Suicide

Depression is an awful condition, with many different causes, many of which cannot be helped by the sufferer, and only through treatment can be abated. But do we ever hear of people that deliberately cause their own depression? Does it even count as mental illness if a person knowingly and willingly does such terrible things in their life as to bring about such a state? Can it truly be called "depression" if it is brought about by self-sabotage?

Moreover, are all circumstances surrounding suicide related to depression? There are those who seek assisted suicide due to failing physical health. Samurai would commit seppuku in order to die with honour rather than be tortured by their enemies. Then there are cowards who kill themselves in jail rather than face justice for their crimes, such as Fred West and Harold Shipman.

I have a story to tell, and I hope that the sharing of it does not reflect badly upon me. It is about a real-life Ebenezer Scrooge, a person whose actions and demeanour led him to be universally despised, even by those who once cared for him. I tell it not only to make sense of my own feelings, but to speculate on whether all suicides should be treated as tragedies.

This man was lazy, and proud to be so. He fraudulently claimed benefits for several years, until he was found out. Still, he never sought work, choosing to leech from others instead of finding his own income. He had two sons to different mothers, and refused to even acknowledge the elder son's existence until his relationship with the mother of the youngest dissolved. Not one payment of child support was ever received by either mother.

He was racist, sexist, and without respect for any kind of authority except his own. Yet he was cowardly too, only able to assert himself with the assistance of others. He was a talented manipulator, getting those around him to do his bidding through bribery. He called people "brother" and "sister", gaining their trust under the illusion of fraternity and keeping them close for as long as they could be useful. Anyone clever enough to see through him and cut him out of their lives soon found themselves at the receiving end of a stream of back-stabbing and secondhand slander. Anyone not so observant would find themselves unceremoniously removed from his life once their usefulness expired.

Yet for what purpose did he need his many lackeys? To him, it was simple: the procuring and partaking of drugs. His was a near-permanent state of removal from reality. Believing himself to be a god among swine, he would sooner smoke a spliff than feed his son a sandwich. Of course, when his neglect was discovered, he threatened violence towards his accusers. To speak out against him was to sever all ties with him.

I wish this weren't a true story.

It ends this way: Having been abandoned by all his former friends for lying and cheating so often, he moved in with his mother. His little kingdom had failed him, yet he sought attention as often as he could. He sent pictures to his ex-girlfriends, taken from the roofs of multi-storey car parks, trying to scare them into satiating his need to control them.

Here, circumstances become a little hazy, but it can be safely assumed that his access to both of his sons was being revoked. He had become increasingly violent and unstable. The final straw came when he threatened to bomb his ex-girlfriend's house whilst she and their son were inside. The police were called, and charges were pressed.

Several days later, he took his own life. Reactions to the news of his death played out with a chilling resemblance to Dickens' Christmas Yet To Come.

I really wish this weren't a true story.

One cannot feel sad for him. He destroyed himself utterly, with a smile on his face as he did so. One cannot feel sad for those closest to him, either. His children will be no worse off without him, for he was never truly there for them to begin with.

Yet I feel sad. That such a person should exist, whose only legacy is the misery he caused others, hardly seems possible to me. People are generally a mix of both good and bad traits, and never a perfect rendition of either. But what good can be said for this person's life? He was too selfish to care for anyone else, and too cowardly to face justice when it finally came to meet him. Does the real tragedy lie in the fact that his end cannot be seen as tragic at all?

My despair for mankind has led to my own depression, and that this story has taken place so close to home makes me despair even more. Truly, no life was ever more wasted than his. But it is my wish that his two beautiful sons lead happy, fulfilling lives from here onwards. They are his only legacy, and his only hope for redemption.

Strands 2

One

My new pharmacist is lovely. Yesterday I had a medicine review with him, and he is kind and encouraging. He complemented me not just on my inhaler technique, but also on the effectiveness with which I control my other symptoms. I no longer dread collecting my prescription every month.

Two

Since I began counselling, I have developed a number of new techniques to help me to cope with everyday life. I have a diary to write my thoughts into, so that I don't dwell on them at bedtime. I drink hot chocolate to help me relax. I have a morning schedule and a night-time schedule. I give myself points for every good thing that I do in a day - even something as small as feeding the cats or doing the washing-up. My current high-score is 30.

But most importantly, I have thrown myself into my hobby - crochet. I have started to sell my creations online, and it stops me from feeling useless, even on my bedridden days when nothing else makes sense. There is a book on crochet and depression that I am eager to read when I have the money and the time.

Three

I have started going to gigs again, meeting up with friends and adding old acquaintances on Facebook. I've started to feel that perhaps I may not appear to be such an idiot as I once thought I did. One of my particularly close friends from my university days has a habit of playing Cupid amongst her particular circle of friends, and upon hearing that Leo and I are amicably separated, decided to introduce me to another single friend of hers, believing that we might have a lot in common.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, things did not go well - but not due to my depression or anxiety. He loved the sound of his own voice too much, interrupted me when I finally managed to get a word or two in edgewise, had no regard for my personal space, and seemed genuinely surprised when I wanted neither to kiss him or to go home with him. In fact, the whole experience left me quite upset. Are all men so narcissistic these days?

Leo had been ribbing me for days before the event, but seeing the look on my face upon my return has thankfully silenced him.

Four

In my attempts to re-engage with society, I fear I may have taken on too much. Four blogs, four Facebook pages, two online portals to my crochet business and a social life - inevitably I end up slipping, and neglecting one or more of these duties I have created for myself.  Perhaps I should set up a routine for these things too. I wouldn't want to intimidate myself with an enormous workload, and undo the progress my counsellor and I have made so far.

Appeal

Last month I had my own medical assessment with ATOS. Despite clearly showing my fear and discomfort around people, I was found to be fit for work, and placed in the Work Activity group. I appealed in writing, of course. My counsellor provided me with several copies of a letter to support the appeal - she's good that way. However, I was dismayed to discover that my GP had left the practice I attend, and that I had to discuss my appeal with another doctor.

He was thoroughly unpleasant. There was no bedside manner of which to speak, and he barely made eye contact with me. However, he presented Leo with a near-twenty-minute tirade about governmental policy, ATOS and the DWP, which went straight over my head, both figuratively and literally. He declined to lend his support to my appeal, telling Leo - not I - that my counsellor's letter would be quite enough, and that the decision makers never read the supporting material anyway. When he was quite finished, I asked him about an unrelated blood test. He mumbled something about referring me to haematology at the hospital, and sent us both on our way.

Outside, Leo called him a meat puppet. I called him a sexist meat puppet.

Aside from his poor attitude, I was disturbed by his eagerness to being politics so directly into our - well, his and Leo's - discussion. Whilst it's true that more and more doctors are dealing with patients' appeals against ATOS decisions, is it really prudent for general practitioners to launch into such diatribes in the surgery? We're there for health reasons, not political opinions. A simple "no, you have enough supporting evidence already" would have been perfectly acceptable as a response. Instead, I was left feeling very uncomfortable and considering whether I should move to another surgery to avoid this awful man.

The appeal is still ongoing. The DWP have written to me to say that they have received the appeal and that a decision is imminent. Meanwhile, Leo and I are struggling financially again. Worse, for reasons related to the state of our local mental health service, I have been unable to meet with my counsellor for three weeks. I feel suspended, helpless. Once again, my biggest problems are those beyond my control. Only time will tell.