Also known as: 'can you keep yourself safe?' 'Do you have thoughts about harming yourself?'
What I wish I could say is:
How dare you ask me that. How dare you ask me as if my answer means anything, as if it's anything more than a tickbox exercise. As if it's just so easy to come out and tell you that I want to kill myself. As if you or your entire profession approaches people like me in any sort of way that would make me want to confide in you.
To you it's about 'risk'. Whatever that means. Risk is your crutch. The crutch that you beat me with. What you don't realise is that it only takes one try. Am I being threatening? Is my directness 'threatening'? Am I 'using' the issue of suicide in an 'aggressive' way. If that's what you think then how dare you ever ask me the question again and expect an honest answer.
But that's it isn't it. You don't care about the answer. There have been too many people, too many times, for whom the answer didn't matter. Why do people doubt sincerity? Why do they believe the truth has to be shrouded in chaos and hysteria? Sometimes the truth is crystal clear.
When you ask that question, do you understand the sinking feeling I get? It's not fear or sadness, or anxiety. It's shame. The shame of knowing that I'm so pathetic to be in this place again, being asked this question, like the answer ever affects the outcome.
Depending on who you are, your answer carries a different weight. So really the outcome is always predetermined. My fate was solidified when one doctor wrote of how I wasn't to be taken seriously. It doesn't matter what meandering path my life went on after that. We were always going to end up here.
I say 'no' to answer you, like a good patient, sorry, service user. If I was really desperate I'd just tell you, right? It's not as if the torment is so deeply personal or anything that it's hard to organise in my head let alone tell you, a stranger.
It's not as if you all have proven yourselves repeatedly to be untrustworthy and utterly disappointing. Should I just tell you because you're asking?
I'll tell you the reason I don't yes.
Because I don't need your permission to die. I don't need your permission for anything.
What I wish I could say is:
How dare you ask me that. How dare you ask me as if my answer means anything, as if it's anything more than a tickbox exercise. As if it's just so easy to come out and tell you that I want to kill myself. As if you or your entire profession approaches people like me in any sort of way that would make me want to confide in you.
To you it's about 'risk'. Whatever that means. Risk is your crutch. The crutch that you beat me with. What you don't realise is that it only takes one try. Am I being threatening? Is my directness 'threatening'? Am I 'using' the issue of suicide in an 'aggressive' way. If that's what you think then how dare you ever ask me the question again and expect an honest answer.
But that's it isn't it. You don't care about the answer. There have been too many people, too many times, for whom the answer didn't matter. Why do people doubt sincerity? Why do they believe the truth has to be shrouded in chaos and hysteria? Sometimes the truth is crystal clear.
When you ask that question, do you understand the sinking feeling I get? It's not fear or sadness, or anxiety. It's shame. The shame of knowing that I'm so pathetic to be in this place again, being asked this question, like the answer ever affects the outcome.
Depending on who you are, your answer carries a different weight. So really the outcome is always predetermined. My fate was solidified when one doctor wrote of how I wasn't to be taken seriously. It doesn't matter what meandering path my life went on after that. We were always going to end up here.
I say 'no' to answer you, like a good patient, sorry, service user. If I was really desperate I'd just tell you, right? It's not as if the torment is so deeply personal or anything that it's hard to organise in my head let alone tell you, a stranger.
It's not as if you all have proven yourselves repeatedly to be untrustworthy and utterly disappointing. Should I just tell you because you're asking?
I'll tell you the reason I don't yes.
Because I don't need your permission to die. I don't need your permission for anything.
.
