October 18th

By Anonymous

Trigger warning: suicide, self-harm, alcohol, gambling. NB. Below are mentions of both suicide attempts and self-harm. There are also descriptions of ill-advised coping mechanisms. I neither romanticise nor recommend anything that I have done. 

On October 12th 2018, I crashed my car. It wasn’t a particularly bad crash. I had looked down to change the radio station and when I looked up, I was through the bumper of some bloke’s Range Rover. 

Three months prior, I had been alone with the woman whom I consider to this day to be the love of my life, on a secluded beach in the Hebrides, where I had spent my happiest summers. I had just left a good school where I made the most of any opportunity available to me: I captained rugby teams, directed plays and was a well-respected prefect. I was due to attend my dream university with the aforementioned girlfriend. In short, my first 18 years were privileged and relatively successful, to any onlooker the foundation of a happy and fulfilling adulthood. Looking back though, I can realise that I had been struggling with insomnia and depression for most of my adolescence.

Soon after, I was rejected from this university. My girlfriend went without me and, by the end of the first fortnight, had cheated on me. While I saw the rest of the world enjoying themselves through the lens of Instagram, my life had taken a downward turn. 

When I crashed my car, I should have called my parents. However, they were at my very ill grandfather’s bedside, and I couldn’t bring myself to draw them away from that. Instead, I sat in the driver’s seat and thought, what could be more disheartening than realising that one’s best efforts in life were not enough for a happy life? I was at the threshold of adulthood, decades stretching out before me, with no plans, no foundation, and no hope. 

These thoughts led me to one conclusion: I had to kill myself. 

Once home, I wrote a note to my family and a text to my ex. I then said a brief prayer: the opening verse of the hymn Abide With Me:

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;

The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.

When other helpers fail and comforts flee,

Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Darkness started to blot over, when my phone buzzed and my eyes opened. My mother was ringing. I stopped what I was doing. I could not bring myself to continue with her so seemingly close. We went to the doctor, where had a tough experience with a GP which left me with a wholly unfair distrust of the medical profession.

Despite this suicide attempt and still feeling sad, I continued to give life a chance. I got myself into another university, I went travelling and coached a children’s rugby team. I suspect a professional would class my love of red wine and gambling then as self-medication. 

I also tried to treat my suicidal thoughts as an “addiction” to death. I counted my days of “sobriety” and only lost count in the 500s. I found the rhetoric that addicts use helpful: they can always be an addict and yet live their life, so perhaps I can live my life despite always being suicidal. 

I think my current state would best be described as serious but stable. I am not going to kill myself today, tomorrow or the day after that. Nonetheless, I think it would be wrong to describe myself as anything other than severely depressed. There are still days when I cannot leave my bed, or stop crying, or when I simply cannot see a future. I do think that such occasions are becoming less frequent, though.

Each year, I acknowledge the passing of my “second birthday”. I feel myself getting sadder as October 12th comes around. I have had four of these rebirthdays and I always cry on that day as I ponder what, if anything, I have done with my second chance at life. 

I am neither proud of my own methods of survival nor advocating them to others. However, I suspect I am far from alone as a man that has taken their own mental well-being into their own hands and prefers to find their own way through difficult times. I think deep down, we all know this not to be the most effective solution.

A reticence around struggle is not unique to me; indeed, it is widespread in men almost to the point of stereotype. I am not so sure that, nowadays at least, men bottle emotions because of some ill-contrived notion of stoic masculinity. However, there may be a feeling that there is little to be gained from such candour. It is a difficult thing to admit to such raw emotions and, if it doesn’t feel helpful, it is not an overly appealing prospect.

By now the world knows that help is out there for those who want it. But with a little grit one can continue to plod on, live with depression and give life a chance. Survival in the face of relentless sadness predates medicine, psychotherapy, or any other treatment; we have got a chance too. My methods of drinking, swearing and generally grumbling as one day rolls into the next are far from perfect. But I am very proud to say I am still here.