“Being a Samaritan also taught me to understand more fully what Stephen had done. He himself would not have called the Samaritans. Those who do leave room in their minds to be dissuaded. Stephen, in contrast, was determined; he chose a method of suicide - hanging - which is virtually foolproof. One of the guidelines for Samaritans is to ask every caller - no matter how irrelevant the question may seem to the conversation - if they have ever considered suicide. If the caller says yes, he or she is asked if they have thought of how they would do it. It is amazing how many people break down at this point and reveal their plans almost with relief. And then it becomes easier to explore other options with them and to suggest that it might be a good idea to stay alive.”
Katherine Frank in Friday’s Guardian.
Two years ago, at T in the Park, the Samaritans were set up right next door from our first aid tent. As friendly, gregarious types, we said hello, offered them biscuits from our stash and generally shot the shit. After a few hours, first aiders were coming to me and whispering “The Samaritans are weird…they keep asking everyone if they’re considering suicide.”
It happened so frequently that I eventually thought I’d investigate. I made an extra cup of hot chocolate and went and had a chat with the Samaritan outside: “Can you settle an argument? I reckon you guys habitually ask people if they’ve ever had suicidal thoughts, but my colleagues think they must be looking really depressed, who’s right?”
“You are.” he chuckled, “It’s a question we ask everyone who approaches us, even if they don’t broach the subject themselves, sometimes it’s easier if we introduce it to the discussion.”
He paused.
“Have you ever considered suicide?”
“Oh, Jesus, yes.” I replied, “When I was in school, I had it all organised, I was just too much of a chicken to go through with it.”
“And those thoughts don’t bother you anymore?”
“Naw, I know how it feels and I tend to recognise it if it comes on and deal with it.”
We drained our drinks, I returned to the first aid post and he retreated to inside his tent.
So here you go, my plan.
I was thirteen, precocious and brutally bullied on a daily basis. My self esteem was in my boots, I’d come to the conclusion that since the majority of the people I met at school told me I was shit and worthless that they must be right. The only people who weren’t telling me this were my family, who I knew loved me and ergo must be biased.
The tug of suicide on me was an unusual one, it wasn’t the classic “I can’t live like this.” or even “I wish I didn’t exist.” I wanted to use my death as a communication tool. I’d tried talking to my tormentors, ignoring them, fighting them, nothing worked, I was a figure of ridicule whatever I did, so I concluded that killing myself and leaving a note with a list of names would make my point as eloquently as possible.
Surely they’d notice, surely? They’d see what they had been doing to me, they’d understand and the loss to society would be nominal; I was worthless, remember?
It would have been on a Thursday afternoon, in the second half of a double period of woodwork spread over lunchtime. I was going to slip out, unnoticed amongst the whine and scream of powertools, the hubbub of 25 adolescents let loose with hammers and files and head to the art department. My art teacher would lend me a craft knife, I knew, if I said it was for the head of Technical Studies. I was a good kid, studious, mature, responsible, dependable; they’d trust me with a knife.
The toilets outside Home Economics were at the other end of the building from Technical Studies, far enough that nobody would find me immediately and, most importantly, the toilet cubicle was in a seperate room. No cut-away door bottoms to betray a tell-tale spreading puddle of claret, no easy access locks that could be opened from the outside with a screwdriver in case of emergency. Just a small room with a toilet in it, concrete walls, single bulb and, crucially, a manual bolt on the inside of the door.
I knew the cubicle well, I’d been trapped inside once when my classmates had flipped the lightswitch from the outside, leaving me marooned in darkness, scrabbling frantically at the door-frame, my logical mind telling me I only had to run my fingers down the doorjamb to find the bolt, my panic making me miss it time and again.
I was a clever kid, I had it sorted. My plan was to enter the cubicle with the lights off, resting my hand on the bolt as I closed the door and locked it behind me. I’d shut my eyes and spin on the spot until completely dizzy and disoriented so I stood no chance of chickening out, throwing open the door, staggering out into the corridor and facing the shame of failing at my last moments.
And then I’d cut myself, both wrists, let it flow out onto the floor, patter onto my stay-pressed nylon uniform trousers, stain my white shirt. My chances of being found were minimal. It was a good plan, well thought out, I was a smart kid.
But I was also scared and now, thank Christ, I see that fear stopped me.
As an adult, looking back, I find it hard to distance myself from those feelings, to objectively view my situation, my decisions.
What I can do, though, is empathise with the teachers who I would have made part of it, the Tech teacher I’d sneak away from, the Art teacher who’d lend me the knife, unwitting co-accused in my plan.
The selfishness of youth doesn’t let you consider these points of view, but now, as an adult who’s carried the burden of in loco parentis, I’m far more upset by what I may have put them through, not to mention the grief and pain meted out to my family.
And finally, because I’m rubbish at pithy endings, some lines of poetry from this week’s postsecret.
“Fuck the poets of the past, my friends.
There are no beautiful suicides
just cold corpses with shit in their pants
and the end of the gifts.”
