Things To Say To Me Right Now*

Suicide is an intensely personal experience. It seems fucking self-evident, writing it down, but it bears pointing out.

Firstly, because feeling suicidal means that you’re thinking about yourself more or less all of the time. I’m an egomaniac, so this is familiar territory for me, but still, you’re literally contemplating your existence all of the time. All of the time. Even when people ask something straightforward like “how are you?”. Previously, a pretty easy question. Especially if you’re English, in which case the only desired response is “Fine thanks. You?” and the only acceptable reply to that is: *shrug* “Fine, fine. Mustn’t grumble”. And so the dance continues, with both of you horribly relieved that neither of you has over-shared.

When you’re suicidal, when someone asks you how you are, you basically have to ask yourself whether you still want to die or not before replying. It’s a fucking existential crisis thirty-odd times a day, because it’s the only thing that anyone else wants to know, so you get asked all of the time. Friends, family, the endless medical professionals (henceforth known as EMPs) swarming in and out of my life (more on this later, btw). And whilst I’m truly grateful to be asked, it’s no longer a small question.

Secondly, I say it as a caveat, because this is going to be a post about the things that have and haven’t helped me so far. It’s not intended as a manual. That’s one of the tricky things about suicide (you know, aside from the whole nihilistic “please make the relentless pain stop” element to it): there’s no handy manual for everyone. Least of all me. I complain with regularity to the EMPs about the fact that suicide is really not easy. They see this is a good thing, otherwise far more people would kill themselves. Instead, I think of all the human misery swilling about, without respite. Again, apparently I’m VERY DEPRESSED. In any case, my point is: there’s no foolproof panacea or wisely-worded platitude that’s just going to turn this situation around. And, as far as I’m concerned, that’s not your job.

Anyway, away we go.

First and foremost, I remain genuinely humbled by the unbelievable grace and generosity that so many have demonstrated since the start of The Crisis. And it’s manifested itself in so many totally unpredictable ways. Time, energy, hospitality, patience, cleaning (still weird, but appreciated), expulsion of healthy rage by yelling at my insurance company until someone finally did something (again, post to follow on this). All of it

But here’s the stuff that people have a tendency to Get Wrong (this is a much shorter list than what’s being Done Right and – as precipitated this whole Crisis – I’d rather go out on a positive).

It’s better to say something to me than to say nothing, for fear of saying the wrong thing

Look, I get that suicide is a fucking hard thing. I understand that it may bring painful associations of prior experiences that you may have lived through. That said, it’s really hurtful when I know that you know that I’m in pretty much the worst pain it’s possible to be in and I don’t hear from you.

It only occurred to me after the start of The Crisis that someone who I leant on very hard at the beginning of this had had an extremely traumatic experience of suicide and yet stepped into my breach unasked and full-throated. I’m ashamed that I forgot about it (in my defence, I’m pretty distracted right now), but their generosity of spirit is something I won’t forget. The contrast between that and the silence from some quarters is quite stark. Silence makes me think you don’t care, even if you do and you’re just bricking it.

That said, please try not to say the wrong fucking thing

Examples of “the wrong fucking thing” in my subjective opinion are:

1. Asking me not to kill myself in any way that is laden with emotional blackmail. As I said in my first post on this: I have no obligation to stay here just to prevent you from feeling sad. Know this: I feel sadder now than you will about my death. And I write that knowing exactly what a miracle of fucking nature I am and what a crippling fucking loss it will be to the world if I do shuffle off this mortal coil**. I KNOW. I STILL DON’T CARE (right now).
2. If you’re not one of the EMPs or you don’t have first hand experience of depression, you’re not qualified to advise me on how I might be feeling. And, honestly, I have plenty of advice from the EMPs and I often struggle to take it from them graciously. So, please, if your expertise is based on once taking a Buzzfeed quiz entitled “Tell us your favourite celebrity cameo in Friends and we’ll guess you your star sign”, then please restrain yourself. Just listen. Be soothing. That’s enough.
3. Don’t try to pretend this isn’t happening. We do not need to talk about ALL MY PAIN all – or indeed any – of the time, but no enforced jollity, for the love of all that is holy. And asking me to make plans beyond about a week away makes me feel prickly all over. I might not be here. Please don’t make me pretend that I think otherwise.
4. Don’t get frustrated with me or yourself that you can’t change my mind. I might change my mind, I don’t know. The EMPs are certain that I will. But you won’t change it for me. It’s hard to watch your sadness as you tell me that you want to be the one that says the thing that makes the difference between me living and dying. Spare us both that pressure.
5. The single biggest driver of my decision to kill myself is the hopelessness I feel about the future. I can’t see a way to fix it. I can fix anything that can be fixed. I have relentless self-belief about this, even in my current despairing depths. If I can’t fix it, you can’t fix it. Any help I want, I promise you I’ll ask for. Please don’t try to fix it for me. We all know how badly that ended for Jimmy Saville.
6. There is only one of me and I’m fortunate that there are many of you who care for me. I’m pretty great, after all (of all my qualities, humility being perhaps the greatest). The thing is, that means that all of you are worrying about me at the same time. And I have to deal with all of your collective, sometimes overwhelming, emotions at the same time as I’m dealing with mine. I’m not asking you not to feel, nor to be robotic, but just bear this in mind. Don’t add to the pressure in my knackered brain.

Understand that I really don’t drink that much tea

I don’t. I hardly ever drank it pre-Crisis and I don’t want more than 2 cups a day even on my saddest days. Feel free to put the kettle on. Make and drink as much tea as you fucking want. I’m just not going to drink a lot of it. But thanks very much for asking. And I do mean that.

Also: I don’t drink coffee. I will never, ever want a coffee. I haven’t drunk it since I was 12. I’m trying to find the will to live and you, who has known me for 20 years or more has forgotten that I don’t drink coffee? Is it so hard to remember??!?!? WHAT IS THE POINT OF ANYTHING???

And so, to the good stuff. Fuck me, there’s a lot of good stuff. Do any of this, really. Here we go…

The Single Most Helpful Thing Anyone Has Said So Far

(Don’t be sad if this wasn’t you. This isn’t a competition.)

I got this from my friend Annie in New York about 10 days into The Crisis.

I hadn’t even contacted Annie. I love her dearly, but I haven’t seen her in a couple of years. That’s the way things go, sometimes. She’d heard about The Crisis from my friend Brad and just got in touch. Annie battled with her mental health for a long time, but she was healing by the time I met her in 2015. I am so grateful for this message and I read it every day, sometimes more than once. For the record, there is no-one in the world better to watch a horror movie with than Annie.

Be practical, be helpful

I had no idea how much admin was involved in being suicidal. None at all. If I don’t kill myself, the paperwork might. I think there’s a whole post in this at some point (as ever, the spectre of whether I’m here to write it looms) so I won’t go into detail, but suffice it to say that I’m on the phone or on the way to an appointment for hours on any given day.

As a result, I’m pathetically grateful when people take on Life Admin for me. Dealing with my insurers, putting food in front of me, reassuring other worried friends that I’m ok when I’m too busy or too exhausted to reply to messages, picking me up and driving me around, fielding calls about work, organising my schedule – all of this stuff is such a relief.

And I can tell the difference between the things that people do to make me feel better rather than to make themselves feel better. Those in the first category tend to be more helpful than those in the latter and I love them harder as a result.

People are so amazing at just letting me cry

What a thing to have to type. But it’s true. I am weak with gratitude at all those who don’t break stride when I suddenly break down mid-sentence. It happens more often than I’d like – although even pre-Crisis I wept pretty much at the drop of a hat. Show me a an advert for a Donkey Sanctuary and I’m done for. I’m not even especially keen on donkeys. I cry all the time now, because of ALL MY PAIN. I’ve cried approximately 9,000 times just writing this post. My friend Kim (who is a FORCE) once told me that tears produce enzymes that reduce stress. Remember this if you start to freak the fuck out at just how many tears my body is producing. I’m just relieving stress. Buckets of it.

For the record, there is no-one in the world better at getting shit done than Kim.

All the shit that people do that’s impossible to categorise

1. About a week into The Crisis, I suddenly wanted to talk shit to someone who didn’t know what was going on. For the record, there is no-one in the world better at talking shit than my friend Billie Jones (this isn’t even her name any longer – she got married, she’s not in Witness Protection or anything – but I’ve never been able to disconnect that final syllable). We hadn’t seen each other in a while, she lives in New Zealand now. We talk occasionally in a group chat about Love Is Blind and other classics of the reality dating genre, but when I called her out of the blue telling her I just wanted someone to talk shit at me, she was in there like the proverbial swimwear. For half an hour, she enveloped me in a soothing balm of chat that was such a relief from ALL MY PAIN. “Anytime!” she said.

Every day since then, Billie Jones has sent me some random nonsense on WhatsApp. Pages of it. PAGES. All of it ridiculous, all of it carefully curated and all of it sent because she knows it’s what I need right now. Topics have ranged from her paranormal experiences, to the dumbest things she’s overheard, to insults that people have slung at her, to pathological detail about her co-workers, to the New Zealand Bird Of The Year contest (get voting, kids). I could go on, but instead, to give you just a flavour of the content that I receive every day, I scrolled and stopped absolutely at random in WhatsApp and am pasting what I landed on.

2. In a similar vein, my friend Suzanne sends me random “Things I Love about AMD [that’s me, hi!] #xxx” via email and post (POST. FUCKING POST!) every few days.

These have included, but are not limited to:
AMD makes any party better
Travelling 3500 miles to her hairdresser
Her loyalty knows no bounds
She has an honest enthusiasm for the lives of others. Their stories. Their outcomes.
Her application of eyeliner is mesmerisingly perfect
Her dancing inspires others to join

For the record, there is no-one in the world who is a better housemate than Suzanne.

3. In a truly spooky turn of events, I heard from an old school friend on Day 3 of the Crisis (The Longest Tuesday In The History Of Tuesdays). Lee and I haven’t seen each other in forever but we keep in touch occasionally via WhatsApp in the way that we all tend to nowadays. For the record, there is no-one in the world with better curls than Lee. We hadn’t spoken since April and then:

Well, Lee. Your timing is exquisite. I replied at some length explaining that no, actually, things were pretty bad. Since then Lee sends me messages me at least every couple of days, never minds if I don’t get around to replying before she sends me another and reminds me on a continual basis that if she still loves and cares about me even though she hasn’t seen me in 20 years, then I must have plenty more reasons to stick around. People are so incredible. It’s ironic that some of my most life-affirming experiences are happening as I’m set on life-denying. Or maybe it’s not a coincidence. I don’t know any more.

4. This was slightly pre-Crisis, but I think we’ve all realised by now that the Crisis was probably looming for longer than I had acknowledged. I had gone round to Liv’s when I was just sad about The Guy rather than about Every Single Fucking Aspect Of My Existence (Including The Guy). Little did I know then that I was Living My Best Life by comparison. Her children had been pre-warned that I Was Sad, presumably so that they were prepared for any ensuing buckets of stress-relief.

Milo, Liv’s son, approached me when I’d been there about 20 minutes. For the record, there is no-one in the world who has asked to see my vagina more times than Milo. I’m not sure that that’s a positive, but we are where we are. Anyway, with wide eyes, he said: “I am sorry you are sad. Here is a pound”, with the coin proferred in his outstretched 7 year-old hand. This is one of the most touching things that has ever happened to me, so I’ve included it here. (I left the pound in his jewellery box*** before I left.)

But also, as I type this in a house inhabited by a 10 year-old, an 8 year-old and a 6 year-old, being around other peoples’ children is a welcome relief at times. Suicidal ideation is fucking tiring but is also hard to do when you’re trying to explain gerrymandering to a primary schooler. And I would never, ever kill myself around someone else’s children. This is where my account is highly subjective; I’m definitely not advising you to use your kids as a de facto human shield around any depressed pals, but it has definitely helped ground me on more than one occasion.

5. As much as these are the headliners, there are so many mundane yet extraordinary acts of kindness every day. Every message, every call, every cup of tea refused, I appreciate all of it. If I haven’t name-dropped you here, your time will surely come.

And, for the record, there is no-one in the world who is a better host than Bee.

I am so, so aware of how lucky I am to have all of this in my life. And I am, genuinely, so, so sorry if it ends up not being enough for me to stick around for. It will never have been because of something someone didn’t do and will be very much in spite of all of your collective efforts, for which I am so grateful.

Anyway, if you’re reading this because you know someone else who is currently In Crisis: do the stuff on the the Yes list, try not to do stuff on the No list. But try not to do nothing.

*Yes, this is a cunning reversal of one of the first blog post titles that I ever wrote. Oh look how far I’ve come etc #infiniteregret

**Yes, I know I’ve already bled Hamlet dry, but the ruminations on suicide are just too stellar not to use. Like Cantona: I apologise for nothing.

***It’s the 21st Century, boys can have jewellery boxes, you haterz