This is a new resource in Canada. It is great to have one number you can now call or text to get mental health support 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The site also has additional information on understanding suicide, suicide-safe language, facts and myths, statistics and risk factors.
If you are anything like me, you jumped straight to this chapter when you saw it in the Table of Contents. Chronic suicide ideation means I am constantly thinking about suicide. I am continually searching for new methods and assessing their effectiveness and accessibility. Most are passing thoughts I dismiss quickly, such as a car accident. There are too many variables that might end in severe, life-altering injuries as opposed to death or, worse yet, just the inconvenience of a crumpled car and the need to explain why it happened.
There are so many ways. Pdocs and therapists always ask you to describe how you plan to complete suicide. The more detailed the plan, the greater they assess your risk. I understand their reasoning, but with chronic SI, I always have a plan and a backup plan. If they force me to take steps to mitigate the risk, such as locking poison in a strong box and freezing the key in a block of ice to delay my access to it, I will think of a different way to achieve my goal.
Even when I was in the hospital, I was constantly trying to figure out a way I could complete suicide. The Critic (see chapter on The Critic) considered suicide in a psyche ward or psyche hospital to be a crowning achievement. It was obviously distorted thinking, but I could not shut it off. Suicide was always the answer.
My attempts have all included poison/drug overdose. The most grandiose was peach pits. I read somewhere that peaches, along with other soft fruits such as cherries, plums and nectarines, have cyanide compounds in their pits. (see Chapter on 10 Rules of Suicide). This was as much a strategy to stay safe as it was a method of suicide. I knew it would take a long time to collect enough to reach an MLD (minimum lethal dose).
Over months, I consumed a whole lot of peaches made peach cobbler, and peach compote. At the hospital, I was a bit of a celebrity among the staff. “He’s the one who tried to complete suicide by peach pits!” I was even crazier than they originally thought. Obviously, it didn’t work. I’ve thought over what I did wrong and have some ideas, but for the most part, I have dismissed that means as a method.
Most other methods I have tried or considered are from news sources. The media has long had specific guidelines to safely and responsibly report on suicide to avoid triggering others. Suicide contagion is a real phenomenon. The media are encouraged to use safe language to avoid associating suicide with criminal activity (committed suicide) or achievement (failed or successful). Died by suicide is the preferred phrase, but I like to use completed suicide.
Reporters are not supposed to sensationalize suicide, describe the method or talk about the location. The aim is to prevent copy-cats, especially when it is a celebrity who completed suicide. For those dealing with depression and other mental illnesses, the actions of a beloved athlete or actor can be just the “sign” they’re waiting for. It gives them permission to follow their lead.
In the days of social media, though, these industry guidelines have fallen by the wayside. The use of sodium nitrite, first reported in the mainstream media in the spring of 2023, is a perfect example. For those struggling with SI, it was like a Lucky Charms advertisement.
A Canadian man was charged with aiding and abetting suicide by selling packages of sodium nitrite online. Sodium nitrite is a white salt commonly used in curing meat. He is alleged to have sold 1,200 units to over 40 countries worldwide. “They’re magically delicious!”
Not only did the article identify a method of suicide, but it also gave me the means to source it online. They didn’t provide the actual web address but gave me enough information to locate a pro-suicide online forum through a Google Search. From there, it was easy to find further information, such as the MLD (minimum lethal dose) and LD50 (lethal dose to 50% of the population ) of sodium nitrate and other drugs and chemicals.
The success of this method was also advertised. The article revealed that between 1980 and 2020, Ontario alone saw at least 28 suicides by sodium nitrite, with most happening in the last two years.
I had never heard of this substance before, so I immediately began researching whether it was right for me. That is how chronic suicide works. For various reasons, I decided against it. Also, I advise against using pro-suicide forums. They are echo chambers of misery and often become competitive - whose life is worse. This will not help. Stay away.
While the media articles suggested that sodium nitrate is now the most popular method of suicide, the actual statistics paint a different picture. Suffocation, which includes hanging, is by far the most common method of suicide in Canada. More than half of the total 3809 suicides in 2018 employed this method.
Canadian Vital Statistics Death Database
Poison, which includes overdoses of medication and peach dust, was the second most used method.
It is interesting to note that in America, firearms are the top means of suicide. Stricter gun laws in Canada are saving lives. Guns are by far the most lethal means with which to attempt suicide. “Lethal” refers to ease of use, accessibility and the ability to abort mid-attempt.
Most people start an attempt and abort it partway through. If you overdose on medications, you usually have time to call 911 or other assistance. With a gun, however, that ability is all but eliminated. The fatality rate of suicide by firearm is more than 80%, while suffocation is 62%, jumping 34.5% and poisoning/overdose is 1.5%. The vast majority of attempts by poison are aborted.
Suicide Ideation, plans and attempts in Canada are consistent year over year. According to Statistics Canada, 12.3% of the population reported that they have seriously contemplated suicide (SI) in their lifetime, while 4.2% said they have had such thoughts within the past year.
A third of those who have contemplated suicide (SI) in their lifetime have gone so far as to make plans - method, time and place, while a quarter have actually made an attempt.
Suicide Ideation in Canada (2019)
There is a similar outcome among those who have contemplated suicide in the past year. Nearly 900,000 Canadians 15 years old and over experienced SI in 2019. Of those, 264,000 made a plan, 99,000 made an attempt, and 4,500 completing suicide.
It should be noted that the 94,500 who made an attempt and survived are at a significant risk of trying again and completing suicide in the future. Other high-risk groups are men, who are three times more likely to commit suicide than women; Canadians between 50 and 64 years old, who have the highest death rate by suicide; and young Canadians 15 to 34 years old, where suicide is the second leading cause of death. I tick off three of the four boxes.
I find comfort in all these numbers, though. I am not alone. And yet, at the same time, there are not so many with SI that the diagnosis is trite. It is nothing special to be diagnosed with diabetes or high cholesterol. SI is unique. I matter.
While I have a constantly evolving list of methods and means, I usually focus on one or two at a time with any level of seriousness. This is a strategy I have long employed, so I don’t act on impulse. If I see an opportunity on a sudden, I step back in my mind and focus on the plan that is already in place.
For me, acting in the moment when my mind is racing, focused on its singular goal, is the most dangerous. Research backs this up. Harvard School of Public Health reported nearly three quarters of survivors of nearly-lethal suicide attempts deliberated less than an hour before acting, with a quarter from thought to actions being less than 5 minutes.
If I stick to a plan and rehearse each step in my mind when I am close to a crisis, I can often mitigate the danger. Telling a therapist that your safety plan includes a detailed suicide method is usually not a strategy they want to hear. (For a detailed list of therapist/pdoc approved strategies, see the Chapter on Strategies.) For me, though, having a plan in place actually calms my SI. It is one less thing I need to think about.
This is the most challenging chapter to write. This is the topic I fear the most.
The Critic has been part of my life since I can remember. A voice that amplifies everything I do wrong, that offers suicide as a relief. I don't actually hear a voice; instead, it is an internal dialogue that drowns out every other thought. The Critic tells me I am destined to die by suicide and that my greatest action of free will is choosing when it will happen.
The Critic is not always blunt. In fact, in most cases, he acts as my greatest ally. Rather than dictating what I must do, he often sympathizes with my concerns and offers relief.
Come sit with me
for a while
and I'll tell you
your story.
It won't take long.
I've watched from afar
and have stood by your side.
I know all the details:
the hollow dreams
the heartfelt wishes
the prayers
the loneliness
I'm the only one
who understands;
the only one
who has shared your burden.
Come sit with me now.
Share my blanket,
throw it over your shoulders
and melt into it's warm embrace.
Soon, it'll all be over.
Your ears will rush,
then fall silent.
Your thoughts will scatter
then disappear.
Your mind will clench
and then relax
and in that moment
that very last moment,
your story will end.
He recognizes my weaknesses and offers me peace. His ideas are so seductive that, in the moment, they make complete sense. It's only after the fact that I recognize how dangerous and permanent they are.
I have had many therapists (See Chapter on Therapists), but only one identified and separated out The Critic completely. She set up an empty chair so I could address and directly challenge his assumptions and arguments.
At times, I even sat in The Critic's chair. The dark thoughts I spewed were vicious; the self-hatred was exhausting. He identified every mistake in my life, real and imagined. He told me that I've accomplished nothing and never will, that I am a failed introvert without confidence and friends. My dreams have no hope of fruition. It is a lie that if you just persevere, you will win, so why bother? I have let down myself so many times. Why try? Writing these words is a waste of time. The Critic's thoughts are relentless and know precisely when to strike. All other words escape me, and I'm left to listen over and over, again and again. I am all I'll ever be. You'll cause pain whenever you choose to go, so why delay any longer?
The Critic views suicide as my greatest accomplishment. Even better if it is unexpected. I was proud of my last attempt when I caught my pdoc entirely off guard. The Critic told me it was something to be proud of, to wipe away the doctor's smugness. (see Chapter on Pdocs). They locked me up in the hospital for eight weeks. (see Chapter on Hospital) Something else to add to my resume.
The Critic steps in when others try to help me. When someone asks, "Can I help?" The Critic tells me I have had these thoughts my whole life. How can anyone help? He adds that they are just trying to be polite and don't really want to share your burden. And so I reply, "It's OK. I'm OK."
If someone continues to engage, The Critic twists their words. They don't understand the relief suicide holds. When someone tries to minimize my challenge by telling me a string of positive thoughts like, "It's not that bad.", "Look on the bright side.", "You can do this." He will dismiss your words out of hand, arguing that they betray your naivety, that they are trivial and trite. You have no idea what you are talking about. "Don't worry. Be happy." is just an annoyingly catchy song.
"Count your blessings" is also not helpful. You are just trying to change the subject. "You have so much to live for." "Other people have it so much worse.", "Don't be so dramatic.", "You are being selfish." The Critic declares all of this insulting. They invalidate what I am going through. In the moment where The Critic holds sway, I know my thoughts are distorted, but they are mine. At that moment, I don't care about anyone else. You suggesting that I should tells me that you don't care about me.
When you say, "I know how you feel." and suggest my crisis is somehow common, you make me feel less important. You are proving The Critic right. I'm a failure. Clearly, others have handled this. Why can't I? My thoughts become defensive, and He declares my SI is not like everyone else's and proudly describes me as incurably unique.
The Critic despises the desperate appeal of "I would be devastated if you were gone." He declares it invalidates my own experience. Now, I don't only have to think of my own consequences but yours as well. You are guilting me into staying alive. My crisis turns to anger and resentment. It amplifies my distress. I can barely take care of myself, and now you're dumping your happiness on me.
Likewise, telling me to think of my children, wife, and extended family only angers Him. They are already constantly in my thoughts. I know they will be devastated if I die by suicide. I know it will change their lives forever. Accusing me of neglect is not helpful. Instead, you only heighten the guilt I'm already feeling. I'm already ashamed of my disease. Your accusation justifies why I should die. Does it make logical sense? No. The Critic never does. But that is the inevitable path my thoughts will take. I will shut down and not listen to your words. My every thought is jumbled and hyper-focused on distress and its relief by suicide.
Attempts at intervention are often rebuffed by The Critic. Asking if I have been taking my medication feels like an accusation. It undermines my own emotions. It blames me for the crisis. The dark thoughts are not real. Rather, they are just a chemical stew that has boiled over. For the record, I have only ever missed one dose of medication, and it was by accident. (see Chapter on Medication and Chapter on The Rules of Suicide). The mere suggestion that I did it on purpose is enough to make me shut you out.
Also, don't tell me to call a helpline. If you are there during my crisis, that is not by coincidence. I have chosen you to witness me in a very vulnerable moment. I trust you. I understand why you would want me to reach out to professionals, but by telling me to do so in that moment, you are abandoning me; at least, that is how it feels. Similarly, asking for my safety plan is dismissive. If you are there, you are already part of my plan.
So, how can you help me in crisis and calm the Critic?
First off, stay quiet. Listen. Be there for me. Let me know I'm not alone, but don't try to talk me down. The more words you use, the less I'll listen, the more The Critic will argue. Conversation only amplifies the agitation. Don't bombard me with questions or try to engage me in some sort of verbal distraction. Changing the subject is not helpful. I will hide deeper in the crisis, in the Critic's thought, and I'll put up his usual defences. I will quickly say, "I'm fine." hoping you will leave me alone.
Demonstrate empathy, not judgment. See if there is a way to give me more time to free up my schedule and relieve external pressures. Is there an upcoming event or appointment, or do I have to go to work soon? Can I cancel or phone in sick to simplify my day?
Stay with me or arrange for someone to stay with me. I'm not looking for a therapist at this point. Don't try to explore my psyche or uncover past traumas. Right now, all I need is time to de-escalate on my own. Having someone there keeps me safe. I'll initiate any conversation when I am ready. Just be patient.
If you want to say something, the most powerful words you can use are: "You are important to me." If you just say, "You are important." I will dismiss you because I do not feel that way. The Critic won't allow it. It is hyperbole. But by adding "to me," it changes the meaning. I can't argue with what you believe. These words make me stop and think. They make me see you. They give me value that I don't realize I have.
I know it is hard to watch a loved one suffer. The most important thing you can do when I reach out for help is to be there for me. Without a word, you are more supportive than you could ever imagine. You give me value so I can breathe deeply again.
One of my pdocs identified The Critic as Obsessive Compulsive behaviour because my thoughts always go there. There is no why, just a sudden compulsion. (see Chapter on Suicide Note) The Critic is addictive:
I have an addiction.
Not with a bottle
or a needle
or with lusts and desires.
It's where I go,
chased
by my darkest thoughts,
where I find relief
or at least solace,
where I stop
and stand my ground,
no longer helpless,
my life in hand,
where that feeling,
that power
washes over me,
euphoria,
to stand at the edge
to not turn away,
where eternity
for a moment
is mine.
The Critic offers the solution to my depression and makes me question everything my Pdocs, Therapists, family, and friends are saying.
My ending is already set.
It stands right before me.
My GPS tells me I'm here;
just one step away.
But no,
I have to keep
reminding myself
that when my thoughts
are at their darkest,
I must turn away
and ignore
the constant recalibrations
that lead me back
to this same spot,
this one destination.
I have to keep
reminding myself
to turn away
and forge a new path
that will take me
further and deeper,
the long way 'round.
Over time, I have changed my diagnosis. I used to always say I suffered from depression, anxiety and suicide ideation. It was a disease I was fighting like cancer. It was win or lose. I hoped that one day, my medication and therapy would beat the disease or at least send The Critic into indefinite remission.
At our first appointment, I remember telling my psychiatrist that suicide felt like the calm of a shady river bank while life was the chaotic turmoil of the rapids below. Anxiety and fear felt like drowning. The doctor assured me that I would feel the exact opposite after treatment. (see Chapter on Pdocs) Poor mental health would be the turmoil in the middle of the river while life was the calm on the bank. It was a promise I wanted to believe. After all, hope is hard to resist.
But after seven years, countless medication changes, dose adjustments, five different therapists, two different CBT workshops, an SFSL workshop, and three stints in the hospital, one of which lasted 6 weeks (see Chapter on Hospitals) it hasn't happened. I still get anxious. The Critic still seduces me with his promise of calm, a shady river bank safe from the turbulent river. I admit the rapids are not as chaotic as they once were; the overwhelming sense of drowning has settled, but am I cured? No. Will I ever live without The Critic? No. Without suicide ideation? No.
I have resigned myself to the fact that I will always have varying symptoms. Life still lives in the rapids and whirlpools. My thinking has not flipped. My psychiatrist lied. But at least now, with therapy and medication, I have a life jacket and, at times, even a raft, which I can pull myself onto to escape the turmoil of living.
There is no cure. But there is a way to manage The Critic, and each day, I get better at it. I have let go of the idea of being "all better." I no longer assess my progress based on how far I am away from a "normal" life. I no longer see myself as suffering from depression but instead living with it. I have decided my condition is more like diabetes than cancer. I have tools and strategies to manage the "glucose levels" in my brain. (see Chapter on Strategies). Do I sometimes make mistakes and let The Critic take control of my thoughts? Yes. The suicide ideation can still be intense. But I now recognize the calm of the river bank is permanent. It's where life ends. And so I do my best to swim, to hold onto my safeties, my therapy, my meds and my resilience. The difference from when I first sought help is that I now know I can do it. Despite what the Critic says, I know I can live.
Being depressed and listening to The Critic is accepting the way things are. Accepting that I am powerless and that suicide is my only strength. Confidence is about recognizing the power of change and the ability to keep changing. This alone is the act of empowerment.
I set a goal for myself,
to write one word today,
nothing ambitious
or profound,
just one word
to start again,
just one word
to show the way.
Believe.
My all-time favourite teacher was Mr. Maybe, my high school Latin teacher. He inspired me to take Latin all through school and to follow in his footsteps. Unfortunately, the path he took was fading fast. The future was considered much more important than the past, so schools prioritized Computer Science over Latin. The demand for high school Latin teachers was drying up. When I realized this, I revised my life plan to becoming a Latin Professor, which was a bit of a “Hail Mary.” given my grades. I did well through my undergraduate degree, but in grad school, while my grades were good, they were not cum laude.
So my academic career ended with a Master’s Degree in Latin language and literature. Try putting that on your resume and see where it gets you. Even though I didn’t get a job out of my studies, I wouldn’t change a thing. I loved to learn. All the way through, there were outstanding professors and teachers who were talented instructors and wonderful human beings. It was a joy and privilege to study with such inspiring people.
Classics (Rome and Ancient Greece) are legacy departments in even the smallest of Universities. They have been around so long that no one wants to drop them entirely, even though enrollment is minimal. I chose Brock for my undergraduate years because it was small and less intimidating. I enjoyed my life there even though I attempted suicide and cut my biceps so deep the scars are still visible today. I also cut my high forehead numerous times, but you can’t see those scars even though I have a rapidly receding hairline. I think it has something to do with a lack of muscle in your head.
I would sit and watch with fascination as it trickled down my face and arm. It gave me a sense of control and accomplishment. This was after my second suicide attempt. I would cut myself in library carrels or in front of the mirror in my residence room. It’s hard to explain why. Blood is so bright and alive. It was not a reaction to anything, just a way to prove my free will, that I could push through the pain. I realize my joy at Brock does not seem congruent with my self-harm, but in my broken brain, it was. I stopped cutting after a few months. It became too easy and no longer felt like an accomplishment.
Brock was not my first bloodletting. In high school, I used to punch myself in the nose when I took a shower. I wanted to see the blood swirl around the drain. Again it gave me a sense of control and satisfaction. Ever since I was punched in the face by an older boy named Mike, it didn’t take much to get my nose to bleed. We were walking home from school in the depths of winter when Jason, my best friend, decided, for who knows what reason, to throw a snowball at some boys on the other side of the road. Usually, he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, but on this occasion, he hit him right in the face. Immediately the two older and much bigger boys ran toward us. We scattered. My friend ducked inside his house, which was conveniently nearby. I tried to hide in the bushes, but they quickly found me. Mike took hold of my parka and slammed me up hard against the wall a couple times, then proceeded to pummel my face until my nose bled. It took quite a few punches, but I didn’t fight back. Sometimes I regret that I didn’t, but realistically it would never have happened. I never fight back. At any rate, after that, it didn’t take much to get my nose to bleed.
My third year at Brock was among the happiest years of my life. The other two were Grade One (where for some reason, I was very popular with classmates and teachers. Actually, I always did well with classmates and teachers. Grade 1 just felt better.) and Grade 11, when I first got my driver’s license. This was before I totalled the car twice, once making an unsafe left turn, the other smashing into a guard rail. Both happened at the end of high school. After the accidents, I didn’t drive for many years. In Grade 11, though, I still drove with confidence. My friends and I would get together at someone’s house on Saturday nights to eat chips, drink pop and play board games. Each week it was a different location. At the time, I was very naive and unsophisticated. I didn’t smoke or drink or go to parties or dances or any social events for that matter. I had a small friend circle and, more often than not, preferred to be on my own. (See Chapter on Being an Introvert.)
The highlight of high school Latin was the annual Classics Conference, where 16 high schools competed in intellectual and physical competitions. These included Classical Jeopardy, Sight Translation of Ancient Greek and Latin, 100-metre dash, long jump, archaeological dig, slingshot, fashion show and chariot racing. Many of the competitors were from private schools where a “traditional education” still included Latin. The rest were legacy programs at public schools, where once the incumbent high school Latin teacher retired, the program would cease to exist. There were 12 students on our team across all grades from 9-13. Yes, they had grade 13 back then.
I participated in the Jeopardy competition but was strictly there to complete the required two-person team. Ian told me not to answer, which was not difficult because I didn’t know the minutia of Greek & Roman mythology, late republic history, or Roman poetry. I sat there looking thoughtful while Ian powered us to a fourth-place finish.
Of course, the glamour event was the chariot race. We had no idea how to build a chariot the first year we entered. I managed to salvage two front tires from a couple of ten-speed bikes, and we reclaimed some wood outside a dumpster. Armed with hammers, saws, and glue guns, the four of us built our first-ever chariot in my friend Greg’s garage. We had the vaguest of plans and the cheapest of materials. For two hours, we battled, and surprisingly we emerged with something that moved and looked like a chariot. We were thrilled.
Before that, my greatest engineering feat was the railing I put up around the top floor of my tree fort. My dad and brother had built the other floors and the ladder to get up. I hammered the railing into the tree trucks from the outside without realizing that you were pushing the nails out when you leaned against it. It was not long before it failed, and the nails popped free. Matt and I fell, tumbling to the ground. Matt had a big gash on his side from a tree branch. I landed on my face, and my braces shredded my mouth. Lots of blood! That was the end of my engineering projects until Chariot 1.0.
That first chariot was impressive. All the other teams had compact designs where the charioteers knelt in place. Ours was a colossal monster where the driver stood. We immediately recognized we were at a distinct aerodynamic disadvantage.
Nevertheless, there we stood at the start line. I held one side of the t-bar while Steve held the other. Helen stood in the chariot. We won the coin toss for our heat and were on the inside track. We figured all we needed was a good start, and then the momentum of our behemoth would carry the day. I should point out here our chariot team was made up of Latin students who were not represented on any other intercollegiate sports team. We were the “Heebie-Jeebies .”(See Chapter on Exercise.) That didn’t stop us from giving it our all. Besides, the other schools had similar “athletes.”
The gun fired, and I was off like a shot. Unfortunately, the chariot didn’t follow. Sensing a lack of resistance, I looked at my hands. To my dismay, I saw half a crossbar. I looked at Steve, and he had the other half. I then looked at the opposition, Barrie Central. They had suffered the same structural failure. The whole start line was in shock. (You would have thought that Latin students would be better engineers.)
The opposition reacted first. They grabbed their pull bar directly and were off and running. I quickly attempted the same maneuver, but it pulled right out from under the chariot. Desperate to start the race, we tried to push it. Parts began falling off on their own accord. The starting judge finally came over and disqualified our chariot as unsafe. It wasn’t just a DNF; It was a DNS (Did Not Start!)
The following year I was determined to have a better design. That was when my Uncle, who owned a tool and die company, stepped forward and offered to help. He took two rear BMX tires and welded them to an axle so the wheels turned and their own bearings. He also welded a pull bar in place. The chariot was much smaller than the original. Knee pads were a must for the driver. To make it as light as possible, I built a wooden frame around the sides and front, then stretched fabric over it and doped it with white glue to make it ridged. I then painted the chariot white with black and red stripes. It looked amazing.
When race day finally arrived, we were enthusiastic and excited. We chanted “Albus, Albus” while we registered our ride. (By the way, Albus is White in Latin. Yes, they were chanting my name!) We lost the coin toss at the starting line, so we started on the outside for our heat. The gun fired, and this time we were off like a cannon with the chariot following close behind. By the first corner, we had the lead and the inside track. Mark and I ran with sheer determination as Helen (our charioteer) held on for dear life. We rapidly approached the halfway point where the “horses” were required to switch out for the second pair. My handover was smooth, and the chariot increased in speed. (As I mentioned, I am not the fastest of runners.) On the other side, though, Jeff missed the hand-off, and as he scrambled to catch up, he grazed the tire. The whole wheel failed and separated from the axle. In a whirl of confusion and dust, our race was over. No one was hurt. Just our pride. We were clocked at 30 seconds at the half, a full 3 seconds faster than the winning chariot.
My Uncle was embarrassed by our chariot’s failure, and so for the next year had his best mechanic weld the axel together much stronger than before. It was never going to break.
The next year’s race was on turf at Havergal College. We weren’t racing around a track but running down a football field and back again. All the chariots would race at the same time. Unfortunately, the night before, I had twisted my ankle. I couldn’t run. Steve took my spot, which, given my speed, was probably to our advantage.
When the gun fired, all seven chariots lunged forward. (Each year, fewer teams were competing at the Classics Conference. Latin teachers kept retiring.) The crowd roared as the teams raced down the course. Barrie Central (our old rival) took a quick lead, but my Albus Sport followed close behind. The switchover at the end of the field was crucial, and both teams were flawless. It was a sprint to the end. Barrie Central and Albus Sport quickly opened a gap on the rest of the field. There was nothing between them when they blew through the finish line. In the closest race ever, Barrie clocked 32.49 seconds, narrowly beating Albus Sport at 32.64.
And so ended my chariot racing career. For all my efforts in design (i.e. having an Uncle in Tool and Die), I was given the Teachers’ Award at my Grade 13 graduation. (I was one of six, so don’t be too impressed. Did I tell you I have trouble with compliments? See the chapter on CBT). It was a gold tie pin which I have never used.
I graduated high school as an Ontario Scholar (80% average - barely made it). In University (undergrad and grad), I got several scholarships and was on the Dean’s Honour list. And that pretty much sums up my pedigree. I have not earned a prize or award since. Oh wait, I once won a $100 gift card to Bruno’s Grocer Store.
My love of Latin runs deeper than the Classic Conference. I am fascinated by everything Roman. My favourite piece of literature is Virgil’s Aeneid. Book 2 is a masterpiece. It describes the Trojan Horse and the fall of Troy. I love to listen to the Adagio in G Minor by Albinoni as I read it. It’s the perfect soundtrack. Beyond that, the tragic love of Dido, the descent to the underworld, the death of Pallas, the final battle with Turnus, and the overarching theme of free will vs. destiny all combine to form a brilliant story.
I feel like I also have a destiny - nothing as grandiose as Aeneas, but just as significant to me - that one day, I will die by suicide. The actual day is not set in stone. It’s entirely up to me, which makes suicide not only my destiny but also the supreme expression of my free will.
A therapist once challenged me on how suicide could be both my destiny and free will. At first, I was taken aback. I was impressed that she had not only been listening to me but had chosen to engage my cerebral musings. Other therapists and even a pdoc accused me of thinking too much. The apparent paradox she raised, though, was not a problem. The answer is quite simple. I am destined to die by suicide but can choose (through free will) when it happens.
The prominence of Stoicism in Roman culture, more specifically, the acceptance of suicide and the idea of destiny, resonate with me. Interestingly, Stoicism has the same basic framework as Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), where your thoughts, mood and behaviour are interconnected. (See my chapter on CBT) The idea is to think about your thinking. Stoics advise that nothing is intrinsically good or bad; instead, it is how you assess it. In other words, it is entirely in your mind’s control. If you view something as a tragedy, your mood and behaviour will react as such. If you step back and look at something objectively, you will find there is no reason to be upset.
After fighting all these years
to a stalemate or worse,
I’ve come to the conclusion that
depression is a lifelong disease
that can only be managed.
You can’t build a new palace
in your mind
The old house will always remain,
it foundation set and settled.
The best you can do
is to build an ever-expanding addition
with new corridors
and larger rooms,
and to acknowledge that every day
at some point
when you’re not paying attention
you’ll find yourself
wandering down
one of the old hallways again.
When that happens,
stop and take stock,
recognize your surroundings,
then purposefully
leave
and return
to where the paint is fresh
and the tile is polished.
The emperor Marcus Aurelius is one of the most famous Stoics. While he technically wrote in ancient Greek, he was still part of my Roman reading list. He kept a journal called the Meditations, where he reflected on his life and condition. He saw the joy in life was contingent on the joy in your thoughts. Everything is an opinion, and you have the choice of how to interpret it. Some of his reflections are optimistic such as:
You have power over your mind, not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.
Marcus Aurelius
While others focus on memento mori (always remembering that one day you will die)
Before long, you’ll be no one and nowhere. Like all the things you see now. All the people now living. Everything’s destiny is to change, to be transformed, to perish. So that new things can be born.
Marcus Aurelius
Death is not something to fear but rather a process we all must accept.
Death is nothing more than the deepest sleep,
where not even dreams trouble your mind.
I don’t fear it.
I embrace it with excited anticipation,
that moment of complete peace.
Suicide is typically a Roman way to die. Numerous examples are scattered throughout its history and literature. To die by one’s hand in certain situations was seen as honourable and praiseworthy. It should not be completed in a fit of passion but rather as a rational acceptance of fate. Suicide is an accomplishment rather than a tragedy.
Given that all must die, it is better to die with distinction than to live long.
Musonius Rufus
So this is how a thoughtful person should await death: not with indifference, not with impatience, not with disdain, but simply viewing it as one of the things that happen to us.
Marcus Aurelius
Stoics do not seek death, but they are also not afraid of it. This allows them to live with the perspective that each day may be their last, so they should live today to its fullest. This does not mean you should party with disregard for others but rather be mindful of your duties and how you can be helpful to others. I have and always will live my life mindful of others and will do my best to ensure their lives are fulfilled. This is my duty, my purpose in life, and my destiny is where it ends. Whether I follow it freely or I am dragged there by circumstance, it makes no difference. The end is the same.
I wish I could be confident in the future,
that suicide was an if
not a when,
only a possibility
not inevitable,
but I can’t make that jump,
the gap is too large.
