no razor blades; they went through all my stuff when I arrived. They even took away my disposable razor. They were impressed I had enough energy to care about having hairy legs. I didn’t, really. But I do now.
When they come into my room, they always say the same thing. ‘You’re awake!’ As if that’s a surprise at four in the morning in a mental hospital. I reply that I am always awake at that time. They say something about getting my psychiatrist to increase my sleep medication and then they check their charts and see that I am on the maximum dose.
‘Just try to relax,’ they say, ‘let your mind drift.’
Relax? Drift? Have they any idea what my mind is doing? But I say nothing. They are only trying to be kind.
Jane thinks the expression, suicide watch, is funny. ‘Can’t they phrase it in another way? It sounds like, “hey, guys, watch me die.” ’
I say, ‘Why do you want to die?’ I am fascinated. Before I got here, I had no idea that anybody else wanted to die.
‘I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to be here any longer. I don’t mean this place,’ she says, making a gesture that involves the ward. She points to her head. ‘I mean, this place.’
On the second day, a doctor comes by with an official looking form, the Beck Depression Inventory. It is a series of questions that attempt to measure the severity of your depression.
I score thirty-two.
‘Is that bad?’ I ask.
‘Anything over nineteen is severe depression. Under that, it’s moderate, dropping to mild.’
‘Oh.’
‘But there are people here at fifty,’ the doctor says.
I think he means to cheer me up. My throat closes at the idea of so much pain.
‘I see you ticked that you want to die.’
‘Yes.’
‘How would you like to die? Cancer, Aids, car crash?’
I look at him. ‘I might be depressed but I’m not mad. Pills, of course.’
He smiles. ‘Some people prefer cancer. It leaves them no option. It takes the responsibility out of their hands.’
Jesus.
Eighteen months later, I understand, after I have tried, twice, to kill myself and failed. Well, obviously, I’ve failed. It’s harder than you think to die, even when every fibre of your being is focused on death. Rehabilitation units are filled with people with shattered legs who’ve tried to kill themselves by throwing themselves off high buildings.
By then, I don’t just want terminal cancer. I long for it. Not for the sympathy. I want no attention. I have too much of that already. I just want not to exist.
Jane’s been in and out of this hospital five times. She is constantly, chronically, unrelentingly suicidal. But she is good, like most depressives, at hiding it. So good that the last time she was here, she was allowed out for a walk.
She went for a walk and then she went to a pub, where she drank five large gins. Not because she wanted a drink but because she wanted an anaesthetic. Psychiatrists call depressive drinking, ‘self-medication’. Then she bought four hundred paracetamol, all from different chemists. She ripped open the packages and hid the pills down her socks, in her coat pockets and in her jeans. It took her two hours to pop the pills out of their white plastic holders. When she walked back into the ward, she was rattling.
‘True dedication,’ she says.
‘You’re nuts,’ I say.
She laughs. ‘No!’ she says. ‘Really?’
‘It’s the worst death. It takes weeks and then your liver finally packs up.’
‘I know. They told me that when they found the pills.’
She wants to go for a walk now, but her psychiatrist won’t let her. ‘I’ll wear slippers,’ she pleads, ‘so I can’t run fast. I’ll shuffle slowly, like a mad person. A nurse can follow on behind. I’ll wear a nightie and a coat with no pockets.’
The answer is still no.
‘Please. I just need some fresh air.’
She tries another tack. ‘I could go out on the terrace. Sally could come with me. She’s
When they come into my room, they always say the same thing. ‘You’re awake!’ As if that’s a surprise at four in the morning in a mental hospital. I reply that I am always awake at that time. They say something about getting my psychiatrist to increase my sleep medication and then they check their charts and see that I am on the maximum dose.
‘Just try to relax,’ they say, ‘let your mind drift.’
Relax? Drift? Have they any idea what my mind is doing? But I say nothing. They are only trying to be kind.
Jane thinks the expression, suicide watch, is funny. ‘Can’t they phrase it in another way? It sounds like, “hey, guys, watch me die.” ’
I say, ‘Why do you want to die?’ I am fascinated. Before I got here, I had no idea that anybody else wanted to die.
‘I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to be here any longer. I don’t mean this place,’ she says, making a gesture that involves the ward. She points to her head. ‘I mean, this place.’
On the second day, a doctor comes by with an official looking form, the Beck Depression Inventory. It is a series of questions that attempt to measure the severity of your depression.
I score thirty-two.
‘Is that bad?’ I ask.
‘Anything over nineteen is severe depression. Under that, it’s moderate, dropping to mild.’
‘Oh.’
‘But there are people here at fifty,’ the doctor says.
I think he means to cheer me up. My throat closes at the idea of so much pain.
‘I see you ticked that you want to die.’
‘Yes.’
‘How would you like to die? Cancer, Aids, car crash?’
I look at him. ‘I might be depressed but I’m not mad. Pills, of course.’
He smiles. ‘Some people prefer cancer. It leaves them no option. It takes the responsibility out of their hands.’
Jesus.
Eighteen months later, I understand, after I have tried, twice, to kill myself and failed. Well, obviously, I’ve failed. It’s harder than you think to die, even when every fibre of your being is focused on death. Rehabilitation units are filled with people with shattered legs who’ve tried to kill themselves by throwing themselves off high buildings.
By then, I don’t just want terminal cancer. I long for it. Not for the sympathy. I want no attention. I have too much of that already. I just want not to exist.
Jane’s been in and out of this hospital five times. She is constantly, chronically, unrelentingly suicidal. But she is good, like most depressives, at hiding it. So good that the last time she was here, she was allowed out for a walk.
She went for a walk and then she went to a pub, where she drank five large gins. Not because she wanted a drink but because she wanted an anaesthetic. Psychiatrists call depressive drinking, ‘self-medication’. Then she bought four hundred paracetamol, all from different chemists. She ripped open the packages and hid the pills down her socks, in her coat pockets and in her jeans. It took her two hours to pop the pills out of their white plastic holders. When she walked back into the ward, she was rattling.
‘True dedication,’ she says.
‘You’re nuts,’ I say.
She laughs. ‘No!’ she says. ‘Really?’
‘It’s the worst death. It takes weeks and then your liver finally packs up.’
‘I know. They told me that when they found the pills.’
She wants to go for a walk now, but her psychiatrist won’t let her. ‘I’ll wear slippers,’ she pleads, ‘so I can’t run fast. I’ll shuffle slowly, like a mad person. A nurse can follow on behind. I’ll wear a nightie and a coat with no pockets.’
The answer is still no.
‘Please. I just need some fresh air.’
She tries another tack. ‘I could go out on the terrace. Sally could come with me. She’s
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