Inspired by a post from somebody I don't even know.
On the 31st of December 1999, I was ready to end it all.
I hadn't made the decision because it seemed like a fitting way to see out the end of the century, it was more so because I didn't want to face the turn of the new year...the new century, in the same way as I had faced the last years of the previous one.
Facing up to the fact that my marriage had failed a few years earlier threw me into a depression. Trying to come to terms with the reasons and the absolute feeling of being used, dragged me down into the bleakest and darkest depths of a place I'd never want to return.
Nobody had any idea what was going on in my head. I had almost perfected the smiles, the happy-go-lucky and the 'mask' that I have subsequently over the years, learnt to carry off without even thinking.
In the year leading up to the (non) event, I found myself trying desperately to be wanted. A string of unsuccessful relationships left me feeling empty and no amount of attention from girls managed to convince me I was worth anything more than shit on their shoes. I was going through a period of being convinced that every girl I would have a relationship with, was based on a 'need' from them to be wanted....a need from them to be with somebody...and nothing to do with actually wanting to be with me.
My only solace during that year, was my visits to gay clubs with my ex wife, purely for the feeling of 'release'. The music was way, way, way beyond the average par. The people were uber-friendly and the atmosphere made me feel like I could let go of my inner fears, even for such a short moment and feel as close to myself as I felt was possible at the time.
There was no posing, no pressure, no "watch how cool I am" feelings in there and the ambiance left me with a feeling of hope.
This wasn't to last, mainly because I felt like I was almost intruding on territory that I didn't belong, even though I went with my ex-wife, who by this time was out to her few closest friends and her immediate family.
Emptiness seemed to fill my eyes and I felt like my soul needed to be set free.
During the week leading up to the eve of the Millennium, I ensured I was as 'normal' as the painting I had portrayed for others to see. I didn't go out of my way to see or speak to friends or family, just in case I drew their attention to something being wrong.
After very little thought, my choice of poison was handfuls of sleeping tablets and as much vodka as I could stomach. Ironic then, because I have always struggled to take tablets and I can't say I'm a big fan of vodka at the best of times. But the focus was on the result, not the method.
Sat alone in a room in the house, I could countdown the time by the explosions of fireworks being set off outside by the party revellers in the same street. I can remember thinking how absurd it felt that so many other people were building up to the excitement and celebrations of a new year, a new decade and a new era and there was me using their fireworks countdown as a measure to the end.
Feeling completely unselfish at the time, I didn't even give a second thought to the people I was about to leave behind. As far as I was concerned, everybody was better off without me. I even convinced myself that after the initial shock they may feel, followed by some anger and frustration, they would all get over it fairly quickly and their own lives would continue without even looking back on what I'd done.
It's quite unreal just how selfish you feel when contemplating suicide.
During the last hour, I pondered about leaving a note. I pretty much knew that none of my friends or family had any idea about my motives that night because I'd been careful not be act 'out of the ordinary'. I became frustrated with myself with what to say, building more unwanted turmoil in my head during the final 30 minutes before finally deciding that I just wanted to say goodbye to everybody.
It didn't seem right....It didn't seem fitting....It made me feel even more uncomfortable with myself that I was even bothering to spend so much time trying to say such a simple thing, but failing.
Nothing got written down for a while. I just sat there on the edge of the bed with a pen in one hand, a scrap of paper in the other feeling blank.
With less than 5 minutes to go, I finally put pen to paper and wrote, "There was no hope for me, I'm sorry". Those words will always stay burnt in the back of my mind.
When the time came, I glanced down at the handful of pills in my palm, the pills now losing some of their coating from the clammy sweat, leaving white powdery traces. The bottle of vodka sat on the floor, beside my feet.
It was time.
To this day, I don't know why I couldn't swallow those pills. My mouth was heaving with dozens of pills, the vodka being poured in, trying to wash them down but to no avail. I felt a huge battle going on between my determination to swallow them down and a slight sense of sanity. For some reason, my throat just closed up and refused to allow me to continue. By this time, tears were streaming down my face, although I'm still not sure if they were tears of frustration or relief.
It's not something I look back on with admiration or pride. Although I have, on occasion, thought back to how weak I felt at the time and somehow managed to find a tiny glimmer of hope to get through it.
And when I look back, even after writing this....I feel like I must have had something to offer. Something to offer myself, or maybe in time, even something to offer someone else.
There is always hope.
