This day last year I was sitting with my then boyfriend, Eoin, in his grandparents house. We were celebrating his 25th birthday though it came in the middle of a pretty stressful time. He'd sustained a rotary cuff injury the week previous due a tonic-clonic epileptic seizure and a few weeks prior to that had revealed to us that he was fighting a serious battle with depression. I remember every single moment of that day, from afternoon tea, to the hoodie he was wearing, to the jokes his grandfather made at dinner and of course, how sad he was, how completely, unutterably sad.
Despite his total honesty about the situation I couldn't have guessed that just seven days later I would see him for the last time. In the early hours of the morning on November 12th, 2013, Eoin O'Brien took his own life.
I debated with myself about writing anything about this, but I believe it's important, not just for me but for anyone who's ever lost someone to suicide, for everyone who's ever been uncertain if its okay to talk about it and most importantly for Eoin.
There's this thing about depression and suicide in particular that terrifies people and understandably so. There is something uniquely awful about the idea that no matter how much you love someone, how much they love you, how many promises or plans you've made, sometimes it's just not enough. Over the past 51 weeks I've found that people don't like to believe the relationship could have been happy or functional, or that I truly believed we were standing at the beginning of a long and vibrant future. That's frightening, it makes it too real. Arguments and unhappiness are easier to swallow, the idea that suicide is something that happens to people who inhabit a different world to you is far more comfortable than the awful, brutal reality. When he first told me about his depression Eoin said that the first time he wanted to kill himself it was the thought of me, of what we shared, that stopped him, I was naive enough to believe that anchor would undoubtedly hold.
From the beginning he was heartbreakingly honest with me. He told me how sometimes, when he felt as though he couldn't cope, the idea of death was a comfort, it made him feel like he still had some control over his own pain. He told me about what he'd eventually come to consider the perfect, foolproof plan and in the same breath told me how much he wanted to live. He told me too that he understood the impact his death would have, the devastation that would be wrought by the vacuum of his absence. He knew and he was so desperate not to do that to the people that he loved. I suppose what I'm saying is that the declaration of a suicidal person as selfish can be hopelessly short-sighted. Eoin knew the consequences of his actions, he knew the pain that would follow and still he did it. Above all else that shows me how much pain he had to be in, how completely unbearable his sorrow became. I think that's why I've never been able to be angry with him.
Instead I got angry at all the people who wanted to help. Ireland suffers under a silent epidemic when it comes to suicide, particularly among young men. At the age of 23 I've been to more funerals of young people who died by suicide than I have of any others and accordingly I know very few families who haven't been touched by the suicide of a close relative or friend. Even Eoin had lost a dear friend to suicide at the age of 16. The good thing is that at last initiatives are in motion to help those suffering in silence and I think the majority of people are awake to the harsh realities and support needed by someone experiencing suicidal thoughts. Finally the veil of secrecy and shame is dissipating. These are all good, positive things but for the longest time every Pieta House poster or well meant Facebook post I saw made me mad and even in the midst of it I knew it was entirely unfair. Every effort to bring mental health issues into public awareness is worthwhile and the rapid turnaround in public attitude and understanding of suicide is a wonderful thing but in some ways I can't escape a certain resentment that none of these efforts were enough to help Eoin and that also is entirely unfair. It's difficult not to feel pushed out of the crowd when something like this happens. I will never need a poster that talks about possible signs of suicide because I've witnessed them, I will never be comforted by advice for helping someone with their mental health because we all lived it and it wasn't enough. Maybe that's the most horrifying thing, you can try your best and it still might not be enough.
The weekend before Eoin died was the first time in a couple of months that I hadn't worried about him constantly. He was on new medication that he felt was really starting to work, he treated himself to fine whiskey and cigars and we had a perfect date, dinner and a superhero movie, the receipt for which I still carry in my wallet. It's hard to remember how hopeful and happy he sounded. It's hard to remember that some of those last precious hours were devoted to a college assignment I had to do, time that I wish I'd spent just being with him. Perhaps the hardest thing is that on that last day I almost went to see him after college, I missed him already, but I didn't because more work loomed on the horizon and I was ignorantly certain that there would be more time. I don't like to think about whether it could have changed anything but that memory is burned into my memory and my heart forever. I would still do anything for a final five minutes with him.
In a week it will have been one year exactly since I last heard his voice or saw his face at 7:30 on a Monday morning. Day by day we're all getting through, getting past each high or deep, deep low until we reach a place where it becomes bearable. He will be missed, always but we keep our fingers crossed.
If you're somehow, miraculously, still here, thank you endlessly for taking the time to listen and help me pay tribute to the best person I have ever known. Hopefully you'll be seeing more of me.
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