Editor’s note: The following is an excerpt, Chapter One, from the book Before I Leave You: A Memoir on Suicide, Addiction, and Healing. It has not been edited by The Good Men Project.
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I wonder if an email can be sent on a time delay. You compose it, set the day and time you’d like it to be sent, and it sends at that time. Has this been invented? I’m sure it has. I need to do this with my passwords.
Okay, I’m having a bad night. That’s all it is. My therapist said that I should try to identify what catastrophic thoughts are going through my head on nights like these. She repeatedly used the word “catastrophic” when describing these thoughts. I suppose the word is suitable when describing the thoughts of a person who no longer wants to live, which is how I’m feeling tonight.
I walk over to my closet and grab a tie. I don’t wear ties anymore. Their primary use had been to play with Logan, my constantly purring, white Persian cat. Logan loves to bat his paws at them while I dangled it in his face. The tie I picked was knotted already from the other half-ass attempts, but now it’s go-time. It’s a strange, surprisingly comfortable decision. I wrap the tie around my neck while sitting down on my staircase, then secure the other end to an upper railing. I can barely lean forward without the tie tightening. I know if I just sit here and relax long enough, the blood flow to my brain will stop and I’ll pass out. Gravity would do the rest. It’s like the autoerotic asphyxiation stories I’ve seen on TV cop dramas. A man masturbates while slouching forward with his neck tied similar to how I described above, but takes too long and ends up dead. I never thought to masturbate while doing this, but it’s probably not a good idea given how I’d be found. I wonder what Kevin would say to me if he was around. He’s been the one constant in my life since I was a kid. I’m pretty sure he’d be pissed.
I pass out slowly, and right on cue, the room goes black. I let go and for a few seconds I’m at peace. A blissful nothing. Tension dissolves into the ether and my body falls. The fall forward jerks me awake. The noose tightens from the fall and I can’t breathe. The room is still dark to my eyes and I can barely lift my hands. I try to scream but can’t — I have no breath to do it. I’m deaf now, only able to hear the tapping sounds of my hands and feet as I struggle. It’s as if my head is underwater. Somehow, I focus enough to loosen the knot and stumble down the remaining stairs. I struggle to breathe through my crushed windpipe. Bile makes its way out and onto the floor. I lay quietly gaining consciousness while contemplating this embarrassing failure. I am now either one of those this-is-a-cry-for-attention losers, or just plain incompetent. I hate myself even more. I consider that maybe I want to live for something, but I am more convinced that a natural survival instinct kicked in. Logan sits there watching. I wonder what he was thinking. He’s probably excited to see the tie.
I hadn’t thought about the list before this attempt. The list of things to do to prepare for being dead, I mean. The passwords that the ex-wife or friends get so they have access to my laptops, phones, and email so they can continue as if nothing happened. To make sure the banking information gets to the ex in case she needs to transfer some money since I wouldn’t be doing it anymore. And this might seem a bit silly for most; to wrap up all the significant work-related projects. It was a company that I started nine years earlier and there was always work to be done. I had a young partner, Mitchel, and I didn’t want him inconvenienced, other than losing a close friend and partner to suicide. I wanted the people I left behind to have a smooth transition. I’d describe these thoughts as considerate, not catastrophic.
I wasn’t always like this. I didn’t always want to die. I’ve done and seen extraordinary things in my life both wonderful and terrible. I’ve lived homeless on the street, built successful businesses, met the Queen of England, and swam with Great White Sharks. I’ve hurt too many people to count; I’ve lied, I’ve cheated, and was arrested on more than one occasion. The protagonist in any story is a champion of a cause or idea. A hero. Something I am not. I am someone who barely hung on. The following is the story of how I struggled to survive childhood to build a beautiful life only to annihilate it in a self-indulgent, self-destructing cavorting dance with drugs and alcohol, leaving heartbreak and pain in my wake. I am not the hero. I am the one who stared death in the face and taunted it. This story is about giving up. This story is about holding on.
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In the United States: Suicide Prevention Lifelines are available 24/7 – so make use of them if your loved one needs to talk with someone urgently. Call National Hope Helpline at 1-800-SUICIDE (1-800-784-2433) or the National SuicidePrevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255) or in Spanish, 1-888-628-9454.
In Canada: National Suicide Prevention Support line
1.833.456.4566 / www.crisisservicescanada.ca
Quebec Residents: 1.866.277.3553
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Photo credit: The author
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