I’m at a music festival called Pennfest, in Buckinghamshire at the moment. I wanted to tell my very lovely girlfriend, Wendy, a bit more about me, and I found myself telling her about my suicide last July.
I looked at my watch and saw that it’s July 21st.
What are the chances of me telling her about it, on July 21st, exactly a year after I waited patiently, knife in pocket, for Stella to help me into bed, in the full knowledge that that would be the last time she’d have to help me. We’d watched a film – The Hobbit – and I was completely calm and smiling so as not to alert her at all.
She helped me into bed and I said goodnight. I then waited for an hour or so until I knew she’d be asleep. Then I got the very sharp kitchen knife and pushed it into my leg, the inner thigh of my left leg very close to my groin. As I don’t feel a thing, it wasn’t exactly hard to do! The blood came spurting out as I withdrew the knife.
Then I texted the only person I thought would care ( as you do HAVE to blank out all those inconvenient thoughts ), wrote in pen on my forearm ‘ I’m sorry Pia ‘ and passed out.
I didn’t know that Pia would be awake to read my 2am message and then actually phone Stella in alarm. Stella’s response was to say I was asleep and fine, having been ‘ happy ‘ a few hours earlier. Pia insisted she look into my room though.
Because of that, I’m not dead, and today isn’t the anniversary of my death.
My death had been prompted by my seeing cruel and mocking messages between my ex wife and 2 daughters, about me, that made it not worthwhile to me to carry on. I’d tried to hang myself in the morning, but having prepared the noose and thrown it over a girder, I’d dropped the blimmin thing and because I can’t bend to reach the floor, i couldn’t pick it up again, so I went with the rather more absolutely certain femoral artery method. The day had ticked by so slowly. I went to the gym, did everything I’d have normally done, but with the full intention that it would all be for the last time.
As Stella had, with her 3 hands, put her fingers in the wound, started my heart again with chest compressions, and called 999, I am alive today.
Pia and i talked after I’d come out of hospital and I made it clear I’d soon do it again. I agreed with her, very reluctantly, that I’d wait til October and if I still felt the same way, she’d come with me to Dignitas and be my sponsored help there. I remember how upset she was at my complete indifference to my life, and her tears of frustration.
A year on and so much has happened.
I now have my own home, a beautiful lady that cares so much about me, less legal battles to contest, and far greater peace.
Im Happy, for sure, now.
Am I glad I’m alive though ? Well you don’t just flick from only wanting to be dead to being chuffed to be alive.. I don’t think about death any more actually. Am I ‘ glad I’m alive though ‘ ?
Well I’m still indifferent to my mortality, completely. That’s not the same as wishing I was dead at all, rather it’s just that I still don’t care if I was blown up in 5 Minutes time, or run over by a truck on the way back from here, or hit by a freak Jumbo jet that crashed into the ground where I am. My death is still of no consequence to me at all.
In time my thoughts will change and I will cease to think this way, I’m absolutely convinced of, but it takes time for that to happen.
In the meantime, it’s another Happy Not Death Day (?) to me.