Suicide is Not Sweet

I want to talk about something that scares me. I want to talk about death. Suicide, more specifically.

There’s been a lot of news coverage over the last week about the tragic deaths of Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade to depression.

I have suffered from depression all of my adult life, but I have never considered ending it all. (So you can stop panicking). Six years ago, however, when I was on, what was to become the therapy that did more to fix me than anything else has, I received a real shock to the system when I realised that that may, feasibly, be the way that I die. 

Because I suffer from depression. 

Every week, for almost a year, my therapist asked me if I had considered harming myself that week. And if I’d considered suicide.

The first time she asked me, it sounded so ridiculous that I laughed. “No! Of course not!”

The second time she asked me, I didn’t laugh. I’d had a week to think about the first session. And about myself. And the way I spoke about myself. And the thoughts I had had about myself. And I thought of all the times I’d thought that various people I loved would be living a better, more carefree life if they didn’t have me to worry about. Me and my depression. And I thought of all the times I’d referred to myself as “a waste of oxygen”. A waste of the Earth’s already stretched resources. And no. I’d never thought, “I’m going to do x, y and z to remove myself from the equation”, but I had thought about all the ways my life negatively impacted on others. 

I didn’t laugh the 3rd, or 4th or 5th times. Because by that time I was scared. I was scared in the same way I was scared when I found a lump in my breast. 

I had to get better, because this could kill me.

A well person does not die.

A disease kills them. 

A few weeks ago someone who had once been a big part of my life died. He was 40. He had a wife and a baby daughter. He had a hugely successful career, which he loved. He had so much to live for. He didn’t choose to die. It wasn’t depression in his case. It was cancer. But he didn’t go to bed healthy on a Monday and die the next day from cancer. He was ill for a year and a half. Possibly longer. He and his doctors did everything they could to kill the cancer and preserve his life. Tragically, they failed.

If you find a lump, or you suddenly start fainting, or you develop an unbearable pain in your abdomen that won’t go away, you don’t ignore it. Well… I mean you *might*, but you really shouldn’t. Likewise, if someone you care about starts vomiting blood, you don’t stand by and say nothing. Again: you shouldn’t.

So don’t do it with your mental health. It may never become terminal. I hope it doesn’t, but don’t be complacent. You have no idea how bad things might get, or how quickly they can escalate.

And that might sound trite. And any help you, or a person you care about, does receive might not be able to save you, but it’s got to be worth a go.

Because suicide is not painless. It is not sweet. It is not selfish. It is not a choice a healthy person makes. It is a horrible way to go, and there’s no coming back from it. 

This post was originally published as ‘The Anxious Actor”