I’ve never once thought, If only I’d successfully killed myself, I would have been spared all this living I’ve done. I’ve lived nearly all my life with two incompatible ideas in my head: I wish I were dead and I’m glad my suicides failed. It’s too spooky, and I don’t want it in our house.Įven if there were no professional consequences (and I suspect there may have been), I’d worry about laying that kind of weight on the minds of young people, and also about the possibility that it might encourage one of them who might already be suffering from depression or having suicidal thoughts to make a bad choice.
I still haven’t moved that chair back upstairs. I dropped to the floor and lay there on the dusty concrete for a while. I started to panic, I resisted the panic, I panicked some more, and in a moment that I can’t exactly recall, I lifted myself up and got out of the leash. Other people manage to do it from a doorknob sitting down. I had forgotten that, though I’d tried it before, because I’d recently spent some time reading about people hanging themselves, and it sounded so easy.
But I wasn’t dying, I was just in terrible pain. Then I kicked the chair away like the gentle old institutionalized suicide Brooks Hatlen does toward the end of The Shawshank Redemption. I stood on the green chair and put the noose around my neck. I took the heavy blue canvas leash, looped it over a beam, made a noose by snaking the leash through the handle, latched it, and checked it for strength. I carried down a green leather and wood chair from my office while my dog watched from the stairs. The last time I tried to kill myself was in my basement with a dog leash.
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