Poppalina

Suicide: The Importance of Hope

I have to say, I'm very impressed.

So many responses. Such thoughtful, challenging questions. Some of them difficult to ask, I'm sure. NONE of them offensive, by the way. You did good. You're still doing good. They just keep coming. I'm amazed, overwhelmed, and now faced with the onerous responsibility of responding intelligently. Serves me bloody right. Fools rush in, and all that.

It will take a some time to answer them all. I may need to take breaks and post lighter subjects (on such equally important topics as food, dogs, and teddies) in between. But I will answer them. A promise is a promise. I've even created a new category for this subject, which makes my world cloud (at right) look a bit weird, but what the hell.

Okay.

On the Subject of Pain

People who commit suicide are always in pain. Always. They may have completely disassociated from it by the time they exit, but it's still there, driving them. For the purposes of this post, I am going to divide the subject of pain into two categories: physical and emotional. Both are impressive adversaries.

As anyone who has been in prolonged physical pain can tell you, it's pretty hard to stay chirpy when everything you do hurts. It can drain your life of colour, deprive you of pleasure, cloud your concentration, restrict your freedom, diminish your dignity, and hold you in a state of profound isolation from the world around you. It's a serious bitch, and some people are better tempered for it than others. If the condition is such that you have little or no hope of recovery or improvement, or worse, the pain is likely to increase as time goes by, such as people with terminal illnesses, suicide can begin to look like a decidedly reasonable, nay, downright groovy option.

And I'm not sure that I can argue with that. This, of course, is the Euthanasia Debate, and being of (reasonably) sound mind and body myself, I feel unequipped to judge the actions of someone who has been denied what they would regard as an acceptable quality of life. I believe in Death with Dignity, but only when all other options have been exhausted. When my father was dying, he was in so much pain that if someone had given me the plug, I most certainly would have pulled it. And then done a happy dance. I do believe that there are worse things than dying, and extreme suffering with no hope of improvement is one of them. Having said that, I also accept that not everyone will agree with me. It's my Personal Opinion.

Then there is emotional pain. Much more difficult to quantify, much more difficult to define or discuss coherently, especially as a layperson, but I have been there. And I remember that it put me in a whole different dimension, a bit like looking into those crazy mirrors you find on carnival midways. In that place, reality can be whatever you want it to be, anything can happen, and as likely as not, it won't be good. Acute emotional pain can skew your perception of the world around you, to the point where suicide can look not only reasonable, but actually a really sensible, rational option. A Good Idea. If you arrive here, and have any connection to the real world left at all, this is the point where you tell someone. You're officially at risk.

On the Subject of Hope

I, personally, believe that the key to dealing with emotional pain is the understanding that there is hope, even if you can't see or feel it. The hope that you will feel better tomorrow, the hope that the situation that makes you feel so bad will resolve, in time, the general belief that good things can happen, call it what you will - that elusive, tenacious creature that keeps you moving forward, one excruciating step at a time, is what you need to find and focus on. And even if you can't access hope, it doesn't mean you're not going to be able to in the future. So, draw on the faith of friends, family, or, fuck it, a stranger on the street, if you have to (help can come from surprising places when you open yourself to it). There is great beauty to be had in the world, but you must be available to engage with it.

I remember that, for me, the pain became so overwhelming that something inside me snapped, and I felt myself yield. The good news was that it didn't hurt anymore. The bad news was that I had stepped into lala land, and had I been left to my own devices it would have been only a matter of time before I accidentally-on-purpose stepped in front of a moving bus. I would, simply, have forgotten to live. Fortunately for me, my boyfriend at the time was onto me like a shot, and yanked me back to good old, exquisitely painful, Real Life, to my annoyance, and for that I will always be grateful to him (even if he did follow up later by skipping off with a month's rent. A small price to pay, methinks).

These days, I'm a bit of an old hand at depression. I still get depressed, of course. I regard depression as part of life. And the things that can successfully pull me out of it are so tiny that I could easily miss them if I wasn't paying attention. An unsolicited smile from a perfect stranger. The simple devotion of children and animals. Friendly, thoughtful service in a cafe. Someone who gives way to me in traffic, when they really don't need to. Acts of love and beauty, the smaller the better. These things restore me, make me feel connected to the human race, remind me that there is good in the world. They heal me, without even meaning to.

So. Hope. You could call it faith, too, if you want. Whatever your terminology, it's a key to survival. I have spoken to many people who tell me that they spent years suffering from clinical depression. When I ask them what kept them going, they consistently answer that the hope that things might change, even though they didn't really believe that they could, and their connection to others, was the key. An amazing number of these people ultimately recovered to lead full and happy lives, and all of them are profoundly relieved and grateful that they didn't take the plunge, or were saved if they did.

Because death is already certain. And absolutely final.

But life, well, life just might get better. The thing about life is that it cuts both ways. And if it can get so very bad, surely it's not unreasonable to suppose that it can also get very good?

And it seems such a waste, and a shame, to not stick around and find out. You might split just at the moment it was all going to turn around for you.

Discuss.

Suicide: Your Questions Answered #01 - Did I Know?

First of all, thank you for your kind comments and emails.

The question most asked, so far, is 'Did I know it was going to happen?' And the answer, in a nutshell, is yes.

Mum had a history of suicide attempts, some half-arsed, and some serious, and by the time I was 14, I pretty much understood that this was how it was going to end. I was a rather sad, and troubled adolescent as a result, and spent a number of years in therapy trying (and failing) to come to terms with it.

I also spent a lot of time and energy trying to prevent it from happening. I kept a close eye on my mother, and became accomplished at knowing, intuitively, when she was at risk, cheering her up, and inventing ever more fun, exciting distractions for her, until the danger had passed. Not a particularly healthy dynamic.

The upside of this is that I was able to comfort myself, later, in the belief that I had done everything I possibly could, and that perhaps she lived longer than she might otherwise have, as a result. I don't really believe this anymore, I no longer believe that you can impose a will to live on another person, but it still makes me feel better.

The downside is that it was a grievous drain on my energy and emotional resources. I was a much lower achiever than I could have been, because at the first sign of trouble I would throw in a promising job, or a university degree, in order to concentrate on Mum. I dropped out of university six years in a row, until I finally gave up, and spent my 20s immensely burdened emotionally, suffering from intermittent bouts of deep depression. I didn't learn to really laugh, or have fun, until I was in my 30s. I believed myself to be responsible for my mother's life.

My sisters, on the other hand, didn't really know, and so were much less prepared than I. This was partly due to the fact that they were both considerably younger, and were regarded by both Mum and me as in need of protection. My role in their lives was largely parental. I didn't want to burden them, and on the rare occasions I did try to talk to them about it, they didn't want to know anyway, and refused to listen. As a result, Mum's death hit them very hard, indeed.

It also meant that, in knowing, I was perceived as being complicit in Mum's suicide. This was a problem I really hadn't expected. Never mind that I had fought tooth and nail to prevent it, I had failed to stop it, and that made some people very angry with me. Being in the know got me fucking crucified, at a time when I could least afford it.

And that was the hardest part of all.

In my defense, I would just like to say for the record, that if someone really and truly wants to die (and I'm not talking about those half-arsed attempts that are really about getting attention, or worse - revenge - that's a rave for another time), then they will do it, despite all your rational, reasonable, loving attempts to stop them. You do what you can, because you must, but really, it has nothing to do with you in the end. It's their call, and their responsibilty. I say this as a person who has charted the nethermost regions of her soul on the subject, and I believe it with all my heart.

Keep 'em coming. I'm on a roll.

Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Suicide, But Were Afraid To Ask

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My mother died 16 years ago today. Such a long time ago. She was 45, only 2 years older than I am now.

She was also my Best Friend. She really was. I miss her more than I could ever bear to tell you. Every day. It never ends.

Make no mistake. Suicide is a terrible thing. But the sad truth is that sometimes people want to die more than they want to live. And there's just no convincing them otherwise.

Mum's suicide blew our family to smithereens. It rocked the small community we came from to the core. It led to other suicides. People ran away. Marriages broke up. Good friends blamed one another for what had happened. Others blamed themselves. It just made the most Astonishing Mess I Have Ever Seen. To this day, I am picking up the pieces. (that's me on the left, in case you're wondering, in the days when I had eyes like a normal person).

I have always wanted to talk publicly about this. But it's so hard, especially to decide where to start or what might be of value to others. And I don't want to freak people out. Then you hear of 15-year old girls in Melbourne who've carried out suicide pacts in a fit of teen angst, and you KNOW that somehow, if the community was more open about suicide, more ready to confront its ugly realities, that if only we didn't sweep the blood and guts under the carpet, just maybe, these girls might have had some rudimentary grasp of what they were playing at. My guess is, they believed it would be tragic, but beautiful. A poetic, romantic way to go.

Like my mum did.

Which is more wrong than the wrongest thing I can think of.

Anyway, I've had a thought.

If there is anything, anything at all that people would like to know about my experience of suicide, a question that they would not normally feel comfortable asking, (you can ask me, right?), but that they've always wondered about, or any other kind, for that matter,

This is your chance.

I'll give you one or two pearls of wisdom, for those of you considering suicide, to get you in the mood.

Helpful tips for those planning a suicide

If you want your children to not sell your house after you die, and you really want this to actually happen, don't airily claim in your will that you leave the house to all three of them equally. They will tear one another to shreds. The damage done will be irreversible, particularly if the house in question was Robin Boyd-designed, with a river frontage, nestled on the edge of hundreds of acres of virgin state forest. Leave it, instead, to the most sensible, down-to-earth child you have, who will make sure everyone is taken care of fairly, and that nobody sells the house.

When your well-meaning but naive eldest daughter comforts you with assurances you that you will look like a 1940s movie starlet when they lay you out in your (open) coffin, don't believe her. Autopsies are exhaustive procedures, after which you will be stuffed with stuffing stuff, and left looking like Mr Potato Head.

Tortoiseshell Rayban sunglasses, on a dead person, just look plain, fucken terrifying. Don't even think about it. There is no looking cool when you're dead. Trust me on this.

If you plan to meet your Maker swathed in a cloud of Diorissimo, make it very, very clear, in writing, to the morticians, that you want to wear the perfume, not hold it. In combination with the sunglasses, the visual effect of one's cold, dead hands lovingly cradling a box of scent from Myer will be not only frightening, but also surprisingly funny, and as such, deeply confusing for anyone who sees it.

In fact, to be safe, just skip the open coffin altogether. You may well have had your face removed and then put back on again by the Coroner, as part of the post-mortem procedure, (or completely rebuilt by morticians, depending on your weapon of choice), and there's an excellent chance that it's going to look pretty damn wonky. And given that, by this point, you're comprised of about 85% stuffing anyway, you might want to be giving the big warts-and-all, Irish send-off a miss.

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Still reading? Excellent.

And you guys wonder why I have such a black sense of humour.

So. Ask me. I'll post the answers.

Go on. We need to talk about this stuff.

Or your 15 year old, or mother, could be next.

And I promise to answer as truthfully as I can. No question will be treated as too bizarre or personal. Believe me when I tell you that I'm very hard to shock.

My poor, lovely mum. Funny, smart, and very, very brave. I hope you're dancing, wherever you are.