Is Suicide Selfish?

I ask this question because I came home recently to find my flatmate hanging from the loft-hatch in my hallway. One of the first things his brother said to me when I called him was that he’s always been selfish, and once I’d put the phone down I wondered whether that statement was a fair one.

            My flatmate had been struggling with depression for some time and it had got to the point where he wouldn’t get out of bed in the morning, and sometimes his bedroom door would be closed for days. Sure he was a lodger and made me feel uncomfortable in my own home for months, but then he didn’t chose that state of mind and if it was a simple case of ‘snapping out of it’, then I’m sure that’s exactly what he would have done. The world he lived in was entirely revolving around him and there wasn’t room for anyone else, so can I call that selfish? Or is selfish the wrong word? I often think that a selfish act is conscious and that there is a vast difference between being trapped within yourself, and consciously choosing to do something for your own benefit even though it may hurt others.

            It was a Monday morning when I encountered his dead body after returning from a weekend spent at my girlfriends. As I walked up to my front door, burdened with bags like a circus elephant stood on a ball supporting a pyramid of his brethren, I was looking forward to taking a shower in my own bathroom and eating breakfast at my own table. After resting a few of my many items on the handrail next to my door, and assuming that John was in, I slipped the key into the top lock and turned it. Needless to say I was rather surprised when the key didn’t budge and my first thought was that the lock had broken. Even though it made no sense to me, I tried to open the deadlock beneath and discovered, as I expected to, that it wasn’t locked.

            Confused and unsettled I knocked on the door and called John’s name; but there was no answer. I waited for a minute or so in case he was in bed and needed time to wake before repeating the process and getting the same result. Giving up on balancing my remaining belongings, I placed them on the floor and pulled my phone from my pocket. After dialling both his mobile and the flat’s landline number and receiving no answer, I decided to double check that he was in fact home by seeing if his car was still in the car park.

            Whilst leaving my possessions outside the front door I ran out the back and stopped still when I found myself face to bumper with his car. The oddness of the entire situation made my stomach sink like a ship hitting an iceberg, and I knew that following this mystery to its conclusion wasn’t going to be fun.

During the short walk back to my flat my mind searched for an explanation as to what was occurring, and despite wishing to contrary, I was unable to shake the feeling that I’d been locked out. A depressed person, especially one who doesn’t want to be disturbed, can be a very hostile animal indeed, and my fear was that I was suddenly homeless and about to face a court case to get possession of my own property back.

            I returned to the same position I was in only minutes earlier, standing in the communal hall and staring at the entranceway to my home. Feeling ridiculous and knowing that if any of my neighbours saw me at that moment then I would have to invite them into a situation that I was nowhere near the bottom of, made me pray that wouldn’t happen. 

Having no clear way out of my current situation, I felt like a child trapped in a well and my heart raced. I hate conflict, I always have, and dealing with someone with such severe mental health issues could be potentially volatile. Giving John the benefit of the doubt I knocked on the door again; loudly, swallowed a mouthful of warm dry air that only made my throat more parched, and waited for an answer that never came.  

            Even though it was my flat I still felt that looking through the letterbox was an invasion of John’s privacy, but I couldn’t see any other option. So after bending down on one knee as if I were proposing to the door, I opened the letterbox with my right hand, drew a breath to shout and stopped dead when I saw him standing in the hall. Questions flew through my head like meteors through space: how long had he been there? What was he doing? Why wasn’t he letting me in?

            Adrenaline made my hands shake, sweat stood to attention on my brow and my voice wobbled when I said, “John, can you let me in mate?” But he didn’t move. I tried again, thinking he’d maybe slipped into some kind of depressive trance, “John, it’s me, can you let me in?”

            Every advance I made was stopped as dead as a speeding car hitting a tree and I was running out of ideas. I don’t know why I thought it would work, but I tried talking to him again. Sounding like a timid little girl, I whined, “John,” through the letterbox that I was still staring through like a peeping tom.

Silence engulfed the hallway and I’ve never felt more foolish or alone, what could I do if he didn’t let me in? What would happen if I kicked the door in? Would he fight to keep me out? Feeling naked and exposed made me look around and I realised that sooner or later someone would turn up so I needed to take further action.

Returning to the letterbox I looked up the length of his body, hoping to make eye contact and break what I assumed was some kind of trance. But as I took in more of my lodger and noticed how perfectly limp his arms were by his side, I realised that any assumptions I’d previously made were way off the mark. By the time I saw his ruffled neck, the skin pulled upwards and gathered beneath his chin by the electric flex like a shirt neck frill from the seventeenth century, I’d forgotten about the arms and stared at the tongue that lolled from his mouth like a rasher of bacon slipping from a particularly meaty roll.

            It was the first time that an image had dealt me a physical blow and I stumbled backwards in an attempt to keep my footing.

A rookie policeman answered my emergency call and after he’d kicked my door in, with the promise that the police would pay for it despite me never hearing from them again, I left and let them do their thing.

            When I returned to the flat a few hours later after the police had done what was needed and gone, I stood directly where the incident had occurred. Feeling like a stranger in my own home and surrounded by the silence of death that hung in the air like a think fog, I held my breath and looked around.

When I looked at my feet I discovered that bodily fluids had been kindly left by the police for me to clean up, and wondering what other surprises there were drove me to climb into the loft. As soon as I turned the light on I came face to face with the remains of the severed noose that hung like a long forgotten Christmas decoration in the middle of February. This more than anything gave me an insight into John’s mind, the carefully tied knot, the flannel that he must have wrapped around his hand whilst he tested to see if the flex could take his weight, the time he must have spent carefully planning his death. In that moment I felt the shame that must have pumped through his veins, the shame that after forty-six years on this planet all he’d managed was this. After shaking my head and letting out a weary sigh, I untied the flex.   

The experience was one that I hope I never have to repeat and would never wish on anyone. My faith in the police force also dropped considerably because I never heard from them again; no new door, no offer of counselling, and no acknowledgement that the event had ever happened. But referring to my earlier question; was this act selfish? I can’t answer that directly because I think there were several acts and each one has to be judged individually.

            Firstly, was his pit of despair selfish? This one is easy, no, no it wasn’t, nobody chooses to be depressed and once they are, in my experience, they’re lucky if they have an awareness or regard for personal hygiene, let alone finding it within themselves to think about others.  

            Secondly was killing himself selfish? Again I would have to say no, knowing John like I did made me realise that he didn’t have the emotional resource, or will, to drag himself from his depression, so the choices he faced were to either carry on with his current existence, or kill himself. I can’t begrudge him the choice he made.

            The one thing that I felt was selfish, and in fact think it was the thing his brother was referring to, was how he went about killing himself, and more importantly, where. Did he know that I would find it hard seeing a dead body in my home? Yes I think he did. Did he know that my door would have to be kicked in and I’d lose money from lack of work for that day? Again I think that considering we both worked in the same trade and he had previously worked for the police for several years; that he did. Did he want to make sure I found him because he knew I could deal with it? Maybe. Did he want to make sure it wasn’t someone more heavily involved in his life, like his brother for example? Again, maybe he did. The difficult thing about suicide is that, no matter how good the note left for you is, you will always have a question that needs an answer, even if it’s just a small question. I have several and can only guess at how John would reply to them.

            All I can say is that having seen someone with fierce depression trying to get through each day at a time helps me understand why he would kill himself. Seeing a man, and father of two grown men, lost like a scared child and not willing to even get out of bed in the morning, helps me understand why he would kill himself. Having seen him ask for help from the National Health Service, and seeing him receive three separate visits from a pair of people who changed with each visit, helps me understand why he would kill himself. Yet all I heard from the people around me was that it was a selfish act, but if all I have to bear is the memory of his dead hanging body in my home, then I consider myself lucky because I sure as hell don’t ever want to go to the place that John spent the last three months of his life occupying.

I don’t think it was selfish; I just think it was his way of coping.