Thought about killing myself today. It’s been a while, but I could tell it was building. I obviously haven’t done it – I’ve never even attempted it – but I thought about it briefly.
For some reason, suicide has become a theme when it comes to
my life’s trajectory. It isn’t something I invited but it turned up anyway.
At the age of thirty-seven, I have only been to four
funerals that weren’t a suicide and one of those was for a murder victim. This
is not a good record. Many people I knew or was related to have died from
natural causes, but I didn’t attend their funerals, mainly because attendance
would require international travel. If I am to be honest, I didn’t go to all the
suicide funerals either, but those deaths always cut deeper.
My mate Stewart killed himself last year. Thanks to COVID,
he didn’t have a funeral. It was maybe a year before that when my sister drove
me from Brisbane to his place in Uki to pick up Sniper. His cat had bred, and I
needed to replace Dice who had escaped from a friend’s place where she was
hiding from my real estate inspection. Six months of searching and waiting hadn’t
resulted in her return, so an executive decision was made to adopt one of Stew’s
kittens. When we collected Sniper, Stewart acted and seemed like his normal
self, but many of us with chronic mental health issues are well practiced in
masking our true feelings when in the company of others. Think about the amount
of times you have asked someone how they are and they reply with “good” or “alright”
or “not bad”, then compare that to the times someone has replied with “terrible”
or “sad” or “depressed” or “suicidal”.
I don’t want to dwell on Stew. Sniper reminds me of him
every day just as Alice’s portrait on Boundary Street reminds me of her. So
does Magnus’ art hanging over my window and the magnets of Shahan on my fridge.
Those are only the things I can think of now, if I were to walk around my house,
I would inevitably find others, but this is hard enough to write without dredging
up more painful memories.
Suicide is not a new or unique phenomenon, my great-uncle killed
himself when the ghosts of the war against fascism finally caught up with him
in the year after my mother was born. As a sufferer of post traumatic stress, I
empathise with Len. His brother Jack was killed on a hill in Tunisia and
according to family legend they had switched leave passes so Jack went to
battle that day while Len went to the rear for some recreation. If true, I can
only imagine the survivor guilt he felt when he returned home to the family
farm.
My Nana adored her brothers and would regularly send letters
to the front detailing her daily life and the production level of the farm.
Eggs laid, calves born, gallons of milk trucked that week and on it went. Their
deaths affected Nana deeply, first because she could no longer send a note to
Jack as the war continued to rage and later when she was informed of Lens death
while nursing my mother in Omakau.
When I had my first breakdown Nana phoned me to discuss the
state of my mind. We spoke about many things, particularly her life long
struggle with depression but not about her brother’s suicide which was probably
a trigger for her as she said to me that the black dog had turned up ‘not long
after your mother was born’. While I won’t dismiss post-natal depression as
being the cause of Nana’s mental anguish, I can’t bring myself to believe that
Len’s suicide had nothing to do with it.
At the time of that conversation, I had no idea Len had
killed himself. It was only when researching another relative (David Malcolm Gray)
that I discovered Len had survived the war and suicided nine years after victory
in The Pacific. That Nana chose not to discuss the circumstances surrounding her
brother’s death has troubled me since becoming aware of them, but I understand
why she didn’t.
Suicide has for too long been a dirty word to the detriment
of us all, but it doesn’t need to be. As someone who has flirted with the idea,
I can tell you now that suicide is not a cowardly act despite what you may have
heard elsewhere. To take one’s life requires a degree of courage that many
people don’t possess.
This is not an attempt at glorifying or encouraging suicide,
I have seen the effects firsthand too often for that to even be considered as
motivation for discussing this subject. What I am saying, is that if you turn
up at my place stating that people who have committed suicide are “weak” or “cowards”,
you had best be ready for a compression bandage to be dropped at your feet, a
kitchen knife handed to you (handle first) and me pre-dialling triple-zero
while goading you into being a coward.
I have no time for people who seek to diminish the memory of
those who made possibly the second hardest decision anyone could ever make in
one’s life. For a person to commit themselves to ending their own existence on
this mortal plane is not something I believe anyone takes lightly. To have reached
the point where, even knowing the hurt you will cause to those left behind, you
do it anyway demonstrates a dedication to a task that few other people have themselves.
Killing one’s self is difficult for a multitude of reasons,
not least because most methods involve some level of pain or physical trauma
but because one must come to the realisation that their decision will affect
their close contacts – family and friends who will be left behind with nothing
more than pain and memories.
There are many examples of suicide in history that are dressed
up as “noble” or “heroic”. The Japanese practice of hari-kari often takes the
noble slot and Diggers running up a hill they could never take, only to be
gunned down in the hundreds usually picks up the heroic vote. But I speak of
these things because they highlight the difference in how the deaths of my Nana’s
brothers are regarded generally.
Jack died heroically defending an outpost of colonial power,
whereas Len, returned to Aotearoa “a broken man” and lasted nine years before
killing himself yet no one talks about it, let alone mention it as noble. It
isn’t like anyone reminisces about Jack with any regularity, but we all know he
was killed in action, his name adorns war memorials and he is grieved as a life
taken too soon. Len doesn’t receive the same courtesy despite having fought the
same war as his brother and then a second one in his own head for nigh on a
decade.
When I delivered a eulogy at Nana’s funeral, I mentioned how
proud she was of her brothers who had lost their lives as the result of a war
against hatred and bigotry. Most of my extended family spoke to me after the
service and thanked me for speaking truthfully about her. Some however, decided
to remind me that Len had survived the conflict and I was forced to inform them
that even though he made it home, it was the war that killed him.
Surviving trauma is one thing. Surviving survival is
something completely different. While I can’t speak for Len, or any other
veteran because I turned down my offer to enlist in the Australian Army and as a
result haven’t served in a conflict zone, I can however, speak of trauma generally.
The thing about Post Traumatic Stress is that it doesn’t go
away.
There are bad days and there are days.
Just days.
Not good days.
Days.
When someone with PTS manages to fall asleep (pass out) they
wonder what event will haunt their dreams that night. It is a hellish existence
and one where, too often, quitting the world suddenly becomes a reality.
The reasons as to why someone decides to kill themselves are
varied and I am not qualified to offer any clinical analysis, so I won’t. But
what I will say is that those of us who decide not to commit to the act are in
no way “strong”. We are damaged and suicide is a constant threat. Daily, we fight
a battle with the dark thoughts in our heads and I believe the reason why, is
You.
You are the reason we don’t do it. For those of us who are
fortunate enough to have a healthy support network it’s easier to keep
breathing, but it isn’t everything. If that were the case, so many of my
friends wouldn’t have killed themselves. But You are what keeps us here. Be it
parent, partner, sibling, child or friend. You are what stops us from doing it.
Witnessing the outpouring of grief at suicide funerals is a
hard but effective way to hammer home the hurt caused by taking one’s own life
to everyone that cared about them. When one watches a sister howl in pain as
her sibling is lowered into the ground or a mother who must be physically
supported while watching the hearse bearing their child to the crematorium, has
an impact on those of us who are at risk. Sometimes the impact is not a
positive one.
I have gotten used to being informed of one death only to
wait a month or two before the next one. For some people, the suicide of a
loved one pushes them to the point where they decide to follow suit. Others
will just add another layer to their recurring trauma and question themselves
as to how much longer they can hold out.
What makes those of us who don’t suicide different to those
who do isn’t strength, it’s patience. We know that we will die, everyone does
eventually, but we make a conscious decision to wait until The Universe tells
us it’s time to go.
