Flawed intentions. 

It was “Suicide Awareness Week” earlier this month and it has prompted me to describe my experiences today. I don’t like discussing suicide. I think it to be the most negative manifestation of Bipolar Disorder and other psychiatric illnesses. I thought long and hard about whether I wanted to publicly admit that I had tried. I am very ashamed of my attempts.

But maybe writing this will allow me to organise my thoughts. Maybe someone will relate to my description and find in it some small element of support. I write only of my struggle and my opinions. I don’t pretend to understand everybody’s journey.

I’ve tried to kill myself a number of times in the last decade. Some attempts were more likely to succeed than others but in each case the intention was clear – I wanted to die. Equally obvious in every case was that I was very unwell.

Mostly I was very depressed, when I tried, but I can remember one occasion when I was in a mixed state. For me, mixed state can be almost as destructive as pure depression.

There is no logic to the thoughts that precede a suicide attempt. Invariably I have been very low and sought a way to escape that pain. It is difficult to accurately describe the agony of despair, hopelessness and crippling loneliness that I feel sometimes.

But this isn’t the main goal of wanting to die. I would persuade myself that I was a burden to my family. They, and the world, would be better off without me. So there was both selfish and altruistic motives to my plan.

These ideas are flawed. Suicidal ideation has always arisen at time of distorted reasoning, at times of poorly controlled mood swings, at times of crisis. My poor judgement has frequently been further distorted by alcohol. I drink when severely depressed, looking for a solution but finding only a reinforcement that my life is worthless. It’s simple, I can’t drink alcohol.

In recent months I took an overdose of my prescription medication. I hoped I would peacefully fall asleep and slip away. I had a romantic notion that my wife would hold my hand and reassure me, that my children would say goodbye and I would find serenity.

There is nothing serene or romantic about suicide. My family were in the house when I overdosed. When they found me and saw what I had done, there was fear, panic and anger. The sense of betrayal was palpable.

Thankfully, I didn’t take enough tablets to succeed but I became violently ill. I suffered profound side effects and ended up in the A&E of a general hospital. What I remember most about that night is of being very afraid. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. This wasn’t a solution. I had only made things worse.

In any event, I survived and ended up once more in a Psychiatric Hospital. The rest is history.

Some people who survive a suicide attempt get a semicolon tattoo as a reminder of their experience. I bought myself a gold signet ring. It is engraved, behind the band, with “30th March 2016, the date of World Bipolar Day. It reminds me that I have survived. It reminds me that I have come through the storm. It reminds me to be grateful.

Every time I look at that ring I think of all the good things in my life and of the blessings that are yet to come. I want to grow old with my wife, see my children graduate and get married. I hope I will get to play with my grandchildren. It is easy to be grateful at the moment, I’m feeling well. The real test will be when I’m hypomanic or depressed. Will the ring on my hand remind me, perhaps convince me, that it always gets better?

We are told that little things make a difference to our mental health. I sometimes think of a Snoopy cartoon where he suggests to Charlie Brown to focus on living instead of worrying about dying. In my version, Charlie Brown says “One day I tried to commit suicide and nearly lost everything” and Snoopy replies “Yes, but on all the others, you didn’t”

Somebody once told me that everyone has the right to decide to commit suicide but it is always the wrong decision. I’m in agreement. Lets hope I agree in future.