This is why Hillman was right about hope. For those on the edge, there is no mechanism, no cognitive apparatus, that can lift one bodily out of the swamp. But depression brings a terrible weariness of the soul, particularly for the introvert. Gusto is needed for the skirmish, the extrovert energy that pushes outwards. If any of us is to stand up to the passive aggression, pettifogging bureaucratic obstruction and slyly competitive attacks of the inadequate, then we need spirit.
There is rarely any respite or care for one in deep limbo, just the day to day doing of staying alive is hard enough. The awful truth dawns: perhaps it needed to be said as if there was some doubt. Months after this vile story appeared in the press I am still astonished to read the police statement in which an officer said “We do not condone such behaviour”, as if that needs explanation. This becomes apparent from the most cursory glance at what passes as news, but sometimes an event, such as this one, in which a suicidal man was taunted by onlookers until he jumped to his death, takes one’s breath away. For it is clear that whatever we may like to believe about our cultural development, there are people alive who hold any expression of vulnerability in the deepest contempt – most likely because it shines a light on their own suppressed need. Yes, there is self-pity here, because there is a great difference between pity for the wounded self and weaponised victimhood. I do not look to explain, defend or even contextualise suicidal feelings, but instead to stay with them for a while, and always to honour them. But I know what things keep me alive, and here I share them in the hope that if just one person reads these words, and can find in them some reason to walk back from the edge, then my struggle will not have been in vain. I cannot offer this piece as self-help, it is personal to me, and I know many will disagree. These are the things that keep me going step by step, offered without apology. This piece is my personal guide to staying alive, my Observer’s Book of Suicide, my Collins Gem of Survival. And now I find myself here again, as one week bleeds soundlessly into the next, teetering on the kerb, watching the blank blonde faces with the tight lips and sunglasses roar past. This isn’t a statistic, it’s an epidemic, one unchecked for over twenty years.
PATHOLOGICAL FEAR OF A HUMBLE ROOT OF VEGETABLE CRACK
One hard crack and all is softness.Īccording to the advice site for men with suicidal ideation, mandown, more than 12 men take their lives each and every day in the UK and Republic of Ireland alone. He is the amber liqueur, the murky opiate, the velvet curtain to darkness. The dire horseman with his bony smile offers blessed oblivion. I struggle against the seductive urge to end the pain, and crippling emotional dissonance rides up to smash me with iron hooves. The painstaking accretions of acceptability are scoured, racked, blasted the slowly mortared building of character collapsed in to rubble. Generosity, love and the great things of a life lived are nothing but shameful recollections.
Besides, I’m frightened for your fear, knowing that my urge to suicide is its catalyst.Īt this moment the successes of a difficult life feel roughly overturned as my flaws, my wounds and my mistakes are used against me to destroy me. I tell you I’m okay, fix your guilt, ease your dis-ease. I’m obliged to wait at the roadside for the 4WDs, trailing behind them their stinking invisible clouds of diesel fumes and privilege. The Way Out, or Suicidal Ideation: George Grie, 2007
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