Suicide

In August, my uncle killed himself. He left his home at 8 o'clock in the morning, walked out the the woods where him and his brothers used to go fishing, and hanged himself.

The wake was held in his sister-in-laws house; just below the border in a small town in the south of Ireland. People came, payed their respects, told us about how they had seen him in town just two weeks before, or in the local pub, or just when he was about doing his business. Everyone that had seen him had this sense of entitlement, like they were all personally ingrained in his life. No, you weren't.

Even now it makes me livid. How dare someone act as if a death, especially a suicide, is about them? How dare you? This is a fucking awful tragedy and you want to make it about you? Fuck off. Go away. You don't deserve the time of day. Someone suffered to the point of committing suicide and you have the audacity to make it about yourself? Who do you think you are?

Maybe you could have been the one that made the difference to him, instead of just commenting on how you saw him two weeks ago, so how could he have killed himself? Well he fucking did.

Everyone wants to put in their pennies worth when they think they have an audience. They want that moment of attention on them. A story to tell, an anecdote that will bring relevance to them and make them feel a part of what's happening. They all acted like they knew him. They didn't know how alone he was, how much he was suffering. Now, don't think that this is my attempt of acting self righteous—I was miles away in London, away from him and anyone else in that stupid town. But he was my godfather. He always had pictures of me in the house, made a huge effort to be a great uncle to me and my brother when we visited.

But I wasn't trying to bring attention to myself. It's not okay in my mind. You pay your respects, you think about something positive to take your mind away from it. You don't act as if you were some part of his life, because if you were, and if you knew his mind, you would have known. When I found out it was suicide, I got it. In a twisted way, I got it. That's why I'm writing this. I've struggled with being suicidal for years. So, to lose someone I care about to that brings it so much closer to me. I wasn't alone.My Godfather, and in fact, Great-Uncle, went to somewhere he was loved to bring an end to the both physical and mental pain he was in. He had already lost two brothers to illness: pneumonia and brain hemorrhage. It was where he had good memories, and love. He knew no child would see him there. He was at peace, he made his decision and carried it through. That's what I try to take comfort in. He did what was best for the road he was on. He was sick, physically too. I won't go into that but he went with dignity, finding solace in a place that held so much love for him. But that doesn't make it okay. Suicide is not this gentle, quiet romantic way to go. It is literally the epitome of suffering. It is very hard to die, the human body is hardy and against killing itself. So to actually manage to go through with that shows the sheer suffering and pain that someone is in to go through that.

That isn't beautiful. That's absolutely fucking heartbreaking. He should have had people there to help him when he was at his lowest and weakest and when he needed it. Suicide shouldn't be taboo, shunned, or anything else. It should be spoken about. When people are in that space, suffering, they need help. Reach out to people you are worried about, be the person who can make a difference for someone. Mental health is as vital as physical, and there is always something you can do. Reach out, please.

(I would like to add that my taking comfort in his location choice is not me condoning or romanticising suicide. Suicide is never okay, and never the answer. For me, that was just my way of coping and finding peace with his death. That's what I have to do to be okay and move on and find peace.)