Suïcida: a Poem on Suicidal Ideation

Trigger-warning: this poëm and commentary are about suïcidal ideätion and attempted suïcide. Read no further if the subject-matter might cause the reader pain or injury!

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Suïcida

Suïcida, I am crazy to love you

You make me lonely;

You make me blue.

My head is splitting

What am I going to do?

Look what you have done to me!

Depression engulfs my mind;

Happiness no longer can I find.

I want so to break free

From you, but also from me.

Suïcida, please let me be!

Insanity, Eternity closer to me loom.

I take the elixir in my empty room

I swallow more and more;

The Siren calls me from her distant shore

Oh, listen to that soporific call!

The Depths entrance me

I fall, I fall

Only to be embraced in Your life-giving love;

From Hell, I am lifted to Your kingdom above.

In my deepest despair

Lord, You were there,

For You are the One

Who will always care;

Whatever happens,

However I fair

I have no need to worry,

For You are eternally there.

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I wrote this poëm in my late teenage-years, as such it is an example of juvenilia. At the time I repeatedly attempted to kill myself. Severe, serious & on-going abuse from both parents was seriously impacting my amour-propre. It did not help me that they constantly re-iterated that I should never amount to anything. (I eventually went to university - something they did their darnedest to prevent - and qualified to become the teacher, the vocation I had desired to pursue from my junior-school years.) They never did anything to inculcate self-worth; they never expressed love (storgē); with a couple of rare instances, they never publicly supported me. The folk who are supposed to love a child, did not; rather they actively hated me. I never had the predisposition, the energy nor compulsion to hate, but I certainly had no respect for those that begat me.

The style in which this poëm is written feels like an atavistic precursor to my current poëtic technique. Nevertheless, rather than tweak these verses to align with my current beliefs, I consider it best to leave this creätion as is.

I no longer believe in a theïstic G_d: in that sense I am an apostate. Were I to scribe these verses now, the final stanza would not even be a thought nor even a reflection upon my past self.

However, whilst this poëm is an amalgam of several suïcide-attempts, the one that comes to mind when I re-read it is when I spent a night throwing up after taking an overdose of any and every painkiller I could lay my hands upon in the familiar bathroom-cabinet. A couple of close friends only know that I saw an angel and he repeatedly punched my stomach so as I should vomit the sirenic concoction. I threw up until the dawn’s rays. Then I slept. I slept one of the calmest, most contented slumbers of my whole sentient life.

At the risk of sounding unhinged, I have seen angels (and ghosts and rarely dæmons) throughout my whole life since being a small boy. Angels have appeared at times when I have been crushed one way or another. But, of course, the existence of angelic beïngs does not support belief nor unbelief in a divine entity.

For many years I have described myself as a humanistic pantheïst. Pantheïsm in this sense is the belief that the divine permeätes the Cosmos. Many of the elements in our atoms were creäted in supernovæ prior to reaching Earth. Hence we are all part of, all one with the Universe. I also believe in mankind, hence the qualifier in respect to humanism. Man can be evil, but humankind also has the option to do Good. And, as a Quaker, I truly believe that the Good is worth believing in. We can all be better than we are, individually and collectively.

As a tonic to my anxiëty & depression, I have ended here with words of Hope.

I continue to battle my desire for oblivion…

Confronting Child-Abuse

I wrote the poëm below back in the late nineties or early noughties. It deals with the thorny issue of child-abuse. This covers physical, emotional, spiritual, sexual and neglect issues. Please do NOT read any further if these themes might cause distress.

Of late I am once again being pestered by bad-memories that come into my consciousness unsolicited. I dearly wish I could control them or ignore them. Lamentably, I cannot. A couple of years back I requested help from my G.P. (family doctor), but they failed to follow through in making the agreed arrangements. Since then, my health has deteriorated and then of course we had the global pandemic. The counsellors are currently rather busy. I shall pursue again in the future. My doctor knows I am not going to try anything I might regret. But if you need assistance as a matter of urgency, do not feel that you cannot ask. There is HOPE and there is support and you are entitled to it.

[Image description: contact page for CHILDLINE]

If you are a child in the UK (their definition is anyone under the age of nineteen), please call CHILDLINE on 0800-1111. It is run these days by the NSPCC. They give you advice and support either directly or they can direct you to the most appropriate assistance. From someone who along with my siblings was abused by parents in the days when there was no help for kids, we lobbied hard for this service. Even the abusers need help for their issues. Everyone receives the help they need. But someone has to make the call. Please do. Or if you cannot, ask someone you trust - a friend, or a valued teacher - to make the call on your behalf.

If the reader is an adult who has been abused, please be aware that there is lots of help and support available. Try an internet-search or contact your family-doctor for more information. I am not medically nor professionally trained to offer support. This blog-post offers my own perspectives and opinions.

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they who look like me

empty photographs

I don’t remember your faces

I cannot recall

what you look like

then

only now

that you are not so potent

ageing and greying

faceless

I have to call you parents

though you don’t deserve the title

a right the state bestowed

without my assent

you ought to have been incarcerated

retribution for what you have done

separately and cumulatively

but arrest now would only harm me

still you think yourselves innocent

despite hypocritical Christianity

or

dissembling atheïstic libertarianism

you refuse to do penance

no proffered expiation

instead

it is I who am imprisoned

embondaged to the past

ever present and merciless

a personal hell I cannot escape

founded on your abuse

of one too young

too naïf

to understand

to make sense of the meaningless

actions, misdeeds to a psychë

who had done nothing wrong

too intelligent for my own good

so why was I steeped in so much guilt

how did you twist

control-freakery

that missed the point

storgē should protect

cover a multitude of sins

even had I erred in the first instance

the shadows move closer

claustrophobia re-asserts

but I see no mien

of love

just self-reflected hate

in the mirror of your lives

the man who looks like me

walks over to the squawking child

and slaps the boy

repeatedly

back in the forties

the man who looks like me

walks over to the tubby child

and slaps the girl

repeatedly

back in the fifties

when will the anger come

not aimed at myself this time

but against you

when the release

from pain

when peace

of mind

the only gain

I need to pursue

the man who looks like me

the woman who looks like me

walk over to the cowering children

and beat the siblings

black and blue

repeatedly

back in the sixties, seventies and eighties

living still in memory

they who look like me

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Male-Parent

*TRIGGER WARNING*

This poem and blog-post reference parental child-abuse and abusive parents.


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Male-Parent

Inevitable murder

  death on the TV-screen

  episode of “Wallander”

Father’s downfall

Ineluctable patricide

          of a failed exemplar

Does it matter

  what has been?

Absent

  emotionally

  bodily

Violent

  physically

  torturously

Ale-stinking alcoholic

Rôle-model to no-one

What do I feel

          for my stereotypic

  parent?

His addled personality

  schizophrenic

  curmudgeonly

  toxic

Churning

  the unremitting Past

Yearning

  for a blissful Future

  for the perfect friend

  for a cinematic

  happier end

  that will endure

Sure it will last

But yet

  still none

Nobody to emulate

Much better

  in the moment

  to live here

  mutable Present

Practice one’s yoga

Meditate

  mindfully

Respirate

  quietly

Breath in

Hold it

Pause…

Out

Repeatedly

  ignoring totally

  external reality

Necessary movement

  towards holistic

ideality

Whilst growing

  surrounded by female-love

Nowadays

  just a need for what was absent

  storgē - parental-love

  philia - amity

  eros - male-love

  amour-propre -

  towards a better self-love

I suppose I want protection

  to be fathered

Hence my attraction

  to older daddies

  oh so erotic

  greying, grey

  white or silvery

  moustachioed or beardy

  hirsute and sturdy

  beefy

  beary

  burly

Wrapped in strong arms

Cuddling assurance

  I am loved

  I am wanted

  I am worthy

Don’t stop

Please foster me

And I will reciprocate

  commit

  to mutual affinity

Caged in a nervous stupor

Strong advice for

  disavowal

  of each parent

  without delay

  for renewed sanity

  from my psychiatrist

  from my family doctor

  from my psychologist

  for my self

And what of my Pater

  his ultimate demise?

No tears or false-piety

Disdain and pity

  I shall not disguise

No grave-side

  last-minute hypocrisy

He’s already excised

Now no longer

  a victim

  rather

  a Survivor

  confident

  happy

  free

  calm

Welcome

  the new

  Me

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Normally when I publish one of my poems: I do not give any kind of hint as to what I was aiming for; no explanations as to my reasons for using specific vocabulary; no structural analysis. In short no cues nor clues. This poem is one of two recently written. I am very slow, as mostly I create the poems in my head first. Obviously, for those familiar with this blog, the reader is aware I have memory issues. I frequently lose whole poems created this way. However, this has been my modus operandi for as long as I can recall.

This one was created slightly differently. I started with a conversation I had on line with a good friend. He gave his permission for me to use our chat as the basis for a poem. I explained my usual MO and that, if he wished, I should send him my drafts. In this instance there were three: my first was the structure; my second some minor tweaking; my third additional lines and some word changes, which added twenty percent or so to the word-count.

The basic structure is as follows:

Stanza 1 - violent intro; trigger for St.2

Stanza 2 - the past

Stanza 3 - the wished-for future

Stanza 4 - the present

Stanza 5 - the types of love, the love yearned for & why

Stanza 6 - external advice on dealing with the past in the present

Stanza 7 - attitude to future parental demise

Stanza 8 - result of following external advice & pondering parental death

My friend very kindly responded in writing. His thoughts and comments follow.

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I wanted to respond quickly on a couple of things in this poem to give you something to chew on. Please see these below in a list (since I love lists):

I love the format of having the multiple options below a starting word or phrase. This was especially successful when describing the older daddies.

Thanks - I call them “shopping lists”!

Loved the breaks and disjointed manner of the piece, especially in the "Wrapped in strong arms Cuddling Assurance I am loved..." section. 

At this point I sent the structure, as outlined above.

The paragraph (for lack of a better term) that starts "And what of my Pater..." was especially strong and I felt really hit the heart of our long conversation in just a couple of short lines. I especially liked "No grave-side last-minute hypocrisy" line because that's a very relate-able thing that people may go through or do.

In poetry the usual term is stanza, but verse is also acceptable. I use stanza as I consider verses would be of similar length & style, whereas I rarely conform to equal length nor necessarily stylistically.

Do you need the concluding line of "Welcome the new Me"? I didn't feel like it added much to the piece for me, personally. It felt like a repeat of a previous idea, despite being novel. I'm not sure if that's what you were going for or not. 

It’s the conclusion to the rest of the discussion - as outlined. Additionally I wanted to include the term “Survivor” and contrasting it with the more usual “victim”. Personally, this is because I no longer feel like the victim with no control, for I have asserted Myself over the Past. This is the result of taking & acting upon advice in St. 6 and echoes the “holism” referenced in St. 4. Additionally - ay! - the new-me parallels birth from parent, rebirth from me.

In the first paragraph, "of a failed exemplar" feels like a pretty kind/weak description based on what I know about you and the situation. Did you mean to start off softly and ramp it up through the poem?

Exemplars are more than examples, they are rôle-models. Parents are meant to be the exemplars that progeny wish to emulate. They are cutting-dies, if you like. This is a much stronger term. However, this latter term is no use here as it contains double meanings with reference to self-harm and death which I did not wish to use at this point. Parents are meant, after all, to be loving & caring as opposed to hateful & oppressive.

Though I really liked the pacing and feeling of the yoga paragraph, I wasn't sure that it felt like it totally belonged. Were you including it as an example of the type of self-care required of your up-bringing? Or as a contrast to your experiences with the violence described above it?

Mindfulness is a technique for being in the moment, i.e. not in the past. I am also gently lampooning this trendy technique. Nonetheless it is actually helpful in the armoury that deals with the effects of post-traumatic existence.

I really appreciate the effort you put into responding to my poem. None of my friends with degrees/interests in literature have ever gone to such lengths.

Hopefully, my break-down of the stanzas and the reason(s) for their inclusion goes some way to explaining what my intentions are. I am still not totally happy with St. 5, but consider it necessary so the reader can understand the gamut of loves that exist. The issue with English language is that we do not differentiate: every type is covered by just the one word. We borrow either from Greek or French. So I am accepting of having to include some clunkiness, due to this linguistic failing.

J., once again, thank you so much for your thoughtfulness and for taking the time to respond so thoroughly. I really appreciate it and you!

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I normally do not encourage debate about my poetry. I consider they are entities in their own right and deserve their own existence. On this occasion, I am willing to engage in discussion, criticism, comment, whatever, if the reader wishes to respond in some manner. Please feel at liberty to comment in the section below this blog-post.