Suicide is not an act of courage or cowardice, most of the time. I’m sure it’s different for everyone who commits it, attempts it or contemplates it. But, I think it’s often an act of desperation. Numbness. Feeling trapped without any other way out. A desperate grasp at some kind of control over your own destiny.

If a cornered animal lashes out, would you call it brave? Would you call it a coward? I wouldn’t call it either of these things. It’s just acting on the only option it can see.

Desperate.

To me, the value judgements of courage and cowardice have little to do with suicide.

#

Side note: I do not mean that suicidal people are like animals. I’m just trying to illustrate the feeling of being trapped and cornered. Apologies if I offend with this post.

Suicide??

Because everything is too overwhelming? Or underwhelming?

Sure it takes courage to look at death straight in the eye, but it takes even more to dive right into it...

But all of this is unnecessary, you don’t have to look at death, a blink and you loose all contact with the thought of dying.....you can look at life instead, want a reason to?? It is beautiful, and despite the scars caused by humans all over her, she is beautiful...so maybe kiss her too.

Courage or cowardice?

Neither.

It's a cry for help.

A plea for a way out.

They're trapped

And don't know how to escape.

Scars

Tears

Loss

And every other pain imaginable.

They wear a mask of lies

A fake smile

An empty promise.

"I'm fine, really I am."

A darkened soul

Not yet blackened by death.

But it's coming.

The pain will come an end.

Only loss and tears remain of them.

A half-hearted laugh

A pair of dull eyes.

Broken glass

So desperately wanting to be fixed.

A rope

Tied ever so neatly in a knot,

But has just enough space for a head.

A knife,

Sharpened so much that it slices through paper like it was nothing.

A prescription drug,

Just enough to make the pain end.

For them at least.

"My pain will end."

But the pain of the people you love you will not.

Tears

Loss

Remnants

Of who you once were.

Suicide is not an act of cowardice or courage. It’s an act of both of them, and yet none of them. It takes courage to cause yourself pain. Your body, filled with the instinct to survive, hesitates. It doesn’t want to do what you ask it to, but it has no choice. It takes courage to override your primal urges.

It’s an act of cowardice, sparing yourself pain just to cause it to someone else. I feel like people get the wrong idea when someone says suicide is for cowards, myself included. But it’s true. They might not be cowards in the traditional sense of the word, of the fear sense. But in my book, cowardice is taking the easy way out. And some people might raise eyebrows at that, too. Suicide? Easy? And that’s not what I’m trying to say either. What I’m trying to say is that suicide is a complex decision, however irrational, and it takes both courage and cowardice to complete it attempt.

Suicide is like people. You can’t fit it into a box. It depends on the situation. Some people who commit suicide might be extremely courageous, thinking that they are being brave. Others might take that knowledge of their own cowardice and use it. Or someone could be both. To answer this question in an absolute would be biased. Anyone who thinks suicide is a brave thing to do shouldn’t, and anyone who thinks suicide is cowardly also shouldn’t. We all have our issues and we all have our reasons. This is just the way our society is. Complex. Everyone is different.

I am a coward.

this is for the best.

this is what I deserve

and everyone else doesn't deserve

the pain I cause them.

tears stream down my face

staining it over and over again

blood

and tears

and blood.

I know I shouldn't

it goes against all I know

but it is for the better, right?

all I have to do is...

I take a step.

one

two

and I am at the door

soaring

above those who love me

about to come crashing down.

and then

I stop

and think.

and that made all the difference.

I may cause pain, but I also bring joy.

I may not be perfect, and never will be,

but I can change.

I can be better.

and

most of all

by chosing the hard way,

by choosing life,

I am courageous.

Suicide. In my words, suicide is the process of taking one’s own life. It may look easy, but it isn’t. It takes courage to take a knife and cut one’s veins, or slit their throat. Even if it takes courage, suicide IS an act of cowardice. It is. That’s because if you were to kill yourself, what would you accomplish? Actually, would you accomplish anything? If yes, then what is it? Getting away from society? Live in isolation. Running away from your family? Leave the house. Depression? Seek help from your friends and family. Or go to a Therapist. But taking your life? That sounds stupid. I mean, why throw away your life trying to do something that can be done without losing it? Don’t you think it’s stupid too? Real courage is taking life on, even when it’s trying to put you down, with a smile. And when life begins to go your way, then you look back and say: “All that was worth it.” You say that looking at your friends and family who made you who you are today. No matter how rough life gets, you must always face it with a smile. Because in this world, the ones who are smiling are the strongest!

Suicide is an act out of fear, anger, loneliness. Most people commit suicide because they feel alone, scared, lost, and angry. They feel alone because they feel like no one else is going through what they are going through. They feel lost because they are confused about everything. They feel angry because no matter how many times they seek help, they get STABBED in the back each and everytime. They try and give all they've got for nothing because the pressure from the outside world is just too much & it eats them slowly from the inside out. Slowly devouring all the joy, happiness, memories, out of them bit by bit. This is sad because they say they will always be there for you but they lie. And that's why they go. Leave this earth by blame. Because they BLAME THEMSELVES. And they KILL themselves. But don't worry, it's not serious. No one really cares until it's too late.

Am I a coward for wanting out? I’m living a life that was never meant to be lived. It couldn’t have been. It must have been a rough draft that was supposed to be deleted, but was given to me by mistake. Everyday is a battle. Some days I loose, while other days, I am all but obliterated. It’s never easy getting up in the morning, knowing that in the end, I will regret everything. I am fighting with my mind each day, reminding myself that life will get better, but never believing it. Everyday is a test of courage, and those days, those dark and terrible days, when nothing goes right and death seems like the way to go, am I a coward?

I don’t see suicide as courageous. It is not brave to end your life. It is incredibly hard to actually attempt/succeede at suicide, slicing open your body takes some guts and seeing your own blood pool around your feet...is not for the weak minded. But suicide is not courageous. Neither is it cowardly.

@Adin

Soaring through the air.

Like an Eagle.

Or some kind of graceful, powerful bird, riding on the air currents.

Beautifully coloured feathers barely whispering out of place.

Plumage strummed softly by the wind as she rode the draught.

She had imaged this moment for years.

She plummeted downwards at 54 miles per hour, screaming.

+

Gemma knocked at the door.

She had been looking forward to this evening out with Gerry for a long time. Things had been getting on top of them. It seemed, at the moment, like everything was getting on top of her.

Everything except Gerry, that is.

They were both under pressure at work and having a four year old didn’t help. They were both drained and she had jumped at the chance when her mum and dad had offered to baby sit.

“Bring him round at five,” her mum had said.

“It’ll give you some time to pamper yourself”

Nobody answered.

+

The train was crowded.

She didn’t like trains, anyway.

And she never went anywhere by herself.

This was a new experience.

But she knew what she was doing.

She was surrounded by families, much like her own.

Well, it was a bank holiday weekend and Wales would be busy.

The train was packed.

The faces of the excited children didn’t remind her of her own grandchildren.

She never thought of them, though she had walked past them as she left the house.

It was like a temple to them, with their images on every wall.

They were the last thing she had seen as she left the house.

The taxi ride to the station was unusual.

She never went anywhere by herself.

+

The house was empty.

The house was empty and she was confused.

But only a little. They must have been out for a drive.

They’ll be back soon. She let herself in, leading the child by the hand.

It felt odd. The curtains were closed. It was still warm. The August sun had warmed the air through the curtains – which were closed.

She sat down, slightly bemused and cuddled him.

But then the car pulled onto the drive way. She relaxed and went to the door as her dad put the handbrake on and got out of the car.

+

“The house was empty.”

“What?”

“When I got home from work the house was empty. Just like it is now, in fact.”

“But…”

“I don’t know where your mum is.”

“But she never goes anywhere by herself.”

Her dad looked at her blankly.

“Grandaaad…!”

Sean jumped into his grandad’s arms, laughing and kissing his face.

“Hello, son. How are you?”

“Where’s Nana, Grandad? I’m sleeping here tonight. Where’s Nana?”

+

The taxi ride from the station was unusual.

She was in a familiar place, but looking through unfamiliar eyes.

She knew the road.

And the scenery.

And the row of shops and hotels.

But she was by herself, looking, not talking.

The taxi driver had given up on the polite conversation a couple of minutes in.

She was secretly amazed she had come all this way by herself.

A bit proud, really, that she had got the right train to the right station.

It was a fifteen minute taxi ride now.

She was close.

+

“He said the house was empty.”

“What?”

“When he got home from work. The house was empty.”

“But I thought they were baby-sitting tonight. I’ve booked a table and everything! I thought… you know…”

“Well, yes. So did I.”

“So, where is she then?”

“We don’t know. He went to everyone’s house. Nobody knows…

She’s gone!”

“But she never goes anywhere by herself. Your poor dad… it’s like having a shadow. They are joined at the hip.”

“I know.”

“So what now? I’ll cancel the table. Should we phone the police?”

“He’s gone down to the station. But they can’t do anything yet.”

+

The view was spectacular.

Rolling fields of green behind.

Roaring seas of blue ahead.

The sun was warm and the afternoon was as blue as the clear sky.

Her spirits soared, gasping her breath as she spanned the horizon with her eyes.

Scanned the sea for signs of life.

There were none, besides the yikes of distant gulls.

The surf washed and crashed and hissed below her, battering the cliff face into submission.

It was as she had imagined.

Her breath choked in her throat.

In exhilaration.

She was here!

+

The night passed roughly.

They slept in tosses and turns and dark frustration. The three of them.

Sean slept peacefully on. His abandoned trip forgotten; washed away by Peppa Pig and Scooby Doo.

They rose early. The three of them and he came to them.

“Still no word, dad?”

“No, love. Still no word.”

He was white. Ashen, in fact.

He hadn’t slept alone for thirty years.

He hadn’t coped with a worry or woe on his own, without her, for forty years.

He felt like a corpse.

“The police will start looking today. They send word out to neighbouring forces. I don’t understand.”

They sat down together. They smiled at the child, but the warm air was chilled.

She was normal. She was boring.

She was gone.

+

He answered the questions.

“We argued about money the other week, But it was just. You know. Normal, like. You know. Just about spending too much. Or too little. It was nothing”

“So she never gave any indication that she might leave you, sir?”

“No! Why would she leave me? We’ve been married for forty years! Why would she leave me?”

“Look, I’ll take Sean out somewhere. To my mum’s. Keep him away from this and occupy his mind. I can let her know what’s going on, too.”

“But. I… Gerry…”

“No. That’s a good idea, Gerry. Gemma can stay with me and help me ring people. To see.”

She made them a cup of tea. The policeman had suggested it. He said not to worry. Let’s have a cup of tea and a think, shall we.

So they did.

It didn’t work.

+

The wind was up.

Well. It was the top of a cliff.

Overlooking a vast stretch of unbroken sea.

But it wasn’t wild.

Strong but calm, really.

As she was.

She unbuttoned her blouse and felt the warm air wrap itself around her.

It dropped from her shoulders and she was enveloped.

She’d chosen a skirt with a side zip, knowing this moment would go more smoothly if she didn’t have to struggle reaching behind herself for a zip nestled at the top of her big bum.

God that would have added a touch of comedy. She’d known this.

She knew what she was doing.

The skirt dropped and she stepped out of it.

Unashamed in her knickers and bra. And, still her shoes.

Just like Cabaret.

Her clothes lay crumpled by her bag.

She was just her, now.

No identity.

No name.

Nobody.

+

He could have stayed in.

But she told him to go. His night out had been planned for months. Besides, he was no use at home. What could he do? It was three days now and all he did was keep suggesting he should take Sean somewhere else.

There had been no word. No clues. No news.

Her small circle of friends knew nothing.

She had asked, about a month ago, if they knew how to get to Wales. But that was just chatter. And jokes. How do you get to Wales in a Mini? One in the front and one in the back.

It was nothing.

Nobody had told her.

Besides.

She never went anywhere by herself.

She was a home bird. Everything was family. And her small circle of friends.

She never worried.

Never fell out.

Never went anywhere

By herself.

+

He was home early.

To be fair, he was home very early.

And concerned.

“I don’t understand this.”

“What?”

“Your mum. She is so normal. Boring, really”

“Thanks”

“In the best way. I mean. She just gets on with life. Her family. Her friends. Your dad. It’s that simple to her. The way it should be. It’s not complicated.”

“I know.”

“But this…”

“I know. I don’t understand.”

+

She took a deep breath.

Savouring the moment.

This is who she was.

Again, after all these years.

The sun was starting to set.

But it was still warm.

She was free.

And happy.

At home, alone she had imagined this.

And then a graceful swoop.

Then soaring through the air.

Like an Eagle.

Or some kind of graceful, powerful bird, riding on the air currents.

Beautifully coloured feathers barely whispering out of place.

Plumage strummed softly by the wind as she rode the air.

She had imaged this moment for years.

She was sixty-two.

She was overweight.

She stepped forward to swoop.

+

The phone startled them.

“Yes.”

Then she whispered.

“It’s the police. Yes. Right. Okay. Thank-you.”

“What is it?”

“A body.”

“Oh, God.”

“Where is it? Is it her?”

“They don’t know. It’s in Wales. It’s been recovered.”

“Wales!”

“What d’you mean, recovered?”

“By the lifeboats. It’s been recovered by the lifeboats.”

“What!”

The world stood still.

+

It was just a step away.

The graceful swoop.

Just one fucking step!

She was exhilarated.

Euphoric.

Unstoppable.

She crouched slightly, ready to leap.

She was sixty-two.

Her feet never left the ground.

Until she toppled forward.

Into the air.

The ground rushed towards her.

Rocks and sea and surf.

No soaring.

No feathers.

No chance.

In 2.5 seconds she was dead.

+

The plan was flawed.

Her clothes at the top.

Her body at the bottom.

Bank cards and phone bill in her bag.

Of course she could be identified.

Why hadn’t she thought of this?

It took three days.

Nobody ever came to this spot.

That’s why she had always liked it.

It was secret.

It was hers.

It was three days before somebody spotted the body on the rocks below.

Half in and half out of the water.

Damaged.

Bloodied.

Dead.

+

They didn’t cry.

I don’t think.

But they hugged.

There was hurt and confusion.

Self-doubt.

Was it my fault?

Everyone asked that question.

Well, except for Sean. His only question was: “Where’s Nana?”

They told him, eventually, that she had fallen over on the beach and bumped her head and had been taken by the angels.

While secretly wondering if she had been taken by the Devil.

The letter came at the end of the week.

It was an apology for leaving. That was all. Addressed to Gemma. No mention of Wales.

Or cliffs.

Or death.

+

The lifeboat struggled on the lively sea.

It was still warm and still summer.

But not still.

The wind around the cliff edge, where it met the sea, was almost turbulent.

It would have seen a bird soar, and dip and swoop.

But not a woman, who was sixty-two.

Who was overweight.

Who couldn’t jump.

They hooked the body eventually and dragged it to the boat.

Don’t try to imagine what they saw.

They don’t.

Covered on the speed back to shore, the lifeless, limp body gave no answers.

The belongings at the top of the cliff gave no answers, also.

Nor the letter.

The coroner gave no answers. He didn’t know.

Nobody knew.

+

She made the papers, though.

They knew.

As they always do.

Ignoring the truth that wasn’t being told by anybody.

It all made sense to them.

The letter.

The handbag.

The stumbling jump.

The story told itself.

It made the news.

+

And life went on.

As it always has to.

Because there’s nothing else.

And the survivors learnt to smile and laugh again.

And Sean eventually learnt the truth.

And understood that there was nothing to understand.

Things can’t be stopped.

Or changed.

Or avoided.

We can only hope that we aren’t the ones making the news.

A cup of tea will help.

But only if it’s strong and sweet.

I wonder how lost the soul must be to end up having to end your own life.

I wouldn’t define suicide as courage or cowardice but a rather a state of utter hopelessness.

Of course I would never condone such an act but I won’t withold my pity either.

Is depression a disease? I think it can be.

I think the problems with us human beings, it that we cannot get our minds off ourselves. In doing so we would be able to help others and possibly be free from this depression. When a person is with you and speaks life to you, it makes all the difference. How rare it is to find such caring people... and when you mind is off yourself, I find you can be so much happier. Nevertheless, it is not that simple. To break habits and mindsets is a challenge and a challenge that is taken way too lightly,

To attempt to understand, one must truly understand the heart and mind of the person. It is always deeper than we realize. Perhaps you have never felt alone or been alone as these people are.

I've noticed that we are all made differently, some with more empathy or sensitivity than others, some with a large splash of logic and rationalism and some people live with their heads in the clouds. We are all different and cannot expect to have the same perception or outlook on life, death or anything for that matter. We can listen and accept that this is there reality; their views. But it is totally unfair to judge those whom life has not been too kind to or those who did not have the strength to keep moving on.

Courage or cowardice? Neither.