Living Suicidal

A Personal Story

I am sitting in a pale blue leather armchair in a small office room, staring out the window. There is a single tree basking in the late summer heat and rustling gently against the light breeze. The room is devoid of any character. There is a wooden desk against the wall next to the window, completely bare and missing a chair. In front of me, a small round wooden table with a booklet and a clipboard sitting upon it. Across the table, sitting opposite me in a chair identical to my own, is my therapist. This is our first session of CBT.

We have just finished talking about the questionnaires I filled in whilst I sat in the waiting room. She informed me what they stood for and, with the scores I placed upon the sheet, that I have moderate symptoms of low mood and anxiety. She asked me questions on the scores I placed upon the sheet and I, poorly, tried to give her an insight into my mind whilst she probed deeper.

She finishes writing her notes and looks up at me from her laptop. I am avoiding eye contact, fixated on the tree, wishing I too was outside, soaking up the last drips of summer before it’s all over. She picks up the black clipboard, holding my questionnaire, points to the follow up question of the PHQ-9 and asks about the score I put down. The final question of the PHQ-9 asks how often I had thought I would be better off dead. I put down a 1, several days in the last two weeks. The follow up then asks how likely I was to act on these thoughts, out of 10. I put down a 3.

But in reality, it was 0. My relationship with my suicidal thoughts was a long one and tricky to explain. But let us try. The first time I ever had suicidal thoughts was before I had even entered high school. I cannot place the exact age but they started early in my life. Whilst there were a lot of great parts of my childhood, I had an extremely poor relationship with both my brother and my Dad.

In regards to my brother, we fought almost constantly. It was clear that there was no love between us. Due to these clashes, along with the relationship dynamics between my brother, my sister and myself, I often felt completely removed from both of my siblings. I struggled to find somewhere in the house where I could be left in peace, as I shared a room with my brother.

On my Dad, it was clear that I didn’t live up to his expectations. I would constantly be berated for crying or liking soft toys, being asked when I would grow up or stop being such a girl. Now, I’m under no illusion here — I was a difficult child. I threw tantrums all the time and acted out. So I can understand why both relationships, in fact, would be strained, especially when I wasn’t fairly punished. However, these troubled relationships within my own home meant that I felt unsafe and isolated. I was filled with a lot of hatred, for myself and for the life I had to live.

I recall at some pre-pubescent age, I used to bang my head against the hallway wall in my house. I would do this repeatedly, until my head was red, until I was sore and dizzy. With each hit, I expressed how I hated myself, how the world would be better if I was dead, how much happier everyone would be. I wished for my life to be over. I didn’t know what self-harm was at that age, but in hindsight that’s very likely what this was.

I had lost the will to live before I even entered double digits. And yet, through all of this, I never once attempted suicide. Why? There were a few reasons. The biggest one, the one that rung loudest in my head, was my family history. When I was 8 my Grandad, my Mum’s Dad, died and this event sent my family life into disarray. It was during this time some new information about my family came to light. Before I was born my Uncle and Grandma, both on my Mum’s side, had died. That was the extent of what I knew. What I learnt now was that they didn’t simply die, they took their own lives.

My Uncle and my Grandma had quite a close relationship, my Mum told me. I don’t know the details of what my Uncle was struggling with, just that he decided that life wasn’t worth living anymore and took his life in a way I’d rather not repeat. Several months later, my Grandma did the same, in the exact same way as her son. This news haunted me. By this point, I had already lost the will to live. Any desire to act on these thoughts evaporated.

I was the youngest in the family, much like my Uncle. I had a close relationship with my Mum, much like my Uncle. There was a worry that, should I choose to end my life, I may cause history to repeat itself. Even though I knew I wouldn’t be around to see it, I couldn’t bear that weight on my conscience. The guilt gripped me, stopped me in my tracks. My Mum had already been through the pain twice, I couldn’t inflict it on her again.

There were two other reasons, fear I would mess it up and pure cowardice. I had such low self-esteem and knew how clumsy I was, I was almost certain that I would make the wrong move and instead of ending my life, I would survive. That I would be placed on a watch list. That I would severely injure myself. I didn’t want that. I also didn’t want to experience the pain. These three reasons mixed into a toxic cocktail, always talking me away from the edge. This is why the answer to the question was actually 0. It has always been 0.

And yet, throughout my life, I have constantly had the desire to die. So this manifested in a new way. Instead of making plans, I would will for something to come about to make me draw my final breath. I recall crying into my pillow at night, longingly looking out the window and wanting to open it and jump. I knew I wasn’t high enough. Wondered if the impact of the car would be enough, but knew I couldn’t do it. So I prayed.

I lay there, tears streaming down my face, palms pressed against each other, and I prayed. I prayed to God to put an end to my miserable existence. I spoke to my Grandma, my Grandad, my Uncle. I asked them if I can join them. Pleaded with them to let me be with them, away from this life. I cursed them, cursed God, for ignoring me. I asked God why they felt the need to torture me. Nothing.

Life didn’t get easier. As I entered high school, the abuse only got worse. Working out became the new hobby and, with it, my body was placed under scrutiny. I was skinny, which was seen as unmanly. My Dad started berating me for this as well, and my insecurities grew. People at school only added to this, calling me gay as a slur because I didn’t fit the archetype of a man. If you were unmanly, you were gay. And you didn’t want to be gay.

To make matters worse, I was struggling with my sexuality. I feared expressing my feelings as I knew it would only inflame the abuse I was already receiving. So I carried on praying. I walked around hoping that I would end up in a road accident or a mugging gone wrong, but my life remained uneventful. High school finally ended but the 2010s served up a series of nightmares, each one worse than the last. Every time I thought I had finally reached the bottom, the floor gave out and I plummeted further.

2013 was a notable year. It was my final year of Uni. I had returned to halls, living with people I never saw, spending all of my time working to pull my grade up to my desired 1st. My brain was fried and I felt isolated. Returning home gave no respite as we were moving house, which meant packing up 21 years of my life into boxes. I was struggling to keep it together and when I fell out with my two best friends in April, I completely broke down.

I returned to Uni only to spend every waking minute alone, in my room, revising and studying, but distracted by the chaos my life was in. I often drifted off, eyes fixated on the window. I had already removed the safety lock so I could get a better breeze. I was higher up now, maybe it would be enough? But I just went back to revising.

2014 wasn’t any better. It started well. I was on a year break, doing nothing, trying to recover from the fatigue Uni had given me before I returned to do a Masters. I managed to repair my relationship with my friends. Everything seemed great. But upon returning to Uni, I started to struggle again and when my family relations fell apart, I was right back to where I started.

2017, however, was the lowest moment of my life so far. All those years, those experiences, everything I had been through, paled in comparison. You see, I had fallen in love with my best friend. Issue is, he was a guy. The denial I had lived in all these years was becoming harder to maintain and so, I decided to come out as bisexual. However, when I did, I found out that this friend was talking behind my back, calling me “too much”.

This was a phrase I had heard numerous times throughout my life, from family and friends to complete strangers. It made me feel broken, damaged, wrong. Hearing it from someone I cared about so deeply, it broke my heart. Life spiralled from there, and my mental state along with it. I fell out with my friend and, as a result, our friendship group fell apart. My trust in people had been destroyed so completely that maintaining my other friendships became an overwhelmingly difficult task. Eventually, they ended too. The paranoia and self-hate grew so loud, I could no longer think. I lived in my head, found myself overthinking everything, crying at random moments over my thoughts, my life. I needed it to be over.

I still recall the times I would be standing on the yellow line on the Tube platform, staring down at the tracks with tears running down my face, longing to hug that third rail, feel the warmth of the electricity fill me as I breathe my last breath. I wondered what would happen if I jumped as the train came in. Would the train’s impact be enough to kill me? Would someone catch me or stop me as I made my attempt? The same thoughts returned, the fear of what would happen if I tried. They weren’t as loud as they used to be, but loud enough to stop me.

2017 was the closest I ever came to ending my life. I don’t often talk about the experiences I’ve had with suicide. Why? Along with “too much”, I was often told I was “dramatic” and “overreact” a lot, so much so that I chalked my suicidal thoughts up to that. If I was serious about suicide, why hadn’t I made any attempts? Why did I never try to jump off a bridge, like they do on TV? That was suicidal, I told myself. I was just being dramatic because life wasn’t going my way.

I have spent the last few years recovering from all of this. Unpacking that trauma and finding ways to heal from it. Using music and writing to process my pain. Working on my self-esteem issues. Enacting self-care and self-love. Finding new friends. I have grown a lot. My life has changed, radically. I’m out and proud now. My relationship with my brother is much better. I no longer talk to my Dad, for my own peace of mind.

But life isn’t always positive, I know that. The trauma has left scars that won’t ever fade. I will never truly escape suicidal thoughts. All I can do is manage it as best I can, and get help so I can manage it better. Hence, CBT. I look away from the window and to my therapist, hold her gaze, try to speak. I stumble over the words and look down at my hands, clasped tightly in my lap. Whilst I watch my hands writhe, I do my best to explain this train of thought to her, albeit not in quite so many words. She nods understandingly.

She informs me that she will continue to check in with that number, just to ensure that this train of thought continues to hold true. I don’t know if it always will. I don’t know what the future holds for me and I don’t know how much longer I have left. One day it may indeed prove too much, so much so that all those thoughts which try to stop me gets drowned out, and I go to find my exit. Right now I no longer live in a state where I want to die, which is entirely weird to me. But I can comfortably say that I am not afraid of death. It will come, one way or another. Until then, I am determined to make the most of my life and enjoy it to its fullest.

If you are having suicidal thoughts, please call:

Samaritans: 116 123 (24hrs)

LGBT+ Switchboard: 0300 330 0630 (10am — 10pm)