I am still shaking as I write this.
This will not be well writen, my wording or spelling will surely suffer from the adrenaline rush I am not about to come down from.
Just last week, a blogger I don’t know personally attempted suicide and left a letter on her blog after taking a huge amount of pills. She was rescued in-extremis, after some bloggers got involved and teamed up to get emergency services to her house.
Tonight, as I was doing my things, I came across a post from a blogger I know well. In short, it was the letter of a man describing his last day on Earth, suggesting that he would end his days this very night.
I know that this person writes fiction. And I know that he is not the type of person who I would suspect to put an end to his own life, someday. But I know for a fact that anyone can come to that “solution” at any point of their life! And although I know he would most probably never go public to announce he is about to do it, there is no guarantee he wouldn’t.
Now, I know this writer well enough to point out some slight details that made the “fictional” suicide letter suspicious to me.
I looked in the tags, for a “fiction” or “just story” something. I poundered, thought and re-thought. I told myself it probably was just another story, well writen, as usual. But doubt was killing me.
I wrote to him.
I waited a bit, but I just couldn’t leave it at that.
I texted him. No reply.
I wrote to a couple of people who know him, so they’d try getting in touch.
The minutes were passing by, no one getting back to me… My thoughts were torn between this possibly being “just a story” and him being really upset for my useless reach for help, and the fact that God knows why, he might be about to kill himself, in which case, his friendship would be of no use anymore, anyway.
It killed me, but I wrote to a couple of his family members.
And I called him on his cell phone. I left a message, saying that if this was in fact “just a story”, he needed to tell me. Otherwise, and if nobody had reassured me in the meanwhile, I would take action, and call emergency services in his town.
I got a concise confirmation that everything was fine.
Now, this person is angry at me. And I presume angry is a mild word. I understand.
Did I feak out? Abso-fucking-lutely!
I went back and appologized to every person I contacted during my raid to prevent the inevitable, like a headless chicken. Everytime I hit the “send” button, it hurt to know that I had fucked up.
Needless to say, I feel devastated right now. And I am not saying that lightly.
I am not writing this to get sympathy pats in the back and “you did the right thing” comments. I’m writing this to tell anyone thinking about writing this kind of story, they should make it clear that they are, just fiction.
Suicide is not a subject to play around with. In doubt I’ll do anything it takes to make sure people get the need they help…
Again… Have I fucked up tonight? Yes.
Do I regret that friend hating me for it? Yes.
I will be off for a while, as this has seriously shaken my very core. Even if I feel relieved that this was just fiction, I don’t feel like writing anything else for the moment…
P.S. I know you won’t be reading this. I’ll be writing to you, when my thoughts are less of a mess. But if you DO read this, for some reason, just know that imagining you “could” be attempting to end your life was one of the worst thing I had to go through in my life. Nothing I have done, I’ve done gladly, and nothing I’ve done, I’ve done intending to cause harm. Au contraire…