Dragon Radio - SoundSage

SUICIDE AND ME

What causes someone to die by suicide?

I don’t mean by the specific mechanics used, I mean what takes someone to that place? You probably have an opinion, but do you really know? I've been suicidal many times. I've planned my suicide – in detail. I've never acted upon it fortunately, but I know that at any time I can do it within a day. I think I’ve been as close to suicide as it’s possible to get. If you want to know more about my personal experience, read on.

Why have I been suicidal?

Were things just too much for me to cope with or too difficult to overcome? Whilst certain events generally triggered my decline into feeling suicidal, it’s never been related to a rational or straight forward thought. Eg. I can’t deal with my problems = I’m suicidal.

So what’s caused it then?

I'll take my last \"episode\" as an example. There was a mixture of coming off anti-depressants over the course of a year, and dealing with the depression which crept back up on me through self medicating. It could have been alcohol, or illicit drugs but in my case it was a prescription drug called diazepam. It helped for couple of hours when I took it. This seemed to fend off the anxiety and depression. Then one day there was a trigger, and my mind flipped. I'll say what that trigger was in a minute.

When that flip happened, things changed dramatically. I became very quickly completely detached from the real world. I had a great job which I really enjoyed but I couldn't do it, no matter how hard I tried. To that point, my job was my therapy - but I couldn't think straight. This was no small thing. I couldn't even do the most basic thing. Brushing my teeth became a challenge. I completely lost any ability to do anything. Panic attacks started continuously along with a manic anxiety. Anxious > panic attack > elated > anxious > panic attack > elated > anxious ad infinitum. I struggled to drink water. I couldn't swallow properly. I certainly couldn't eat, although I tried to force myself to.

My boss rightly wanted me to see a doctor ASAP and signed me off. He wanted a letter from my doctor to say I was fit to work. I was off for a couple of weeks. I quickly saw a psychiatrist and saw him about 3 or 4 times in a short period. He weighed me every time I saw him. I lost half a stone in a week. Being normal weight at the time and not trying to lose weight, this was obviously not good. Especially as normally I could eat forever (another story). I begged him to write me a note saying I was fit for work. He did, but I wasn't.

The year leading to that point...

I suppose it's time to let you know what the cause of this episode was. At least in part for the moment. I suffered from hypervigiliance for many years. I never knew that and still didn't at this point. It's something which stemmed from my childhood. I was suffering a kind of post traumatic stress disorder causing an innate need to keep my children and myself safe 100% of the time.

What is hypervigilance?

Hypervigiliance causes the sufferer to seek out and be aware of all dangers around them at all times. Much like a lookout. Personally speaking my alertness to threats grew and grew over that year.

What were the threats?

I feared for my own safety but primarily I feared for the safety of my children. I was always looking for threats.

Leaving them at school: I needed to know all the security precautions in place to protect them. If I saw any vulnerability, I would raise it and follow it up constantly until it was resolved. I would worry all day about them.
Being on busy streets: I was totally aware of strangers being a threat; every bit of traffic. I knew I needed to give my kids space to grow, and I did (at least I think I did), but I couldn't take my eye of them for a second. In the park, the eldest had to make sure the youngest was with him so I could make sure they were both in my eye-line. Also, I had to be within a certain distance from them to protect them from strangers. Anxiety inducing adrenaline running through my body the whole time.
Going on the tube or public transport: Was anyone going to kill us? I'd be looking everywhere for the slightest indication of danger.
Taking them to soft play: Could anyone infiltrate the building who wanted to kill the kids? Where were all the exits and entrances? Keeping an eye on both kids simultaneously. I was so on edge.

That trigger then...

There were a few terrorist attacks across the world including in Western Europe. One of them was so bad I couldn't deal with it. How could I protect my kids, my family, from something like that? That was something that I felt could happen to us if we did something as simple as leaving our flat. Back to that flip in my brain. This was it. I lost all ability to think rationally. I had lost control of the ability to function.

A darkness and evil descended upon my every thought. I was off sick now - as mandated by my boss. I wanted to get better quickly. I didn't know about hypervigilance yet. Everywhere I looked, I saw evil, I saw darkness. Happiness? peace? What were they? They were alien to to me. At times, I wouldn't feel like I was conscious. That somehow I was distanced from what I was doing. Somehow I was guiding what I was doing like a video game with some kind of controller.

I wasn't human any more and I never would be again. This was it. This was permanent. And now when I thought about my kids, it was me who became the threat. My inability to function was now the biggest threat to them. How can I be like this and protect them? They don't deserve this. I cried. A lot. Thinking of them was what made me cry. There was no \"why me?\". It just was. It was just that I knew I was never normal. I thought this as a child, and this crazy mass of messed up thinking was reinforcing that. I had no sympathy for myself. Just those around me. My poor wife. My poor mum. My poor, poor kids. Putting up with an undeserving excuse of a waste of space like me.

Suicide?

This was my life now, and I \"knew\" this was going to be my life forever. What can I do to give my family a chance? Take myself out of it was the only conclusion I could come to. Move away? No. I couldn't live without seeing them... selfishly I thought. There was only one option. I needed to die. I wanted to make sure my family was cared for as best I could though. I prepared to move all my savings over to my wife. I wrote a short book for my children about how there was always someone watching over them. I was going to ask my wife to make sure they knew that one of the people looking over them was me. I asked my brother to make sure the kids were well looked after by the family. I researched the method of suicide which would be best for me. The least gruesome. The most peaceful. I found it and prepared for it. So that was now in place. When I was going to do it, I wasn’t going to mess it up. It was going to be done properly. No messed up attempt.

Then came that prick of rational consciousness, coming through to me like the tiniest stream of light through a dark overcast sky. It wasn't the right thing to do. This wasn't the best thing for my kids. Staying wasn't either. I searched for an answer but there wasn't one. These conflicting thoughts bounced through my mind several times an hour, sometimes several times a minute. Will I do it? I don't think so. Even though I'm not thinking rationally when I've been suicidal, that specific thought always stopped me in my tracks. Would they be better off if I wasn't around? The answer was always no. No matter how detached I was from reality - always no. I knew my kids depended on me and looked to me for so many things. Internally, I swore at them because they keep me hanging on - the little buggers. I couldn't break that unconditional love and that bond.

Talking

Fortunately, I was honest with the psychiatrist, however I didn't want to take the medication he prescribed. I'd read that there was a very small chance of a severe allergic reaction causing a very painful death - part of my hypervigilance. Ironic right? I guess I just didn't want to die. But I did, then I didn't... etc, etc. Inevitably, the psychiatrist told me I should be admitted to hospital. I was. I felt a massive relief. I was going to get better! I saw light again. I saw the prospect of getting my life back again. However, sadly, those thoughts didn't last long. When I woke after my first night, everything which caused me to be admitted was there again. I was devastated. Again, my mind completely scrambled and again I was no longer in control of functioning.

Hospital

I stayed there 3 weeks. I was on constant suicide watch. There was always that risk I would think suicide was best for my kids. Wherever I went in the hospital there was someone checking on me every few minutes. We had group therapy every day. Sitting in therapy rooms with these thoughts constantly driving me mad, leaving me on the constant edge of panic. I had to stick it out. I had to get better. I kept being told I would get better. Sometimes I had to leave the sessions. I had to be given sedatives to stop the thoughts. The sedatives were addictive and wouldn't work if they were used regularly, but for now they were a blessed relief. They were a quicker, more intense version of diazepam called lorazepam. These are both a type of drug called benzodiazepines, or benzos for short.

Therapy

There were a few therapists at the hospital but there was one in particular who I remember clearly. A Canadian guy. I didn't like him. He never told me what I wanted to hear. He kept saying the same thing to me. \"I can't guarantee your safety, or the safety of anyone else\". Why not? This didn't make sense to me. If me and my kids were safe from everything, then I'd get better. Surely that's what he had to convince me of. This * kept saying the same thing. One day, the subject of hypervigilance came up. I researched it... actually, I mean I googled it and read the Wikipedia article. This was it. This is what I was suffering from.

Leaving hospital

I now knew what the problem was, but I hadn't even started to recover from it. I hated the loneliness of being in hospital. Being the other side of the city to my family. Christmas was coming, and I had to get the hell out. This is when I faked my way out. I was still so ill though. In fact, I got worse. Remember the lorazepam I mentioned and their highly addictive nature. Well, when leaving hospital I didn't have access to them.

Hallucinations

No benzos now, and something bad started to happen constantly without respite. I began to visualise evil everywhere. I couldn't open my eyes, I couldn't close my eyes. I looked at clouds. I saw dragons. I saw devils. Many devils. I remember looking at a pair of wardrobe doors. The top mirror panels were massive eyes. The knobs below them, nostrils. It was a giant monster and it was moving towards me. Everything everywhere looked like something evil. Things just kept getting worse. I still held the belief that I was never going to get better. This proved it, but people still told me I would. That this was temporary. My psychiatrist was on holiday. In desperation I called her cover. He told me I'd developed an addiction to the benzos I'd been taking. He prescribed them straight away. Throughout this time since I first mentioned it above, I remained in that suicidal conundrum. My brain not doing somersaults, but rather spinning uncontrollably in all directions.

Relief

As directed, I started to take diazepam regularly. Wow! Just like that I was ok. How?! Everything started to become rational. It was a shock and difficult to adapt to at first. I had lost my job by this stage, so going back wasn't an option. Then, bad news. I knew it was inevitable, but it was now said - I couldn't stay on diazepam. I had to be slowly weaned off. I had to take something else instead. Something which I knew would make me a lot worse for a few weeks before I felt better. Damn. I couldn't go back to my normal life yet. I had to go through hell again to get better. Hell. Voluntarily going through that hell again. But I knew I had to do it. I knew it was my only option. I readied myself for it as best I could. I knew what was coming, and I knew it wouldn't last forever.

Back to hell

I might have thought I was ready for this medication change, but nothing could have prepared me for irrational thinking. The clue is in the word - irrational. As we ramped up the new med and tried to reduce the other, things deteriorated rapidly. The feelings of not being worthy of my family or worthy of being a human being and \"knowing\" everyone was better off without me were back. Again juxtaposed with the thought that I couldn't do harm to my kids by departing. My brain went to mush and started rolling around in my head again. Every minute. Every hour. Every day. The strong belief that this would last forever. My psychiatrist told me to stop trying to come off diazepam. The psychiatrist thought the withdrawal effects - known as Benzodiazepine withdrawal syndrome - were too much. The dosage froze, and I kept taking it. Getting onto the other med remained hell though.

A new symptom arrived. Emptiness. No feeling. No point. What am I fighting for? What's the point of life? What's the point of anyone living? It's futile. All these buildings around me. Offices, shops, houses, flats. Why? To prolong a pointless existence? I was having talking therapy at this point - once a week. Once when walking into a session, the therapist asked me how I was. I bluntly said \"I want to be dead\". She said I should go back to hopsital. No point was my response. But even with this new symptom I still had those little buggers, my children, preventing me from killing myself. I couldn’t leave them to get through this pointless existence without a dad. I went to therapy because I listened to people who kept telling me I would feel ok again. I saw no point, but if it was going to help my kids I had to listen.

Recovery?

Let's fast forward a few months. Maybe 6 or so. It remained hell to that point. I was given a few extra meds to try. Eventually, something started to work. With all these meds swimming around, I was sleeping 12-13 hours a day, but when I was awake I could function again. Slowly over the next few months, I reclaimed my life. I was still very drowsy from the medication - there was a ton of it, but I could now affect others' lives positively. I picked up my kids from school. I took them to football training. I met loads of other parents. I even started refereeing games and became assistant manager to the team. I started playing football myself. I started voluntary work for a mental health charity, helping others going through hell. I had a pretty senior role and helped to develop the organisation structure. I was asked to become a trustee. Wow. This was great.

What about the hypervigilance?

It went. Pretty much completely. In fact, I've gone in the opposite direction. I embrace risk. I embrace those who take risk for the betterment of themselves, community and society. I don't think that I'm putting my kids in harms way doing everyday things eg using public transport or things I consider safe e.g. going on a really \"scary\" roller-coaster. Overcoming hypervigilance was a long, long process. Something I can talk about, but at another time perhaps. But dare I say it, I was starting to enjoy life again.

Keeping things at arms length

As I said, I was asked to become a trustee of the charity. I was also asked to be on my kids' schools PTA. I turned the jobs down. I didn't want to let people down. I knew how ill I was before. I didn't want to get like that and let people down. Also, I wanted to minimise the risk of my brain short circuiting again. I still feel that today. My family is the most important thing and I don't want to put myself in a situation which could mess me up again.

Community, talking and other things

Nowadays, I try and do as much as possible to look after my mental health. I try to be an active member of my community through different activities. Bonding with others and talking about anything and everything is so important to me now. I also try and help people who are going through their own issues. I have my bad days. My life isn't ideal. I need to earn more money than I do and that affects me sometimes. Change can be an issue too - I don't like the prospect of my routine changing. I can deal with it though. Everyhing’s relative.

Well there we go. That's where I am right now. It's not the end of the story. The story continues and for now it remains to be written. Hopefully I'll never go back to hell again. If I do, I really hope there are people to help me through it, just as there were before... even if I was trying their patience.

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