My Last Day on Earth

The power of one more chance; from the depths of despair to a life reclaimed.

Content note: This piece discusses suicide, depression, addiction, and mental health struggles in detail. Please take care while reading.

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It’s June, which I’ve learned is Men’s Mental Health Month, apparently. Roughly, 8 blokes choose to end their lives every single day in Australia, and males account for 80% of all suicides around the world.

I was almost one of them.

Fair warning; this isn’t going to be the most jovial article, and things are going to get pretty dark.

In the latter half of 2019, I had split up with my girlfriend at the time, which acted as a catalyst in shooting me into one of the worst depressive episodes I have ever experienced. As I’ve mentioned through past articles, the previous ten or so years had been pretty hectic for me.

I’d been viciously assaulted. Lost my father to cancer. Endured an abusive relationship. Been homeless, broke, kicked out of the country for a year. And I was hopelessly addicted to alcohol.

This heartbreak was the cherry on top, and catapulted me into a bleak world of muted grey where my existence revolved around when and where I could get my next drink.

On New Year’s Eve, I had been invited to a party at a friend’s house. My ex was due to be there also.

I had no illusions of some magical reunion, although the thought had crossed my mind, but I was hell bent on showing both her and our circle of friends that I was doing just fine. I wanted to appear happy and content, thinking that the best ‘revenge’ would be to show the world that nothing could touch me, that I was tough and could handle anything.

Before me and my mates caught a taxi to the party, I had already finished a case of cider.

Like most addicts, my tolerance was sky-high by then. The slab of cider was my warm-up just to get me somewhat level. Thinking I was still relatively straight, we arrived at the party and carried on drinking. I had brought more beer, cider, wine and a bottle of gin for good measure.

I was completely on edge waiting for my ex. The only way I knew to quiet the nerves? More booze. Dutch courage, as they say.

Eventually she arrived and sat with a bunch of people in the garden. I mustered up the aforementioned courage and envisioned how it would go.

I would walk over confidently, sit down for a bit and be my usual charming self. Have some polite conversation and not outstay my welcome. I would look like I had my shit together, and ideally leave everyone thinking “wow, Sam’s doing really well!”.

This was not how it went.

I strolled over, quickly realising my legs were acting independently from my brain, stumbled over the picnic blanket stepping on her ankle and falling over into everyone.

Smooth.

I was so embarrassed. Things were not going to plan. I made my small talk and retreated back to my mates with my tail between my legs.

My self-hatred was at an all time high leading into this event, and looking like a cock in front of everyone shot it into overdrive.

I felt utterly pathetic.

So, like any decent addict does, I drowned my sorrows in booze. I drank the entire bottle of gin.

I became so overwhelmed I ended up leaving the party and walking down the road. I sat on the pavement and cried my eyes out.

My mate J ended up coming out to look for me, as word had spread amongst people that it didn't look like I was doing too well. He sat with me for a while and convinced me to come back. If it wasn’t for J’s actions, I may have done it there and then. But the kindness and empathy he showed kept me going for a little longer.

I blacked out after that. I later found out that in the taxi on the way back, I demanded the driver stop the car and decided to walk back home. I was absolutely determined in this, and could not be convinced otherwise. Somehow I made it back and passed out in my bed.

That was just the prelude.

I awoke on 1st January, 2020 and began the worst day of my life.

As you can imagine, the hangover was extreme. But I was used to it by then, years and years of drinking every single day I had learned how to navigate a rough morning. But this time was different.

In addition to the sickness and headache was a pain I hadn’t felt before.

Everything I had been through in my life seemed to hit me like a freight train. The guilt of watching my Dad die from the other side of the world. The anger and fear I had from the assault. The pure rage and resentment I held onto from the abusive relationship. The utter hopelessness of being addicted to poison that I couldn’t live without. The pain of the most recent heartbreak. The embarrassment of the night previous. All of it, all at once.

I couldn’t handle it. I crumbled to the floor of my bedroom and wailed.

Noises came out of me that I didn’t think were possible for a human to make. I couldn’t catch my breath before the next wave of hysteria crashed over me.

I was worthless. Unlovable. I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror without hating what I saw staring back.

My housemates were on holiday so the house felt vast and empty. No one would come to rescue me like J did the night before. I was alone, terrified and hurting.

The pain was indescribable. It emanated through every bone in my body, it felt like my head was about to explode. That I was truly starting to lose my mind.

I picked myself off the floor, tears streaming down my face and made it out to my balcony to get some air. I scrolled my phone for someone to call.

I didn’t call anyone.

When my Dad was diagnosed with cancer, I tried calling two of my best friends at the time. Neither of them picked up, or called me back. I remembered that moment and didn’t want to be put in the same position.

My mates had looked after me at the party so I didn’t want to burden them on New Year’s Day.

I pondered a crisis line, but stupidly felt like they would be sick of me as I had called a few times in the past for help.

My ex’s sister-in-law was a trained counsellor, but I didn’t call her out of fear of judgement.

I didn’t want to worry my Mum or my family, so they weren’t an option.

I was so lost. The pain wasn’t subsiding — only increasing — and I was running out of options fast.

Then, a thought cut through the rest of the noise in my head, clear as day.

I know how to stop this.

How?

I think you know.

I did.

I decided I was going to kill myself.

The calm that washed over me was intoxicating. My mind went quiet for the first time in a decade. It was so obvious that this was the answer.

I felt free.

The clarity I experienced in that moment was ecstasy. I finally saw a way out from all of this. I was broken, no good to anyone anymore, and this was just the way my story was meant to end.

I didn’t want my housemates to come back from holiday to find me lifeless, so doing it in the house wasn’t an option. Plus I lived in beautiful Sydney — I knew exactly how I was going to do it.

I had been to this clifftop on a walk a few weeks prior. It was secluded enough that no one would spot me, high enough for it to be effective in killing me straight away, and the waves crashing around the rocks at the bottom would be strong enough to take my body out into the ocean.

I would jump, and take control of my life back. Even if only for a few short moments.

I stood up, pain-free, and walked downstairs.

I would barely make it through the front door. My palm resting on the handle when it hit me.

As I went to exit my house for the final time, another voice entered my mind. This time it felt like it came from somewhere deep inside me. My gut.

No.

What?

You’re not going to do this. You can’t.

I began to cry again. I felt a strong cramp-like sensation in my stomach and fell to my knees.

I won’t let you.

Fuck. I can’t even off myself properly!

One more go. Just give this life one more chance.

I couldn’t ignore it, it was too loud. So I listened.

Together, we decided that I would give it one more proper go. I would finally quit alcohol, I would find help, and stay alive.

I was reluctant, but I made a deal with this voice; if I fuck it up again then I would kill myself.

The voice agreed.

Five years later and I am happy, confident, so very fucking worthy and extremely loveable. I have the most incredible girlfriend, a little shit of a puppy who I absolutely adore, a fantastic group of friends who I can confide in and seek support from, and importantly, sober as the day I was born.

Is life perfect? No, of course not. The very nature of existence is ups and downs, peaks and troughs. The key is how you navigate it. The highs aren’t high without the lows, happiness doesn’t exist without sadness to juxtapose it.

I still struggle sometimes with panic and PTSD, but I face them head on instead of looking for a way out. The road of sobriety was long and difficult but I can gladly say I am at peace. I giggle to myself sometimes at the deal I struck with the voice, because it knew I wouldn’t fail.

Of course it did — it was me.

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If you’re struggling, please reach out. You are not alone, and help is available.

👉 Australia:
    • Lifeline — 13 11 14 — www.lifeline.org.au
    • Beyond Blue — 1300 22 4636 — www.beyondblue.org.au
    • Suicide Call Back Service — 1300 659 467 — www.suicidecallbackservice.org.au

👉 UK:
    • Samaritans — 116 123 — www.samaritans.org

👉 USA:
    • 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — call or text 988 — 988lifeline.org

👉 Other countries:
    • Find your local mental health or crisis service at findahelpline.com

💬 Speaking to someone can make all the difference. Reach out to me if you want, I got you.

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