Last Weekend

It was to be my last weekend. I caught the train to London and spent
the journey staring into the low, bright sun as if to ask nature to
come and get me.

A friend met me from the station and we spent the day together. When we
returned from our night out, I stayed up and listened to a song before
going to sleep on her couch. "So long, so hard, until you understand."
The lyrics described how she might take the news.

The next day, I met another friend and we went Christmas shopping. I
couldn't concentrate - I knew I wouldn't make it to Christmas.

I am male, 23 and in the highest risk group to commit suicide. It had
been on my mind for the last six months.

By the Monday, I was still in London and arranged to meet the first
friend from work. I didn't know where to turn and in my cryptic and
confused way told her everything. "You're crazy," she said. "Go and see
someone."

I was starting to come to that conclusion myself. My bouts of
depression had started in May when, after a trying time at work, I
found myself staring out of bus windows, imagining what I would write
in a suicide note. My job was a good one and I had only started two
months earlier. I had a nice house, with some good friends, and knew
that I should be feeling very, very lucky. But no matter how much my
rational side argued, my irrational side kept periodically slipping to
dangerous depths.

I didn't understand it and I still don't. I had expectations that I
couldn't live up to - with feelings that I should be a better person, a
more reliable friend, with stronger principles, opinions and
creativity. I had a notion that such people existed and that such
people were successful. I, on the other hand, was a vacuous chancer who
had happened to get lucky to get where I was. But there was something
else missing - at 23, I have never had a serious girlfriend. I saw this
as the route to happiness - but I believed that it would never happen.
Never. There's no point trying.

Sad? In all senses of the word. I worked late, partly as a way to put
off the descent of my depressive moods. When I was at work, I was too
busy to think about it. But the moment I stepped out of the door, the
thoughts would drift back. So I stayed at work longer, putting off the
chance of these moods descending again, but at the same time damaging
my chances of building a functional life outside work that might help
lift the gloom. I went home, ate dinner, read the paper then retired to
the back yard to smoke three cigars. Cigars were my habit and my vice
and possibly the worst accompaniment to my moods. They gave me time to
think which, in my case, is a very dangerous thing. I spent three
quarters of an hour a night sitting under the stars, churning the
thoughts that were the sediment of my mind, and would usually return to
my room feeling a lot worse than when I had gone outside. There were
only three nights out of nine months that I didn't smoke.

At times, my mind would debate the best way to go. And the best place,
and the best time. I worked on the third floor and sometimes sat on the
windowsill smoking a cigar and staring at the city below after everyone
else had gone home. I went into chemists' to find out how many
painkillers came in a packet. 16. How many does it take to die?

During this time, one thing surprised me more than my own thoughts. My
friends. There were two good friends - the two I visited in London -
who were the only people I gave any indication of my feelings to. I
tried to explain myself a few times, when I was feeling particularly
bad, but I don't think they realised quite how bad it was. They didn't
understand, but they were understanding, and they were the only people
who made me feel worth something. But I tried not to mention my
feelings unless I absolutely had to - messed-up people are a burden,
and boring, and crazy. I didn't want to be any of these things,
especially not to them.

As time went on, my suicidal thoughts began to stick around more and
more. For several weeks in a row, I didn't know whether I would make it
to the next weekend. Then I went to London.

I already knew that I needed to see someone about my depression, but I
needed someone to tell me before I did anything about it. I made a deal
with my friend - I didn't want to let her down.

The next week, I tracked down a GP - I had not registered before
because, slightly ironically, I am very rarely ill. Physically ill,
that is. The doctor cocked her head in sympathetic bewilderment. I
found it hard to state my case in such a clinical fashion, and wanted
to get out of there as soon as I could, without too much painful
probing. My doctor obliged. "I'm going to put you on Prozac," she told
me before pointing out that there was a counsellor available if I
wanted - although there was a several week wait. I did not want. I did
not want to be asked more awkward questions by strangers - I wanted to
get out of there.

Christmas has now come and gone and I'm still here. I owe this fact to
a little pill called Prozac, which quickly dispelled my scepticism and
raised my mood. I've got a new job - a great job - I am moving to
London and have even began, in my own inadequate way, to meet
women.

Those old thoughts, fears and moods are still there somewhere, bubbling
under their blanket of chemicals. I feel them sometimes and think that
maybe I should again confront the uncomfortable and seek further
professional advice - diagnosis and treatment, rather than just
drugs.