‘So’ there was a pause, ‘have you ever thought about suicide?’
I continued staring at the piece of paper before I looked into his eyes, ‘Have I thought about suicide? Hmm…’
I let the words linger; if I said no, would he think I was in denial and a high risk? If I said yes, would he think I was a fruit loop and send me to the funny farm?
Had I thought about suicide?
Well yes but.. no.. hmm…not really.
If I had, how would I do it? Would I drink myself stupid and take tablets? A covert alcohol buying trip to the supermarkets spirits section. But when I get there I wonder, what is the best spirit to use? I suppose you’ve got to enjoy the taste, so whiskey and brandy would be out as I only like those diluted or in coffee. Southern Comfort? Love it but too sweet. Vodka, gin? Sigh…and how much would I need? How long before the alcohol blots me out? The cost of spirits is ridiculous if I’m going to need more than one bottle that’s for sure. And at what point do I take tablets? Do I have to be totally with it and shovel them down my neck at the beginning of the session or half way or just before I pass out? But when do I know I’m going to pass out? Hmm and what tablets? Parecetamol? Ibuprofen? Anti depressants? Nah I’d be sick; think of the mess I have to clean up if I survive and boy, that would be a hangover to end all hangovers!
Would I hang myself from a tree? Where could I go that I could rig up a decent amount of rope, pre ‘noosed’? I’d have to go and have a rekkie, determine the height of the branch and its suitability. Mathematical equation to determine ‘dangle length,’ velocity of drop and strength of branch. But apart from working out how I would get myself into a suitable position for neck stretching how big does the noose have to be so you don’t slip out and drop to the floor; breaking a leg on the way? ‘Yes, ambulance please; where? Hmm, top of Carrs Hill, the big oak.. what was I doing? Erm… erecting a swing rope for the kids, the branch broke and I fell and think I’ve broke my leg.’ Oh the humiliation. That would hurt! Of course it would have to be somewhere scenic really and have a suitable chair handy. And how do I explain to the two little boys running past with their football that no, they can’t play on my swing as it’s for me and not little boys; I’d probably get my shins kicked!
Slit wrists? Although I wield a scalpel most days and am not squeamish, I hate to see a scalpel cutting flesh. My ex husband in his youth use to proudly tell me that a girl said she’d slit her wrists if he didn’t go out with her: he gave her a piece of glass and walked away. And how quickly do you have to slit the second after the first is spurting and redecorating your lounge? Do my beta blockers make me bleed out quicker or slower? Or would I be in a warm bath? Nah, hate baths and I’d be a wrinkled prune before anyone found me with beetroot coloured skin; and cold from the water. What? It doesn’t matter that I’m cold ‘cos I’d be dead? Hmm…good point. In bed maybe: Decisions, decisions! Scalpel or old fashioned razor blade? How about one of my lovely kitchen knives? Point in or slice? Nah, hate pain: and the mess! Boy I’m getting a headache just thinking of the options.
Carbon Monoxide poisoning? Haven’t got a garage to drive my car in and hook it up to the exhaust. Also think I would get bored waiting; it must take a while surely? Mind you, the irony is that I could have snuffed it accidently when a neighbour installed a log burner and the smoke and fumes came down my chimney: thank heavens for a CO meter or I could be dead!....Can it work with diesel?
Drive off a cliff… I thought about this for a moment: that feeling of weightlessness as you glide off the top in slow motion like Thelma and Louise before gravity pulls you crashing into the sea. That point where you can’t suddenly go back as you remember you left the iron plugged in; heaven forbid you burnt the house down: a Fred Flintstone ‘air walk’ is not going to get you back onto terra firma. Then the jarring ‘thud’ as you hit the water and slowly sink. I’m imagining this takes time too? Nope; hate going under water.
And of course, at the point of death when all your muscles relax into silence and calm after all the reactive twitching; do you defecate?
‘Suicide? No not really’ I replied.