As I fall down again, I recall once reading of someone on the periphery of fame saying that he would like to hold a gun to the head of anyone about to jump off a building because this would stop them; this would show them up for the attention seeker they are; this would make them realise that they would like to live.
So as I fall down again, I would like to extend an open invitation to this almost-celebrity to bring his gun along and try it out. Because that would not only get rid of the shame and the guilt but would also solve the slight problem of being too much of a coward to sort it out myself.
But then I think I’m being unfair. There was probably a time when I thought something similar, perhaps not as harsh but certainly that I didn’t understand the reasons behind suicide. It’s not wanting to die (as I’ve said before, I can be wishing for death, begging not to have to go on and at the exact same time be worried because I feel like I can’t breathe or that my heart may stop any second). Suicide, for me anyway, is wishing I had never existed. It’s feeling I shouldn’t exist and wanting to put right the fact that I do.