A GLIMPSE INTO THE SUICIDAL MIND

This 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 room in Chatham and at 7 p.m. 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, 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. I've had bouts of severe depression for decades, had lost my grandfather, college girlfriend and childhood friends to suicide. 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 and be buried in a cold, snow-covered grave. Spring would be ideal. and Sunday, May 15th, the perfect day. It was a week after Mother's Day and two weeks before Memorial Day weekend - thus I wouldn't ruin these special times for family and friends.

I felt relief from my difficulties, fears, and anxieties. A bleak future was suddenly clearly defined. I would die on Sunday, May 15th, after "^0 Minutes," my favorite TV show. I decided to keep a daily journal. I also decided to make my funeral arrangements, spend most of March in Florida and April in Ireland.

Writing in my journal was the most important part of my day. A journey of words, of my thoughts, reflections, opinions, hopes, fears, feelings, suffering, loves and daydreams. A narrative of who I was and who I am - of time past and time present.

* * * * *

In extremis: On Sunday morning I went to Mass at Holy Redeemer, then to Larry's PX, where I bought juice, coffee and the Boston Sunday Globe. At noon I wrote in my journal for 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: life is full of fears that last but awhile, life is full of tears that last 'till you smile.

I went to the Squire, met friends and drank beer. Returning to my motel room, I watched TV. Just before 6 p.m., I filled three paper cups with my hoard of medications, opened a bottle of sangria and watched the news. By 7 p.m. I had become 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, and my family was notified that I wasn't expected to live. Six days later I came out of my coma. My only memory: someone asked me if I knew where I was and I answered, "Arizona." To this day, I'm not sure if it was a dream or reality. 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 affect family, friends and loved ones. Suicide is difficult to prevent because signs usually become visible only after the fact. Suicides are usually committed during the course of a person's regular routine. Up to the moment I attempted to kill myself, it was an ordinary Sunday with its normal routine.

Some time 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: when I was 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 could to get better.

I have done my best to follow her advice.

Contact: fortheheartcries@gmail.com