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My Suicide Attempt

Zach Murphy

    Sometime after watching the twin towers burn from the east corner of the Manhattan block I lived on, it became clear to me that I was afflicted with depression and OCD. I was miserable at work and at home, where my live-in girlfriend and I argued far too often in her tiny apartment. It got to the point where I ordered a book that I thought was a how-to-commit-suicide guide. I know I probably don’t need a book to show me how to kill myself. However, if I resolved to do it, two things were very important to me; I wanted to succeed and avoid as much pain as possible. That’s why I ordered and purchased the book.
    Suicide is a major world health problem. It is routinely one of the leading causes of death. The media loves to report violent premature human death; if it bleeds, it leads. However, unless it’s the suicide of a celebrity, or it’s a story that can’t be ignored, they probably won’t cover it. The Centers for Disease Control has asked the media to not publicize suicides, because suicide seems to be contagious. They tend to occur in clusters. People at the CDC believe that the more the media covers suicides, the more copycat suicides will occur as a result.
    Even though I’m quite familiar with not wanting to live, I doubt that hearing about someone killing themselves would cause me to commit suicide. It’s not such an easy decision for me. I have pondered suicide extensively, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s quite ugly. The way I see it, suicide is the murdering of the body by the mind. The mind wants to die, but it seems like the body is not always on the same page. For example, if one hangs oneself, their body will flop around like a fish out of water: trying to free itself from the noose. Similarly, if one attempts to drown oneself, their body will struggle mightily to survive. I take good care of my body. I eat well and I exercise regularly. I love my body, and I don’t want to destroy it. It’s the only thing I have that really belongs to me.
    Depression, for me, is misery. It’s feeling miserable, wishing I’d never been born, and not wanting to live. I’ve experienced much more pain, frustration, boredom, and sadness than happiness.
    One of my high school teachers reminisced about his days at university, which he considered to be “the best four years of my life.” A certain amount of time had passed since he fondly recalled his college years.
    As soon as he mentioned his college experience again, before he had to chance to say much about it, I blurted, “best four years of your life.” Some of my classmates had also remembered him saying that, perhaps that’s why they laughed. The teacher said nothing. He simply looked at me in a way that effectively communicated, “Just wait; you’ll see.” He was right (so far). While I was attending college, I was more interested in recreational drug use, billiards, and fun than studying.
    I became sure I’d had enough of arguing with my girlfriend on a regular basis. Moving is difficult and expensive, but I had saved up enough money, and my girlfriend was pushing me so hard and so often, that I was worried I was going to lose control and hit her. It was time. The apartment was too small to pack and leave the boxes on the floor, so I carried them, box by box, to a nearby storage facility. I also researched where I was going to move to; remaining in New York City was an unaffordable option. Since I’ve never made a lot of money, I considered cost of living to be the most important factor when looking for a new city to move to. I narrowed it down to two options: San Antonio, Texas and Rochester, NY. However, I had previously lived in Rochester, and I fled it, in part, because of its harsh winters. Since I had lived all my life within the state of New York, the prospect of warm winters appealed to me very much.
    My girlfriend thought that packing all my stuff into a rental car and driving to San Antonio with no home, or job, set up there wasn’t a great idea. It wasn’t ideal, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Before I left, she said to me, “We’re still a couple, right?” Who said there’s no such thing as a stupid question? Perhaps my answer was even less intelligent; I said yes. After all, she was my only friend. Besides, we could always break up at a later date. I rented a car that was large enough to contain all of my possessions. I emptied the storage unit into the car and headed south. The further I traveled, the more depressed I became. I hoped I wouldn’t become any more depressed after stopping for gas in West Virginia. However, the combination of nightfall, rainfall, and reaching Virginia all made that possible. I checked into a cheap, faceless motel. I called my girlfriend to tell her how depressed I was. She told me it would get better. I continued to bitch and moan until she told me I could come back if I wanted to. That’s what I wanted to hear. My spirits lifted immediately. The next day, I returned to Manhattan and unloaded the car.
    I didn’t unpack completely, because I knew I had to move. Even though I’m a loner who wasn’t communicating with anyone in my family at the time, Texas was too far away from anyone I knew. Besides, it’s scares me to know how easy it is for someone to acquire a handgun there, whether it results in someone shooting me or me shooting myself. I decided to move to Rochester for the second time. I rented another car, this time a Lincoln Continental, packed up my things again, and drove north. I snagged a crappy, but inexpensive, apartment. Then I landed a boring and low-paying job: just the sort I’m used to. For the most part though, I got along well with my coworkers, which helped make things more than tolerable. I also lived within walking distance of my workplace.
    I had worked there for nearly two and a half years when I walked to work on a cold February morning. Just before I punched in, my boss asked me to come into his office. He didn’t waste too much time getting to the point.
    “We can’t afford to have two full-time employees in shipping and receiving anymore, so we’re going to have to let you go,” he said casually.
    I’ve lost plenty of jobs, and I’ve seen the end coming before, but not this time. It felt like he pulled the rug out from underneath my feet. I told my girlfriend about it. Since I was unemployed, I was available for a visit, so she invited me to stay with her for a couple of weeks. Unfortunately, the same problems existed. She yelled and screamed at me for little or no reason, which forced me to cut the trip short by several days. I had reached a new low. The trip home occurred under a heavy fog of depression. I wanted to die. I made a list of all the things I wanted to do before killing myself. I purchased a coil of bright-white nylon rope, from The Home Depot, that seemed strong enough to help me hang myself.
    I also felt the need to create my last will and testament; I was 39 years old. Despite all the venom that my girlfriend and I have spewed at each other, she has been very generous toward me, so I wanted her to get all my money, and any of my possessions that she might want, in the event of my demise. After doing some research, I chose an online service, paid the fee, and received the document in the mail. There was a problem, and it was a big one. I needed two people to witness me signing my will, who then sign it themselves. If I didn’t get the two witness signatures, then, technically, the will wouldn’t be valid. My girlfriend couldn’t be one of the witnesses because she was the beneficiary. She was my only friend at the time. Even if I wasn’t out of touch with all of my family members, none of them lived very close to me anyway.
    I tried to get strangers to witness me signing my will. On a rainy day, I walked around Rochester with my will, which kept dry in 2 plastic shopping bags. I first went to the county clerk’s office: no. Then I walked to a police station: another no. I was quite discouraged by that point, but I gave a library a try: no. Strike three, I’m out. I pretty much gave up on getting it witnessed. However, I received an email from my cousin Mindy, who I hadn’t seen in about 15 years. She was going to be visiting her father, who, like me, lives in upstate New York. I returned her email, asking her if she and anyone else could witness me signing my will. She replied that she’d do it, and her father would probably do so as well. I asked her to please make sure. She confirmed that he’d do it. Since 2 people pledged to meet my conditions, I decided to make the hour-and-a-half drive to my uncle’s home. Ultimately, I had a pretty good time, and I accomplished my mission as well. I was ready to die.
    By chance, I discovered a book while browsing metal CDs at Amazon.com. It was a book about becoming depression-free without the aid of prescription antidepressants. It sounded interesting, so I checked the local library for it. They had it, so I borrowed it. I’d never read a self-help book before though, and I had never wanted to do so either. Consequently, the book collected some dust as I continued to plan for the end of my life. With nothing to lose, I spent well over $100 on lottery tickets over the course of one week. I’d never been rich before, so I was willing to give that a try. I hit no jackpots though. Still having nothing to lose, I read the book on becoming depression-free. The doctor who wrote it clearly thought that taking the right supplements was very important. I couldn’t do everything he was asking the reader to do, but I gave the supplements a try. Initially, I felt a noticeable euphoria shortly after beginning this new regimen. However, the euphoric feeling soon vanished, and it felt like I was back to where I had started.
    I plodded along. Once again, I chose to leave Rochester. Isolation wasn’t working out well for me. Not surprisingly, one of the things I learned from the book is that people who are depressed and isolated need social contact. My grandma, who lives in Queens, NY, was going to be spending the summer at my mother’s house. I asked her if she’d let me stay at her apartment while I looked for a job and a home of my own. She said yes. I schlepped most of my stuff into a New Jersey storage facility and the rest into her apartment. As far as landing a job and an apartment, I wasn’t really in the right frame of mind to do either of those things effectively. My highest priorities included exercising, watching cable television at my girlfriend’s apartment, and playing with her dog.
    Summer had ended, and my grandma would be returning to her apartment shortly. I didn’t really want to live with her, I didn’t have a job, and I didn’t have a home to move into. It seemed like my only real option was to return to Rochester. I didn’t want to do that, so I decided to kill myself instead. I quickly ruled the bathroom out. It wouldn’t be very considerate of me to leave my dead body there. My mother and grandma would need to use the bathroom eventually, and they shouldn’t have to navigate my corpse in order to relieve themselves of their waste products. I tied the end of my noose to the inside doorknob of a closet in my grandma’s bedroom (The other bedroom in my grandma’s apartment had two beds that her and my mother could use.) and tossed the noose over the top of the door. When I had thought about how I would physically hang myself, this is the method that came to mind. I looked it up in my how-to-commit-suicide book; the author confirmed that it was a popular effective technique. I adjusted the rope until the knot was at the top of the door and I tied everything tightly.
    It was time for a sort of dress rehearsal. I wasn’t going to do it yet; I was just going to practice for the following day. With the noose around my neck, my toes reached the floor; this would not do. I retied the end of the rope to the doorknob: raising the noose to the very top of the door.
    The day arrived. I wrote a note for my grandma and mother. It warned them that my dead body was in the bedroom, and if they didn’t want to see it, then they shouldn’t open the bedroom door before calling for help. I taped the note to the full-length mirror that one saw as soon as one opened the front door of the apartment. They couldn’t miss it, and if they did: surprise! I went into the bedroom and shut the door. I stood on a step ladder and put the noose around my neck. When I was ready, I stepped off it. It wasn’t a leap of faith; it was a leap of death. As I felt the rope dig into my neck, yesterday’s problem had reemerged. My toes were touching the floor. I wasn’t a happy camper. My toes were just barely touching the floor, so the vast majority of my weight was being supported by the rope. I was rather uncomfortable. I’d read about people hanging themselves, and I learned that fully suspended hanging suicides were somewhat rare. Usually, the corpse’s feet are touching the floor. I knew that all I needed to do was lift my feet up or bend my knees and the rope would take care of the rest. I didn’t though. Even though I was quite miserable, I had a chance to back out of it, and I did.
    I hadn’t hurt myself. After I took the noose off my neck, I looked at my reflection in a mirror. There was a red ring around my neck that would soon fade away. I had chosen death over returning to Rochester. Now that I had changed my mind about death, it was time to go to Rochester. I moved all my stuff into my car. There was plenty of it, and it took a lot of time and effort. I also removed the note from the mirror and took it with me. When I was ready, I drove to Rochester, which takes at least six hours to do from Queens. When I reached my destination, I checked into a motel and brought nearly everything, that wasn’t secured in the trunk, into my room. Tried to kill myself, moved a ton of stuff into my car, drove to Rochester, and moved a ton of stuff into a motel room: busy day.
    Things were far from hunky dory. I was very depressed. I called a doctor’s office where I once had been given a physical. I mentioned that I was very depressed. They transferred me to a social worker, who seemed quite concerned about me. It wasn’t a pleasant conversation. She pretty much threatened to have someone else call me. Someone else did call me, but I said I was okay. I finally called my mother after spending about two and a half weeks at the motel. She offered to let me stay at her place. I didn’t really want to be in Rochester, especially since winter was just around the corner. Therefore, I left the motel and drove to my mother’s Long Island house. Even though I stayed in an inexpensive motel, staying there for as long as I did burned up a solid chunk of my savings.
    Apparently males are less likely than females to seek help for mental health issues, but it was clear to me that that’s exactly what I needed. I researched Long Island psychiatrists, picked one, and made an appointment. I told her about my suicide attempt and other issues in my life. She prescribed Prozac. Even after waiting the appropriate amount of weeks for it to work its magic, it didn’t help. In fact, while I was taking Prozac, I began to experience shortness of breath, which is something I’d never had a problem with before. It scared the hell out of me. In retrospect, I was simultaneously taking supplements, for depression, that don’t interact well with Prozac. I began to read an anti-Prozac book. Additionally, listening to my girlfriend’s anti-antidepressant rants also helped convince me to stop taking Prozac. Letting the psychiatrist know about my decision wasn’t on the table because I lost my medical insurance shortly after the only mental health appointment I’d ever had.
    I wouldn’t call this an attempt; it was more like an incident. Once again, I was pretty sure I wanted to die. While my mother was out, I retrieved my noose from the trunk of my car. After examining the tree branches in my mother’s backyard, I chose one. It was high enough, and it seemed to be strong enough to hold my dead weight. I carried a ladder out of the basement and leaned it against the tree. I climbed the ladder and tied the noose to the branch I had selected. Then I put the noose around my neck and held on to the branch with both of my hands. The next step in my plan was to kick the ladder aside. Then, whether I chose to release my grip on the branch, or if I simply became too tired to grasp it anymore, my body would fall, and I would be suspended only by the rope. I couldn’t bring myself to kick that ladder aside though. I stood there for several minutes with the noose resting on my shoulders and my hands clamped onto that branch, but I just couldn’t do it.
    I eventually moved to Rochester for the third time. After settling in again, I began to experience pain in my abdomen after eating, which concerned me. I had no insurance, so I searched for a clinic that would treat people like me. I found one and made an appointment. It was located in a ghetto, and it didn’t look very impressive from the outside, but it looked like a regular doctor’s office on the inside. Not surprisingly, they wanted me to fill out some paperwork. I was asked to list any other issues I had besides the purpose of my visit. I wrote depression down. The pain in my abdomen turned out to be a hernia. The doctor, who examined me, seemed to be more concerned with my depression. He told me I should get it treated, and he handed me a sheet of paper that listed some options.
    My miserable life continued. In addition to being depressed, I’m also cheap. I might as well call these organizations to see if I can get some free counseling. The first one I called charged a reasonable amount of money for each and every appointment. I called the other one and found out that they charged nothing for the mental health treatment they offered. The price was right, so I began therapy. After a reasonable amount of time had passed, I was quite sure I didn’t like the therapist I’d been matched up with. I asked the director of the mental health center if there was another therapist I could see instead of her. If no replacement was available, then I would have stopped going to therapy at that center for sure. Fortunately, a replacement was available, and I found the sessions with him to be far more tolerable than the ones I’d experienced with the first therapist I saw.
     Unfortunately, the therapy didn’t seem to be working; I was still miserable. My therapist asked me to rate my days on a 1-10 scale. The lower the number, the worse my day was. Shortly after replying that every day in the previous week had been a 1, he suggested I meet with the center’s psychiatrist. I did so, and after listening to me talk about some of the problems in my life, she prescribed Prozac. This time, it worked. I felt its effects almost immediately. It initially felt very stimulating. It gave me much more energy than what I’d been used to. I told my therapist that it was a good thing I already had an exercise routine in place prior to feeling the effects of the Prozac, because I might have pushed my body too far otherwise. I’m not sure if the therapy has helped me beyond reducing my isolation for an hour each week, but since I began taking Prozac, my depression has lessened considerably. I’m very grateful to the mental health center that has given me free treatment without ever asking for anything in return. I have donated money to the center, and, unless I die before I have a chance to do so, I will certainly contribute more money to it. Considering that I had, once again, begun to plan for suicide just prior to being prescribed Prozac, the good people there may have saved my life.
    Thanks to Facebook, I also reconnected with an old college friend, who, to my surprise, was living in the Rochester area. We hadn’t seen each other in 18 years. I’ve been spending time with him and his friends, and this is a good thing for me.
     Even though things have improved greatly for me, all is not well. I still have bad days that make me feel like I’d be better off dead. I have to fight off suicidal feelings. I know that, because I’ve attempted suicide, the risk of me eventually completing the act is higher as a result. Also, I’m well aware of the mistake I made when trying to hang myself in my grandma’s apartment. All I need to do is make sure that the noose is as high as it needs to be. Although, I feel as though it’s entirely possible that I just don’t have the guts to kill myself. However, it’s both comforting and horrifying to know that suicide is always there for me. It’s like a soft, warm blanket that’s kept on a high shelf in a closet. It’s ready to be deployed whenever the world becomes too cold to bear.

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