17 days ago, I wanted
to be dead.
This is entirely
unremarkable, in truth, as 19, 23, 37 days ago I also wanted to be dead.
And in the days since, its lure has remained. But, 17 days ago, I filled a bag
with drugs* and two bottles of rum and got in my car: finally, it was
happening.
That I am writing
these words demonstrates that my attempt was thwarted. The police were alerted;
my car was spotted and followed, sirens blaring, lights flashing; when I
refused to pull over (think psychologically distressed Penelope Pitstop) a “stinger”
was hastily laid across the road to burst my tyres. After being interviewed by
a police nurse in the back of a car**, I was detained in hospital for
assessment, under the mental health act. Around 26 hours later, I was allowed
to go home.
On a number of these
17 days, I have looked in the mirror, at a hopeless, tear stained wreck, and
wondered whether the doctors made the right choice, in allowing me to leave. I
flatter myself that it was my cleverness, my hyperlinguistic, austistic skills
in passing for “normal” that got the paperwork signed in my favour. By the time
the two doctors and the social worker were available to assess me, very late on
Saturday night, I had had more than enough of windowless, CCTV’d captivity,
with its melt in the mouth boiled vegetables, and unrippable, plasticky bed
linen. So I knew not to repeat to them such gems as, “Why do humans make such a
big deal about staying alive?” and, “If they’re worried I’ll kill myself today,
it’s illogical to think I won’t just wait until after 28 days confinement”. I
did my all to present as earnestly penitent and optimistic. And they (to my
mind) bought it.
So, I’m at home. Have
been for 15 days. But I’m still (in the words of my wonderful therapist) Not
Very Well at the Moment. Officially I am under the care of the Crisis Team, but
in reality there is no ongoing package of NHS care; I am seeing aforementioned
wonderful (but sadly expensive) therapist twice a week, and I have the most
fantastic friends, and a boyfriend whose love and support you would not
believe. Keeping me alive is a group project. The general consensus is that,
all things considered, wanting to be dead is understandable. I am tired, tired,
tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally. I’ve been demanding too much from
myself, and allowing others to, also. Illness, grief, complex childhood trauma –
the mental health nurse lists my life, neatly bracketed – any of these things
alone can push a person to the brink. I nod, and nod, and nod. This is not new
news. I suggest that, considering how many times I’ve wanted to be dead, only
putting it into practice once is a pretty good hit rate. The nurse laughs
nervously, and continues his spiel.
What I do not do is
describe to the nurse on my sofa how it feels to want to be dead: a bone-deep
yearning, as if for a lost love, that I have carried silently over the past 18
months. Shortly after my mother’s suicide, overwhelmed with things to be done,
and feeling entirely alone and deprived of love and touch, I sat on the riverbank
in the darkness. It would take so little to make it all someone else’s problem.
Since then, this feeling has ebbed and flowed, at times drying up entirely.
Those days are glorious days. But it’s not a feeling I can tap into at will.
I
cannot expect these feelings to simply go away. And I accept that sometimes I
do truly love my life. (Even at the darkest, coldest times I love the people in
it. But one cannot spin a will to live merely from other people.) It is for
that iteration of myself, The Me Who Wants to Live, that I must keep myself
alive. It may sound like the height of selfishness, but it is the model that is
working for me. And as days and weeks pass, and I’m getting more and more of
what I need (rest, mainly***) The Me Who Wants to Die will be here less, and
The Me Who Wants to Live will hopefully return. Until then, I’m learning to
live while wanting to be dead.
Let me know if you
are, too.
*The joys of living with
a pain disorder: copious quantities of amitriptyline, napropxen, codeine,
diazepam, and citalopram in a kitchen cupboard. Not especially safe.
**When I commented
that a car was far from an ideal setting for a three person conversation of
such importance, and asked whether a horsebox couldn’t be commandeered for the
purpose – well. As my boyfriend put it, “You’ve not met one of me before, have
you?”
***I’ve been cutting
out all of my responsibilities. I won’t be returning to my degree in a month’s
time. My incredible ex husband has taken over primary parenting of our son. I’m
learning to say “no” when I don’t have the energy to do something. As a friend
who always has the right words puts it, I must “rest until I don’t need to rest
any more”.
