I woke up early and left a message on my supervisor’s answer-phone before she got in so I didn’t have to speak to her. All day I’ve been thinking again about how I’m going to do it. I’ve been doing some more research. This time I typed in ‘kill myself’. I got some lyrics by a band I’ve never heard of, “Ken's Last Ever Radio Extravaganza: I'm Going To Kill Myself ...” Then a chat room where an eleven year old had posted that they wanted to kill themselves, and a reply — ‘You'll eventually understand but right now you wont because your too young to realize the repricusion of suicide.. just know that when the times right you'll do it... if thats whut u really need to do..’. What kind of a thing is that to say to an eleven year old? How can an eleven year old want to die?

And then I read further back, and the original post by the eleven year old was a joke, a sick joke, but people have replied sincerely — ‘Please don’t do it, life will get better, go to your doctor.’ Kind people. This makes me feel — I don’t know how it makes me feel.

Next I typed in suicide. And the first site that comes up on the list is ‘Suicide, read this first.’ So I do, like a good girl. The person who wrote the site said that it would only take me five minutes to read, and that they don’t want to talk me out of my pain. It told me that you want to kill yourself when the pain that you’re feeling outstrips the resources you have available to cope with it. That made sense. It told me that I should wait a bit, even if it’s just twenty-four hours. That bit didn’t help — I’ve been waiting for so long already. It told me that I’m looking for relief and that relief is a feeling and I wouldn’t feel it if I were dead. I don’t know— I still think absence of pain is better than pain.

And then the last thing it told me to do was to call someone. To call someone right away. As I read this I let out a low groan, like I was something wild. I got off the chair and sat on the floor, curled myself up like a foetus, and made a small hurting noise over and over, rocking. I don’t know how long I was there. The feeling slowly subsided, there were longer gaps between the noises, they were quieter, softer. I sat there and my eyes glazed, and I didn’t really feel anything any more. I could see my mobile from where I was sitting. So I pulled it over and dialled Red’s number. When he answered, it sounded like he was in a pub; there was a general hubbub around him. I couldn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, and he said, ‘Hello?’ and paused, and then a louder, ‘Hello?’ I thought, ‘It’s now or never, Ruth — speak.’ And said, ‘It’s me,’ and my voice was all choked up; I had to clear my throat to carry on. But he didn’t need to hear anything else. He said, ‘You are at home?’ and I said, ‘Yes,’ and he said, ‘I will be there. Wait.’

So I waited. Mostly on the floor, but then my embarrassment overtook my misery and I felt silly sitting there, melodramatic. I cleaned myself up in the bathroom, trying not to look at my red eyes, puffy cheeks. When he got here he hugged me, and the crying came again. I didn’t know what I should tell him when the crying finished and he wanted to hear some words. I wanted him there, but I didn’t want the burden of him caring. When he eventually said, ‘Something has happened?’ I just shook my head, said, ‘It’s nothing, it’s… I don’t really understand. I can’t talk about it yet.’

He nodded, let go of me and walked away over to the window. He stood with his back to me. I thought he was angry. But when I went over to him, his face was a stone and there were tears on his cheeks. I was exhausted. I wanted to get under the duvet with my clothes on and watch TV, something funny, something I didn’t have to think about. I said I was sorry. For a second I wanted to tell him the truth, but I’d let him see too much of the truth already; it had hurt him — that’s what happens when you tell the truth. Instead I told him I would be OK, told him I was just being silly, told him not to worry. He shook his head slightly, still not looking at me. He said, ‘I am here again. Again! You are not here. I can’t help you. I am tired of it.’ I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his tears away, one, two, three. Tasted the salt on the tip of my tongue. He took my face in his hands and pulled it back to where he could look at me, then kissed me on the forehead and sighed a big sigh. I took his hand and led him to the bed, brought us both some juice. Held one of his hands in both of mine, tight. We were quiet. We watched TV together and eventually his breathing slowed and he fell asleep. And now I’m writing this. I’m not sure what I’ve done now, what this means.

Turn the page