Monday 12 January 2015

"Dying Is An Art"



It was a few days before Christmas. Monday, I think. Some days it's just hard to get out of bed. Particularly at Christmas time. So much happiness around, the pressure of feeling like you need to feel it too. I made my way to work, trying to ignore the sickly feeling in my stomach and the numbness in my head. It's a strange feeling, knowing what's wrong but having no strength to confront it. It's easier to accept it, don't fight it, just relax and let it wash over you.

I sat down at my desk, without my usual appetite for cereal and coffee. Eating felt like effort. It was much easier to sit quietly and stare at the bits and pieces on my desk, listening to typing, clicking and other mundane office noises, wondering if any of my colleagues could tell I was unhappy, scared. The very idea of letting someone know how miserable you're feeling is terrifying. Fears of being ostracised, fear of being pitied. Most of the time, it's easiest to distract people by telling a few jokes and being loud, big smiles, everything's normal. That way, they'll never figure it out, leaving me to hope the issue will be ignored and will eventually ebb away.

I've been seeing a therapist for over a year now. I have regular doctor appointments, to make sure the anti-depressants flowing in my veins are holding up their end of the bargain. Work even sent me to a company doctor, just to be super sure. Doesn't always cut it, though.

My memories from the day aren't very clear. Everything just trickled by. It seemed to go on forever. I hadn't felt so low in a long time. I eventually called my girlfriend, then my Dad. I haven't cried in a long, long time, but I cried when I heard their voices. I needed reassurance. It hurt to hear how upset and concerned they both were. I felt selfish for placing my problems on them, causing two people I love very much to worry over my insignificant problems. Deep down, I recognise my issues, I understand my problems and their gravity. But the little voice still tells me that it's not enough. How dare I burden others with such nonsense?

I went for a walk. My office is across the bay from Clontarf, so I'm lucky enough to enjoy a walk by the sea every day. The sound of lapping waves is hard to match. That day, it felt particularly peaceful outside. I'm not sure how long I stood there, weighing up my options, excited about the prospect of no more anxiety, no more lows. Could I go through with it? I can't swim, so I knew I wouldn't have the option to back out if I jumped into the water.

When I was 8 years old, I remember walking along a beach with my mam. She said quietly, "You know, some days I want to walk into the sea and not come back". I never understood those words until I was much older, but they have always stayed with me. They began to echo as I stood there watching the water. I can't describe the feeling of elation that contemplating suicide gave me, a feeling I have only felt during a similar event once before, some years ago. It is hard to resist.

I kept it all to myself over Christmas, trying to understand what had happened, how I got here, trying not to burden anyone else with my problems. A few days after Christmas, I confessed to Dad and Niamh, unable to hide it any longer. Recalling it all through the sobbing, saying everything out loud, it wasn't easy. I wouldn't call it a "breakdown", but I'm struggling to think of another name for it.

It's been a few days since and I'm starting to feel a little more like myself again, but I'm not 100% and I'm likely to stay that way for some time. Therapy and anti depressants will remain close companions of mine for the near future.

On the plus side, I'm still here. Not forgetting the loving circle of friends and family I'm so lucky have around me, near and far, but I owe a great deal to Niamh and my Dad. If I hadn't gotten in touch with them, there's a chance I might not be here.

Writing this has been pretty difficult, but all I've been thinking about since is sharing this story in the hope that it will be seen by someone who might need it. The moral of the story? Talk. Talk to your family, your friends. Share your feelings, it might save your life. I'm sharing my experience for those who cannot, in memory of those who did not.