I have never attempted suicide. But a couple of times I've found myself thinking about it - thinking about who'd care if I was dead, who'd notice I was gone... About how much simpler it would be to die than continue putting up with the same old shit...
Once I ended up storming out of my flat and walked off towards Holyrood Park, with a vague intention of walking up the Crags (local 'popular' suicide spot). I don't know if I'd have thrown myself off the edge or not. I never got that far. Instead, I found a phone box and called my best friend. She helped me see things in perspective and I was able to turn round and walk home and keep living.
The Edinburgh Festival 2001 was a low point in my life. I had just got over having tonsilitis, was working 6 nights a week, and hated my job. I'd end up walking to work in the evening almost hoping I'd be hit by a bus. I hated most of the people I was working with, and nearly all the punters were assholes. Because I was working nights, I didn't get to see my friends, and my flatmates were all working different hours, so I hardly saw them either. I just got more and more down. Then one night, one of the punters had a go at me for spilling his beer - that was the final straw and I just broke down in tears. The punter (Justin) was great actually - he took me off to a quiet part of the courtyard and sat talking to me for ages. He asked me if I suffered from depression. I said I didn't know. He suggested I get it checked out. And I wanted to, but I was scared.
Then in January 2002, I was supposed to be doing a seminar presentation for uni in the first week of term. But whenever I tried to read for it, I couldn't concentrate. I didn't really notice at first, but I was getting down again. I stopped eating regular meals, I'd shut myself in my room and avoid talking to my flatmates. I was feeling tired all the time, but couldn't sleep properly. Then one night, I found myself having those thoughts again - 'what's the point? No one would miss me if I was dead...' I heard my flatmate was still awake, so I got up and talked to her for a couple of hours. I decided then to go to the doctor the following week. The next day I tried working on my seminar again. Again, I was getting nowhere, and the presentation was less than 2 days away. I eventually gave up on it, and decided I'd get all the work done the next day. But lying in bed, unable to sleep for the 3rd or 4th night running, I found myself imagining slitting my wrists. There was no blood or anything, just the knife slicing through my skin. I couldn't handle that - I had to get up and put the light on. I went through to my flatmate's room to talk to her, but she was fast asleep. I wanted to talk to someone, and thought about calling Niteline or the Samaritans, but after flicking through the yellow pages for the number, I just couldn't do it. I couldn't bring myself to talk about this to a complete stranger on the phone, no matter how well-trained or friendly or whatever... I ended up putting my computer on and going on the internet until about 6am. By then I had calmed down enough to get a couple of hours sleep. When I woke up, I called the doctor and made an appointment for the next day. Then I emailed my tutor and told him I wouldn't be doing my seminar. I guess that was the day my life began to change, or something... I can still see the knife against my skin if I think about it. I don't want that to be a reality. I want to beat this.
