In my experience, suicide is not as painless as the "M.A.S.H." theme would have you believe. I never really understood those lyrics. My personal feeling is that they meant to say 'easy', but it didn't rhyme with 'Changes'. You may disagree. That's cool too. But I believe suicide is easy rather than painless.
Let me explain myself.
People have said to me, it had to be hard, the guilt, the pain, the shame, the despair, the thought of ending it all, the state of your mind... but really I found that when my final decision had been made, and I had a definite plan of action... I experienced a real sense of calm and peace. No more flipping and flopping, no more discussions, no more 'what ifs', no more acting or pretending in front of others, no more head on full washing machine spin cycle...
What did I really feel at the time? Anger. Huge resentment at a world that had denied me the right to even know who I was. I still believe to this very day that the most basic of all human rights is the right to know who you are. I had been 'given up' for adoption at birth. That saga is still on-going. I still don't know my true identity, my personal history, nor have I ever even seen as much as a photo of my birth-mum. I am now fifty-one and have two siblings that don't even know I exist. You may ask, but didn't you ever try to find them? Sure did! Spent years of searching. But the Church and State continue to control a narrative that they invented telling me and others like me how "lucky" I had been to be abducted and kidnapped from my mother at birth. In comparison to some of their other well-known exploits in recent times, I guess in some sense they are right.
Maybe you can sense an ever so slight tinge of hostility still in those words. Let me tell you that back in the day I was ready to burn the whole world down and everyone in it. I had a chip on both shoulders. If I hated you, it wasn't personal. I hated everybody, including myself. The reason for my continued resentment towards these institutions is for the continuing on-going abuse. The Church and State still stand by their exact same narrative to this day, despite all evidence to the contrary, and perpetuate the hurt and harm they cause(d) on a daily basis by continuing to deny birth mums and their adopted children the right to full disclosure. But hey, that's the Roman Empire for you.
Back on track... I also felt sadness, certainly, in fact I remember feeling intense deep grief... I cried a ton, after years of feeling nothing, of being emotionally frozen, it was a huge release and letting go... a 'little death' before the main event... the grief that my life was soon to be over, that I would never see my kids again, that I had let down everyone, that nothing had ever turned out the way I had hoped or dreamed... I grieved my own death before it happened... this certainly wasn't painless... but it was easy... for I had resigned myself to the reality that finally the terrible pain of my existence would soon be over. I could finally do something without messing it up, even if that something was ending my life. My last act would be my first one to get right. That was that.
Of course, you may be saying, "But you haven't committed suicide. What are you talking about? You are obviously still alive to be writing this." And you would be right. But you would also be wrong. I did commit suicide.
Here's my story the best way I can share it.
You've given life your best shot. Nothing works. Relationships. You've tried and tried and tried again. Failure every time. You were never meant to be in this world. Life is something that shouldn't be, some fucking cosmic mistake, a great big fucking joke that isn't funny. Ha-ha Universe. Fuck you. Exhausted. Tired. No energy. No will to go on. Don't want to talk, see anyone, eat, engage. Retreat to bed. To drink. To drugs. To oblivion. To blackout. You're a complete fucking waste of space. You hate your own guts, the ground you walk on. You avoid mirrors. No-one is allowed to take your photo. Smile? Fuck off! You're in a permanent mental fog of depression and negativity. The fog never lifts. Thinking hurts. You stink. Personal hygiene? What's that? Who the fuck cares? Glass half full or half empty? You don't give a shit so long as it's alcohol and can knock you out. Even your imaginary friends have left you. Your bones must be made of concrete, your feet are caught in a swamp, your head weighs so much you cannot lift yourself out of bed, even in those brief moments you want to. You literally have to drag yourself to the bathroom. At such times you have to negotiate the demons hiding under your bed, in your cupboard, ready to drag you down to hell...
'Normal' thinking? People talk about 'good' days. Later, even in therapy I got asked how many good days I had that week. But we need to clarify what a "good" day is. My definition could be very different from yours. My good day? A good day was a day I didn't want to kill yourself...for all of five minutes... until that washing machine of negative voices in my head started on full spin cycle again... turns out they were just resting...giving me false hope. Yeah, fireworks in your head, constantly going off, a full on World War III that never stops, only when you black out... to be replaced by the nightmares, the horrors, the D.T.s, the shakes. The world and everyone in it would be better off without you. Hell, you would be better off without you. I sometimes 'joked' (although it's the plain truth) that when my wife left me, I hated myself so much, I wanted to go with her. Please don't leave me here alone... with ME.
Much later, when I got a great therapist, I would phone and he would ask me who was at home with me whenever I called. I answered nobody, it was just me at home. He said get out of the house quick, you are alone with a madman!
That's therapist humor for you.
Anyhow, so you devise your plan. It's the only thing that makes you feel in any way good. Your exit strategy. How you will do it. You don't share this with anyone... otherwise they might try to talk you out of it. They could fuck it all up. We can't let that happen. This isn't a cry for attention. This isn't hoping someone will find you at the last moment, this isn't a Hollywood drama or movie where you are rushed to hospital and everyone reconciles; hugging, kissing, and singing 'Kum-By-Yah' around the bed. This is for A-fucking real.
Now, what way will not hurt, enough of pain already... and be quick... and not leave me a fucking vegetable in a wheelchair if I fuck it up... which, knowing me, is a distinct possibility. Got to make it look like an accident. Don't want anyone feeling guilty, fuck that. Enough guilt in this sick world already. He just fucked up, that's all. Wasn't paying attention. Been ill a long time. I heard his health was slipping badly anyways. Apparently he had a few drinks taken. Fell... poor sod. Could happen to anyone. Yeah, that might work....
I know this guy. I know him very well. In fact, I have been incredibly intimate with him my whole life, and on any given day, can be again, if I let myself. This guy is me.
I got help. I don't even know how it happened really. I couldn't bring myself to phone my ex; or to write a letter. Not that I didn't want to leave a note, I just couldn't have concentrated long enough on one thing to write it. I phoned the Samaritans as a final farewell, some sort of sign off call. Proof that I had existed, that I had been real for a while. I had been raised to be polite, to say please and thank you, hello and goodbye. In my head, it was a "Well, I'll be off now. See you!"moment. But 'God' or whatever is up there has a very very twisted black sense of humor. That's my experience. I remember lying on the floor saying over and over "Let it end." I had decided today was the day. Why fucking wait any longer? What was the point?
The young sounding woman who had answered the phone at the Samaritans asked if she could put me on hold for a second. I was left listening to canned music. It was a really bad version of a solo piano piece I remembered playing often as a child. I began laughing. Crazy insane laughter, cackle laughter, the laughter of witches around cauldrons, not the type watching a good comedy or at a great joke. This was the worst joke, the worst laughter.
I was phoning to say goodbye, and had been put on hold. Ha-fucking-ha. I cant even fucking say goodbye right! Sweet Jaysus!!
Recovery has been slow and painful. It has not been easy. But this is not a cry for anyone's sympathy. Fuck that. I am not a victim... anymore. I accept today I have mental problems, for a variety of "reasons" I will not go into, and that sometimes I need medical intervention and prescribed medication. I didn't accept this on blind faith. In fact, in spite of all the evidence, I violently fought and resisted this prognosis. It took three different psychiatrists, two family doctors, and a very close friend to convince me. But really they didn't. What convinced me was when I decided to take myself off all medication and declare myself fit. That was a real fun experience. Sarcasm intended. I ended up on my roof, with a voice in my head telling me to just do it, jump, it'll all be over in a second. This was seven years after the Samaritan call.
And in a split second I got instant total clarity. I came to the realization that I was sick. Actually sick. Not bad, not crazy, not a complete failure, not a misfit, just ill. I listened to the same voice that a few years previously had tried to take me out by telling me how evil I was, how unwanted, how everyone hated me, as I've already outlined. Now it was telling me the complete opposite, but still looking for the same outcome. It had changed tact. Now it was saying, yeah, you know what? You are a good guy. One of the best...in fact, THE best, and you've given this your best shot. You really have done your best... to make amends, to start again, to earn new friends and work and a new life and learn from and not repeat your old mistakes, and all the rest. But let's face it, you are never really going to be forgiven, deep down people still don't trust you, you are never really going to fit in. In fact, you could be Jesus himself, and walking on water and performing miracles and people will still be judging you for your past behavior. You are never really going to get well buddy. You're just one of those poor unfortunates, that despite every effort, are just not meant for this world. You are just too sensitive for this place. You are too GOOD for it.
Boy! First, I'm too bad for it... and now I'm too good for it.
Either way... it's time to check out. Now! Ticket for home. Departing this very moment.
Best of all... it's my OWN HEAD telling me this. Not anyone else this time. There are no longer any other voices in there. No-one is getting blamed. It's just the way it is! The stoic reality that 'Hey! Time is up.' You can exit with a clear conscience. You gave it your best. No one could ask for more. Job done.
That is when I realized, and believed, and accepted internally for the first time that I really needed help, that I was sick. There is still such a crazy stigma surrounding mental illness of any type. And it's costing thousands of lives, if not millions. You wouldn't tell someone with a broken leg or cancer or Aids to "Man up!" now would you? I really hope not, but mention that you are feeling down, or depressed, and the advice is: "You just need to snap out of it"... or "go for a walk" (from a GP no less). This needs to change. Clinical depression is not the same as "you're just feeling down cause you didn't get your own way." Worst of all... "You'll get over it." Yeah... right! Thanks for that pal.
Best lesson I have yet learned may sound a bit weird, but this is my story and my personal experience. It's not an opinion and it's not advice. I've lived and still live all this.
I learned how to commit suicide the right way.
When I am on the bridge (this can be not just physically but more often mentally, emotionally, or spiritually) ready to throw myself off, all I really need to do is throw off those parts of my life that no longer serve me for good, that are toxic to my survival. Sometimes this is people in my life -past or present - or events, or memories, or life situations, or whatever. The point is; not to throw everything off the bridge. Not throw the real "me" off the bridge with these other things. Not to identify with the toxic parts that serve no good. This is the mistake I had always made. I didn't realize I could throw PARTS of me off the bridge, I thought it had to be ALL of me.
Then, my secret to living is to carry on across the bridge and don't look back. To rid myself of excess baggage. Sometimes I can carry the worries of the entire world in my head. A friend made me laugh when he said; "The carpenter only carried one cross up to Calvary, and he got help with that one. You are carrying at least six or seven... And they're not even yours!" That was a pretty honest assessment.
Everyday, I get real honest with myself about what thoughts I am thinking, what voices I am listening to, what they are saying, and who I associate with. And then I ask myself, "is that Okay?" If not, it gets thrown off the bridge, whatever it may be. No second-guessing. A definite Goodbye and good riddance! With experience and practice, I throw things off the bridge faster and faster. I don't leave it until tomorrow.
To go back to something I said at the outset. I did commit suicide... just in a different way than I originally intended to. In fact, I practice committing suicide every day now. If you are like me, I strongly recommend you do too.
Footnote:
I used to believe I was the only person in the world who thought and felt as I did. I bottled up my emotions, pushed unpleasant thoughts and experiences deep down, and shared with nobody how I really felt. I was afraid of rejection and being ostracized. Bottom-line, I never dealt with problems, I buried them. As someone once quipped, the problem with trying to drown your sorrows is that sorrows know how to swim. I didn't process negative news or events very well. I thought I had to figure everything out on my own. I never asked for help.
Today I realize we can all use a bit of help at some time or another, no matter how 'strong' we think we are. No-one is entirely self-made. I found it important to be able to share in a safe and trusting environment with non-judgmental people. I still do.
In only the last six months, four people I knew personally made a decision and took the necessary action to leave this world. They were all, each and every one, beautiful people. Life just got too hard and painful. I don't know if anything I have shared here would have helped them or not, but I wish I had talked to them more when I had the chance. I know that staying silent certainly doesn't and cannot help anyone.