A GLIMPSE INTO A SUICIDAL MIND (longer version)

This is a slightly longer version of the article I wrote in April 2014 that was published in the Cape Cod Times on May 13, 2014.

"A man awaits his end, Dreading and hoping all."

                                     W. B. Yeats

Twenty years ago, on Sunday May 15, 1994, I planned on dying. I expected and wanted to die. I was in a motel in Chatham, on Cape Cod, and at 7:00pm the time had arrived. I was ready to die.

* * * * *

On a day in late January 1994, I decided to kill myself. My life had become meaningless and unmanageable, my future nonexistent - a black hole with no escape. To kill myself was a perfect and brilliant solution, a remedy of redemption from a worthless life.

It was an easy decision, almost predestined. I've had bouts of severe depression for decades, had lost my grandfather, my college girlfriend and childhood friends to suicide - and had made two attempts years earlier. But this time would be different, better planned and executed. To assure my death, I began stockpiling an abundance of prescription medications - Xanax, Doxepin and Quazepam. 

Suicide, once a cruel and mortal enemy in my life, was now a friend I embraced.

* * * * *

Now, the important question, when to die? I did not want to die in winter. It chilled me to my bones just thinking about being buried in a cold, frost encrusted grave covered in snow. Spring would be ideal and Sunday May 15th the perfect day. It was a week after Mother's Day, thus I wouldn't ruin my mother's special day. It was also two weeks before Memorial Day Weekend, thus I wouldn't ruin this getaway weekend for family and friends.

I felt relief from my difficulties, fears and anxieties. A bleak future was suddenly clearly defined. I would die on May 15th after 60 Minutes, my favorite TV show. I decided to keep a daily journal, to spend most of March in Florida and April in Ireland. Writing in my journal would be the most important part of the day. A journey of words, of my thoughts, reflections, opinions, hopes, fears, feelings, sufferings, love and daydreams. A narrative of who I was and who I am, of time past and time present.

I began my journal on Ash Wednesday, February 16th, with these words, "remember man that you are dust and into dust you shall return."  Before leaving for Florida in early March, I made my funeral arrangements.

* * * * *

While in college I learned that there were two places that guaranteed peace and solitude, two places you could be alone and not be disturbed - churches and cemeteries. And they were the places I felt most comfortable writing in my journal, alone with my thoughts and words day after day.

I drove to Florida and spent a few days visiting a friend in Melbourne and my Alma Mater outside of Tampa. The rest of my time was spent in my favorite city, Saint Augustine. During the day I read and wrote, usually in the Basilica Cathedral or at the Mission of Nombre de Dios.  At night I drank beer and got drunk.

I came home to spend Easter with my parents and my brother and his family. A few days later I flew to Ireland.

During my time in Ireland I visited friends in Dingle, Bunratty and Donegal Town. We spent our nights drinking Guinness and Jameson, telling tale tales and laughing about old times. I also mage my final pilgrimage to the home and grave of the man I most admire, the poet William Butler Yeats.

His home, Thoor Ballylee, of which he wrote, "an ancient bridge and a more ancient tower...where the symbolic rose can break in flower," is a place of historic and natural wonder. I sat on top of the small bridge next to the tower and watched the river flow beneath me - carrying with it all memories of my many past visits that now appeared as ancient as the tower itself. The memories, like the river, flowing to the sea to disappear forever.

In the churchyard of Saint Columba's Church in the village of Drumcliffe is Yeats' grave with its famous epitaph, "Cast a cold eye on life, on death, Horseman pass by." Since I was in high school I have loved and appreciated his poetry, the beauty and imagery of his words.

To me this is a holy and hallowed place, a sacred shrine. I placed a small bouquet of flowers on his grave and said a prayer. I then went into the church and wrote in my journal. As I did so, I came up with my own epitaph which I decided would be the last words in my journal.

As I left the church I thought of Yeats' words, "time drops in decay like a candle burnt out." With my journey and pilgrimage over, it was time to go home and die - my lifer now complete.

* * * * *

In Extremis: On Sunday morning May 15th, I went to Mass at Holy Redeemer, then to Larry's PX where I bought juice, coffee and the newspaper. At noon I wrote in my journal for what I thought was the final time. I began with Yeats, "a brief parting from those dear is the worst man has to fear." I ended with my words, my epitaph: "Life is full of fears that last but awhile, Life is full tears that last 'til you smile."

I then went to the Squire, met friends and drank beer. Returning to my motel room, I watched TV. Just before 6:00pm I filled three paper cups with my hoard of medication, open a bottle of Sangria and watched the news. 

By 7:00pm I had become extremely restless. When the 60 Minutes watch started ticking, I was ready to die. In quick succession I swallowed the three cups of pills along with a glass of Sangria - I immediately collapsed to the floor.

On Monday morning my body was found. I was taken to Cape Cod Hospital. I was in a coma, my family notified that I wasn't expected to live. Six days later I came out of my coma, My only memory: someone asked if I knew where I was - I answered, Arizona. To this day, not sure if a dream or it actually happened. When I was well enough, I was transferred to the Psych Center.

* * * * *

A suicidal mind is a closed, self-centered mind, completely unaware of the consequences of how death will effect family, friends and loved ones. Suicide is difficult to prevent because signs usually become visible only after the tragedy.

Suicides are usually committed during the course of a person's regular routine. Up until the moment I attempted to kill myself, it was an ordinary Sunday with its normal routine..

Sometime ago I read these words: "A person thinking of suicide is perfectly capable of feigning an interest in a future they have no intention of inhabiting."

* * * * *

Twenty years have passed since that Sunday in spring. What I remember most is this: while in the Psych Center, I was visited by one of the emergency room doctors who treated me. She told me there was no medical reason why I was alive - that I should be thankful and do everything I can to get better.

It has not always been easy, but I have done my best to follow her advice ti this very day.

Contact: fortheheartcries@gmail.com