s actually quite difficult. I was spluttering
and gagging and coughing and choking and…Awful, just awful. I bailed out. Tilted my neck,
took the pressure off, and bailed out. Then I passed out. I woke up later and realised I had a triple whiskey
left in my glass on the table top. My first coherent thought was what a shame
it would have been to have expired and wasted a perfect untouched triple
whiskey. I got sectioned for my first suicide attempt. It was a public fiasco.
Stopping traffic, police, mediators, paramedics…my second was the exact
opposite. Nobody else knew. It was just me, in my flat. No witnesses. No
authorities. No danger of getting locked up again. The song I decided to play
on loop while I did this was Wrong, by Depeche Mode. I’m not a fan of Depeche
Mode, but this one is a cracker. You could never remake it or do a cover of it;
it’s complete in every way. I had to take the duvet cover off my bed and hang
it over the top of the door, tied to the handle. Then I had to make a knot.
Duvet covers aren’t perfect for hanging – had I used a slick rope, I probably
would have succeeded. I may still be hanging there now, so many months later, a
fest of maggots and flies. That’s a grisly sight to imagine, but I guess I
wouldn’t be any the wiser, would I? I’d be brown bread.
I was crying the whole time during the setup. It was the whiskey that made me wishy-washy. Without the whiskey, I wouldn’t have done it. But the drink opened an emotional doorway, and I capsized through it in a weeping mess. It was the voices responsible for my drinking. I’d had ‘em all night and day. It wasn’t my oppressors evil taunts, but my loved ones suffering that I wanted to escape. I was in a kind of virtual reality, listening to my family being tortured. They were begging and pleading with me to end it. So, because I was pissed, I took their advice on board for a change. Fuck this, I thought. I’m gone. I feel like I’m advocating suicide here because I am writing about it. I know there are suicide sites out there full of self-harming gothic teens. It can become quite an ideation, I guess. It is interesting, despite all the sadness connected to it. You’re effectively murdering yourself. I used to think it was a cowardly sin, but my feelings have changed on the subject. You’ve gotta be brave…that’s the first requisite. Bravery. Courage. Fearlessness. You actually need qualities to get this most unnatural act done. Cowardice and uncertainty ain’t gunna help ya.
I was crying the whole time during the setup. It was the whiskey that made me wishy-washy. Without the whiskey, I wouldn’t have done it. But the drink opened an emotional doorway, and I capsized through it in a weeping mess. It was the voices responsible for my drinking. I’d had ‘em all night and day. It wasn’t my oppressors evil taunts, but my loved ones suffering that I wanted to escape. I was in a kind of virtual reality, listening to my family being tortured. They were begging and pleading with me to end it. So, because I was pissed, I took their advice on board for a change. Fuck this, I thought. I’m gone. I feel like I’m advocating suicide here because I am writing about it. I know there are suicide sites out there full of self-harming gothic teens. It can become quite an ideation, I guess. It is interesting, despite all the sadness connected to it. You’re effectively murdering yourself. I used to think it was a cowardly sin, but my feelings have changed on the subject. You’ve gotta be brave…that’s the first requisite. Bravery. Courage. Fearlessness. You actually need qualities to get this most unnatural act done. Cowardice and uncertainty ain’t gunna help ya.
Or course, nobody should ever feel this way, but there are dark powers in the world today that can quite easily seduce a person into this self-destructive mindset. My suicide wouldn’t have been a real suicide, it was imposed upon me by others, leaving me with very little alternative but to just keep on taking crap. I only describe this stuff here because it means nothing to me now, it’s in the past. I’m neither ashamed nor proud of it; it’s just one of them things. Hopefully, this might help someone out there who is feeling the same way. Time is the greatest healer. I have equal respect for those that succeed in the act of suicide and those that persevere through the misery of living. There is something attractive about taking the matter of your death into your own hands – rather than leaving it to the fates, you decide where, when, and how. But, on the other hand, we are only here once and we should endeavour to make the most of every single day. Why should we have to cut it short against our will? My concluding advice to any young wannabe-suicidees out there who are determined to seriously injure themselves is this: Relax, stay calm and...take up skateboarding. Joking aside, there is very little we can do to help. It’s like terrorism. We are virtually powerless to stop it. I phoned The Samaritans on one occasion and it was like speaking to a robot, which is not to underestimate the important jobs that they do. It’s just that the world is so mad at the moment that explaining the stuff that goes on ‘inside one’s head’ to another person who has not been through the same shit can seem to be impossible – but at least some people out there are at least trying to help curb this harrowing and sorrowful epidemic. What about the recent news of the lead singer from Linkin Park? Another one bites his own dust.
Suicide 1 Here
http://piebald77.blogspot.co.uk/2016/03/jumper.html
