Mental Health Awareness Week – A Short Story.

I have often thought about suicide.

It used to scare me. Now it intrigues me.

I would be so terrified of losing control of my life and my actions that I’d panic my overloaded brain into thinking very cruel things. It was a riot. When I was younger I somehow took solace in these depressieve moments. The ease of slipping into a negative state lead me to become almost obsessed with my own funeral. There was less difficulty in staying broken than dragging myself out of this destructive slumber. Inside me there evolved a false sense of satisfaction in wallowing in the self-deprecating slumber I resisted awakening from.

Alas I never really could take my own life. I thought about it. I considered it. An important reason contributing to my desire of living was purely down to the domino effect my departure could have on others. I will be clear when I tell you that this wasn’t the sole rationale for my continuing existence because I cannot agree with the notion that suffering for the benefit of others is any way to live. We as human beings are more than capable of living and not surviving. We are all intelligent enough to make our own decisions (except for those who may be mentally impaired or sick, but that’s another discussion) and each individual ultimately must make their own resolutions when dealing with their own personal lives.

NOTE: (This does not mean anyone should ever encourage or enable an act of suicide or self harm. It is our moral duty as friends, family, peers and cohabitants to guide others in a positive light and onto a better path.)

But it did become important to me and eventually aided in my own realisation that I meant something to a lot of people. I have a large family and many close friends within a wider community/ social network. I can only speak for myself when I say that the knowledge of being important in another’s life is enough to try and find a way through whatever shadows you find yourself entrenched in. A different perspective can be sometimes all we need in moments of self-crisis.

This story is about a young boy who still mourns for his father after he ended his own life prematurely. I used this character as my idea of my own future son. I hold great aspirations in becoming a father eventually and by writing this particular short I am inspired to discover what it means to be a parent and to guard someone’s life, instead of a darker future of losing a battle against my own fears. It’s a personal reminder that there’s still a lot for me to do, to learn and experience. Even after the great adventures I will embark on in the future the horizons are still vast and I will still have new roles to motivate me after that.

The rain didn’t seem to bother him anymore. A thousand drops lashed him repeatedly and soaked him viciously down to the bone. A ruthless Scottish wind slapped his body violently. His white t-shirt was now wringable and his grey, cotton shorts now weighed considerably far more than when he left home. 

‘What’s the flu tae me?’ He asked himself. It was telling that he took comfort in finally feeling something…

”It’s been six years since my da’ died. My best mate. We done everything together. We’d watch the football. We’d play the football. He used to take me to my games every Sunday morning and to training twice a week, every Tuesday and Thursday. Up at half five every morning to not return until the back of six at night. Only to get a quick scran then take me out again. Sometimes we wouldn’t be back until ten o’clock at night. My mum offered to go instead ’cause she could see he was knackered, but he never did say aye. It meant as much to him as it did to me. Possibly even more.

I don’t think I’ll ever understand really why he done it. How he could leave me and my mum like that. He might’ve been tired aye but I never thought he was depressed. I sometimes wonder if it was me that made him do it. Did I stress him out or did I make him miserable? Maybe he didn’t really love my mum or me. For the rest of my life I will always feel guilty. 

Mum tried so hard to pick up the pieces. With football and everything. I remember the first time she told me I couldn’t go. Her eyes swelling up with tears, choking on her words. She put on a brave face but it was easy to see. Eventually I stopped going altogether to help her feel less of the blame. ‘I’m no interested anymore mum.’ ‘I’m just gonny go up the park with my mates instead.’

I’m 19 now. Fuck I could do with having him here. College is shite. All I want to do is bevy and smoke green. Mum thinks I should be getting a girlfriend. Someone to take my heed out the gutter you know? I’m no interested. If my old man didn’t want to live with me then why would some daft wee lassie feel any fucking different?”

He’d walked a fair distance now. Daylight was starting to break but there was no glimpse of the sun. It was to be grey, cloudy, solemn.. this morning. ‘Fuck it’. He sat down at an old bus stop. A brief moment of sheltered relief from the rain. His cheeks were pink but his hands were blue. A car speeded past and nearly soaked him with a splash from a puddle on the road. There was nothing to suggest his life could ever get better. And yet he still took comfort in the desolation of it all.

 

‘The Wide-Eyed Scotsman’ is a collection of thoughts, written pieces, opinions and blogs by myself, Aidan Meehan. Unless stated otherwise all of the work on this site is my own. All of the photos, unless credited, are my own. If you have anything to say or if you enjoy my updates please like, share, follow, communicate or criticise (be gentle). I am not a professional blogger/ writer/ photographer and any interaction which may help to improve my work would be appreciated.

It means the world to me to see people viewing this project. I hope its able to give you something in return.

For all private enquiries get in touch at aidanmeehan94@outlook.com. Thank you.

 


 

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One thought on “Mental Health Awareness Week – A Short Story.

  1. This brings a lot home to me concerning the human condition, and how jaundiced our view of our place in the universe has become. Freed of conventions and restraints constantly imposed by those more fucked up than ourselves we should have been able to decide upon and openly discuss such issues as suicide, abortion, violence within relationships and so on. But, religion; but ‘morality’, but guilt. Why should the decision to take one’s own life engender secrecy and shame? Why should the pressures that breed frustration and violence remain buried until they explode? A penalty of tribalism, I guess. Sad.

    Liked by 1 person

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