Mental Health / Suicide

WHEN HOPE FEELS DEAD

The air is thick right now. A sense of hopelessness clogs my nostrils. Too many people are desperately sad. Hurting themselves. Dying.

People I know.

Not my nearest and dearest – for the most part. But the internal and external expression of people’s unbearable pain leaves a tsunami of distress and grief for loved ones, radiating like ripples in a pond and impacting people they never knew they knew.

I’ve talked about suicide before – kind of breaking the rules for polite conversation really. But polite conversation won’t help someone through depression, self-harm or the irreversible decision to permanently end a temporary situation. As was so famously said,

You can’t change what you don’t acknowledge

Dr Phil

and that is as true for society, families and workplaces as it is for individuals. It seems easier to spread false cheer – think of a happy place, things will get better soon, stand up and fight another day, you can do it! And the hardest thing – look at everything you have to be grateful for. Most of us are painfully aware of our fortunes and keeping a gratitude journal is a really fantastic tool, but the reminders add guilt to an already overwhelming sense of hopelessness. When depression rips holes in our souls, thinking happy thoughts is not the right bandaid. It’s a nice place to start, but the sense of failure to be grateful soon increases the sorrow.

Navigating someone else’s depression is a quagmire of landmines ready to blow up in your face at any given moment. The most well-intentioned words and actions can have a catastrophic impact. The only person who truly knows what they need to hear and receive is the person going through the distress – be that grief, depression, anxiety, post-traumatic recovery. Whatever it is you’re not currently experiencing but want to help someone else in some capacity. So ask them what they need.

There are key phrases that are always worth asking.

How are you feeling? Now tell me, how are you really feeling? Would you like to talk? Would you like to sit here and just not talk? Can I pray for you? When did you last leave the house? When did you last take a break? Is there something you’d like to do together – go to the movies, for a walk, have a coffee? Even just curl up in pj’s watching Netflix? What are your plans for the next few days? You seem a little down, is it okay if I check in on you tomorrow?

And this is a really key question to ask…

Are you safe?

Don’t hesitate to ask several times, or to clarify what you mean. If someone asks what do you mean, be explicit – are you planning on harming or killing yourself?

Navigating a lifetime of depression is like being an avid bushwalker and mountain climber. For years on end the scenery is stunning, the flora and fauna breathtaking and the hard yards well rewarded. For short periods of time steep, rocky, unnavigable mountains appear that seem interminable and impossible to navigate. Clambering over slippery scree always happens in the dark and every inch of your body screams, No! I can’t do this again! But day in and day out you force a weary body a few steps more. There are people at the summit cheering, saying, Come on – not far now! You know there are people below struggling on the same mountain, or back in the safety of the pretty woods. But on that dark mountain, you’re alone, lost in that sense of hopelessness – completely reliant on voices from afar – and the squabble between the angels on your shoulders.

Once you’ve reached the summit it’s unbelievable.

It’s the rush of endorphins after an incredible orgasm. You finally pushed through the barriers and blood ecstatically rushes through veins. But as the years wear on, facing those mountains gets tougher and tougher and some days orgasms and mountain climbing feels too fucking hard. Just lay down and don’t bother, says the little voice of hopelessness hanging out on my right shoulder. His twin angel saying, What the fuck are you doing? Get up! You’ve done it before, you’ll do it again. It’s another glitch. Life is a series of glitches with glitter in between. And the Angels war. And I’m tired.

On Monday I lost a battle. For the first time since 1985, I took an overdose.

I ummed and ahhed about putting it here in the public arena – but perhaps understanding suicidality from the inside out will help someone. For three days I was highly regretful I hadn’t taken everything at once. Fearful of vomiting, I took small handfuls over a number of hours – cleaning the house in-between. The house was sparkling.

Fortunately or unfortunately – depending on your point of view – eventually I was too confused to remember what to do, so didn’t finish the lethal dose. When I fell on the floor – after wetting the bed (not the highlight of my week) – my husband realised I wasn’t just sleeping off an exhausting week but I was, as he so eloquently puts it, Off my tits. A quick bit of research indicated my half-consumed cocktail was unlikely to be lethal so I was monitored, showered, dressed and put back to bed, having long conversations I can’t recall participating in. I don’t remember Tuesday. Wednesday’s a haze. I’ve got a pretty good grasp on Thursday and Friday.

Of course, the question on everyone’s lips is, Why?!

I don’t know. I made a plan Thursday and carried it out Monday. What happened Thursday? A final straw. In an utterly fatigued state, a throwaway comment tipped me from that sense of utter hopelessness to inner peace and I accepted this was the end. My sleep has been – to put it mildly – appalling. A lot of nights I don’t bother to get into bed. I doze on the couch or get into the spare bed and message people around the world until I’m tired enough to sleep. Which doesn’t happen. Climbing into bed causes my heart to race and pound for so long I get out of bed to relieve the distress. I’ve developed sleep phobia. If I do manage a solid sleep for some reason, I wake up screaming. So I’d say the biggest contributor is complete and utter exhaustion. Coupled with five days of missed antidepressant/antianxiety meds.

I spent five days mentally farewelling people and places. Last church service, last binge at the bakery, last orgasm, last supper. I had lists of lasts. I kept looking for signs – from God or anyone – whether or not to carry through. My email is populated with bible quotes and one-minute motivational videos, all of which convinced me to follow through. Because if you’re looking for a sign you’ll see it. The title of the last video I saw on Monday, before delicately downing my first row of lethality? The Time is Now

Then I woke up and felt like an idiot.

So many people bewildered and upset. Some won’t talk to me – they don’t know what to say. Thanks for letting me know. I’m sorry it came to this. People who love me dearly and are literally lost for words. People talk around me – conversing with my husband, doctor or psychologist. Now I’m that girl who can’t be trusted. The medicine cabinet’s locked – I can’t access a bandaid without permission (I’d do the same if the situation was reversed). And that fucking little angel/devil child on my shoulder is looking for ways to thwart the system – how to build up another stash of drugs. How to sneak out when nobody is looking, reinforcing the sense of hopelessness.

But that trusty little angel on my left shoulder – the one who’s been building courage and strength and resilience for the past five years. The one who’s learned to raise her head and say, Hang on a minute – she’s holding out for the lost hope. After visiting the GP and psychologist and contacting intake coordinators, I now have an inpatient placement at a psychiatric facility interstate as Hobart has nowhere near enough psychiatric beds. I am indeed very fortunate to have access to an interstate facility.

Would I be better off dead?

I’d certainly get better quality sleep, my husband would no longer be acting as my carer and would have the freedom to spend his wages as he pleases. But aside from that, despite my poor self-worth, I know a lot of people would be deeply shocked and grief-stricken. That there’d be a long line of people wondering what they could have done or said to make things better. There’d be people looking back and seeing signs they hadn’t realised were there – and blaming themselves. Please – please, please, please – know we’re all responsible for our own actions.

If my overdose had been successful, there would be nobody to blame.

Only me. Making a permanent decision in a temporary situation. Creating a lifetime of misery for people I love so much. And creating a ripple effect for people I may not even know, coming to the decision that suicide is an acceptable option – for just like coronavirus, a sense of hopelessness, or the ultimate decision to suicide, can become be highly contagious.