I looked out the window as the plane was approaching Chihuahua airport. I saw dirt roads in dry, almost desert-like areas that seemed to lead to nowhere. They made me think of my latest exit plan: I would drive my car into the desert until it ran out of gas. There would be no food or water and no way to go back. I would smash the windows, rip out and trash the inside and then set the car on fire so that when my body was found, the detectives would be baffled as to what had happened. Kidnappers or drug dealers would be among the prime suspects. And over time, suspicion would eventually turn to certainty, since the case would never be solved.
It’s not one of my best plans, but with a little refinement, it could work.
***
I think about killing myself a lot. I wouldn’t say every day, but certainly several times a month. I toy with the idea for a few minutes and I realize it’s stupid or impossible. Any seemingly difficult problem or unbearable situation makes me want to die. These “problems” are almost always trivial, certainly nothing to end my life over. And lately it’s the thought that I have done and experienced enough in life. What else is there?
***
I’ve only made one attempt at suicide. A feeble one, really. I don’t think it even counts as an attempt. I was living in London with my first wife and my daughter. Early 1988? I was sitting on the couch in the living room of our house in Tooting, south London. I had a bottle of prescription pain killers the doctor had given me for my severe back aches. It was not the pain that made me want to die, but my marriage, then in its 7th year. I had asked, begged, my wife for a divorce several times. The first was only three months after our marriage. I was only 19 and she was 20 when we got married. We were so young and inexperienced. We didn’t know shit about life. Every time I brought up divorce, my wife would start crying and tell me to be patient, that things would improve, that divorce was taboo in her traditional family and she would be destroyed, that I should think about our little daughter and how she would be damaged growing up without a father. I would believe her, feel sorry and back down. But after every argument, I was left feeling more trapped, helpless and depressed. There was no way out.
I poured a few pain killers into my hand. I stared at the orange capsules for a while. They were my ticket to freedom. They were going to save me from further misery. How many should I take? Five? Ten? I swallowed three capsules for a start. Then the gravity of the situation hit me. What if I didn’t die? What if I was dragged to the hospital and saved? How would I live with the shame of having attempted suicide? What if death was slow and painful? What would happen if I died? My wife would be devastated. My sweet little girl would be scarred for life. My family, my friends… I couldn’t do it. I chickened out.
Few months later my wife and I finally separated. This time I was adamant about divorce. The crisis was over. THAT crisis was over. But I still think of suicide as an option when I face a tough challenge, or when I get bored and tired of life.
***
When I got hired by the BBC Persian Service as a freelance reporter in Washington DC in 1998, the first story I did was about a best-selling book called “Final Exit“, a how-to guide for those who want to end their life. I didn’t actually read it.
***
My mother told me she once bought a gun to kill herself. At the time she was living in Florida and was in her early 60’s. I don’t remember the circumstances exactly. She said she couldn’t go through with it. I was shocked. My mother contemplating suicide — with a gun?!
None of my suicidal thoughts have involved a gun. Guns are for grown-ups!
I’m sure immaturity and irresponsibility play a big role in my desires to die. I just don’t want to deal with adversity like an adult. I’d rather run away or I always try to think of something that would make my suicide look like an accident or a murder. Like driving into a barrier at high speed. I’m a bad enough driver that an accidental car crash would look more than plausible. Or I could leave some clues that would seem I’ve been killed by either the CIA, MI6, Mossad or the IRI. Or it could be set up to blame it on extremists from the far left to the far right.
***
What has stopped me every time has been two things. One, I love my daughter too much. I just don’t want to ruin her life. Two, I can’t tolerate pain. I guess pain is a message from your body telling you to regain health; the will to survive, to live. Love and sex, food, movies, people, cultures, dogs, flowers and places I’ve never seen are also making me hang around.
But I wonder: if I could end my life as easily, instantly and painlessly as flipping a switch, would I do it? I’m just glad that switch doesn’t exist.
