Planning versus Reality

What I had planned to say at the funeral -

I would like to take a few moments of your time to say some words about my grandfather, Keith MacArthur.

These will not be words painting an entire verbal picture of his life, but merely a few small moments, my recollection of my best moments with him.

These memories centre around the times my grandfather, father and myself spent at the pub. The Quinns Post Hotel was a mere five minute walk from 639 Fergusson Drive, but the gulf between Saturday afternoons watching kids videos to being invited drinking with my elders was immense. The first time I was asked to go across the road, I felt that I had finally graduated to adulthood.

I believe I watched a lot of rugby the first few Saturdays, but as I grew more comfortable into my role of drinking and listening buddy, I ditched the rugby and listened to the stories.

Thankfully for all of us Keith was too young to serve in the war, but he entertained us with stories of civilian life in the Hutt and Wellington. The fights between GIs and Kiwis, the US MPs throwing everyone in paddy wagons, or the negros walking in the gutters. After the war his hunting - shooting deer, wild pigs and 'tame sheep' - his friends, and occasionally his work.

I feel that is a thing we will all miss - his stories and his perspective on the world. He was 100% certain of his views, until something came along to completely change them. I always felt his stories should be recorded, and I believe this happened a bit towards the end, on video, but only with some of the many many stories he had.

As these things go, routines change and people move, so these Saturday afternoons lasted perhaps eighteen months. But I will always look back on them with fondness and love.

I could give a hundred other examples of these quiet moments with my grandfather, of bonding, of companionship, of love, but everyone here has their own similar moments and memories. I will leave you to think of your own best moments with Keith.

Thank you.

After I let my mother read it, she said it was too formal, to say it as if it was just a general conversation, so after getting up the guts to actually step up to the plate, I went with -

I would like to take a few moments of your time to say some words about my grandfather, Keith MacArthur.

Now, I had written up a few paragraphs last night of what I might say today, but my mother read them and said they were too formal and stilted. But the fact is that I like saying formal and stilted stuff, that's my style, because it is the best way I can get through this without bursting into tears, but we will see how we go.

My best memories of my Grandad are when he, me and my dad went to the pub. Yes, surprisingly alcohol is involved. Quinns Post Hotel was a mere five minute walk from 639 Fergusson Drive, where my Grandma and Grandad lived for so many years, but there was a gulf of difference between Saturday afternoons at the grandparents watching kids cartoons, Mickey Mouse and all, and being invited to go drinking with my elders. It felt like I had graduated to adulthood. Yes, drinking. Not that I hadn't been drinking before, three years or so in fact, but the fact that it was with my family.

Where was I - my notes are scattered everywhere. I went to the pub to watch the rugby. But after the first few weeks, as I grew into my role as drinking and listening buddy, the rugby went and was replaced with the stories.

Stories - my grandfather had a million of them. Thankfully, Grandad was too young to actually serve in the war, to have war stories of his own, but he told us of growing up, of civilian life during the war in the Hutt and Wellington. How old was he then, he would have been a teenager? Of seeing the GIs and Kiwis fighting, of US military police beating everyone up and throwing them in the back of a paddywagon, of the black soldiers walking in the gutters.

After the war, of his hunting, of his friends - not hunting his friends, as I made it sound, but hunting and his friends. And occasionally his work, though this was much less so. As has been mentioned already, he was very much an outdoors person.

I feel that is a thing that we will all miss - his stories and his perspective on the world. He was always 100% certain of his views, until something came along to completely change them. I always felt his stories should be recorded, every couple of years the idea would crop up to do that, and I believe this happened a bit towards the end, but it would not even be one percent of one percent of what he had to say.

When I was over last, I took a few videos with my camera myself, but Grandad was always saying 'what are you bloody taking those for', and he usually stayed quiet when I was videoing him. Maybe he should have had a camera on him all the time for all the stories - something like Big Brother. I'm currently in Australia, by the way.

Back to the topic. As these things go, routines change, people move - Grandma and Grandad moved up here, I moved, well, I have moved all sorts of places - so these Saturday afternoons at the pub lasted perhaps eighteen months. But I will always look back on them with fondness and love.

I could give a hundred other examples of these quiet moments with Grandad, of companionship, of bonding, of love, but everyone here has their own special memories with him. I would just like to leave you to think of your favourite thoughts of my grandad.

Thank you.

I only choked up twice, I was happy with that. And the reaction to the revised, spoken one was good, everyone said I did a good job. There was apparently a lot of laughter at some of the things I said, not that I could really hear it, trying to stay together to give the speech.

Will write more about the last three days tomorrow, just wanted to get the above down on 'paper' as it were asap.

The Second Longest Day

It happened. My grandfather died yesterday at 3.35am New Zealand time. Peacefully, or so it has been reported to me. Not peaceful for those around him though - my grandmother, mother and eldest uncle on that side of the family had been awake for 48 hours straight, caring for him, comforting him.

Although how much was getting through I don't know. For the last few days, he didn't get out of bed, he didn't speak, he didn't eat and hardly drank any water. From reports, the last time he communicated was a few days ago, when he had apparently gotten agitated, not being able to get rid of phlegm from his throat, and communicated his displeasure somehow.

After that, the pain meds were upped, and the nurses advised the family just to make sure my grandfather was on his side all the time, rather than on his back. To shift him over side to side once every five hours. And that sounds to have been the routine of things the last couple of days of his life, without the eating, drinking or talking.

When I heard the mobile SMS beep from my parents' room at about 2.20am Aussie Eastern Time, I knew that couldn't be good. Was half expecting a knock at the door from my father to tell the news, but it didn't happen, and I drifted back to sleep.

There had actually had a few moments over the past few days where it suddenly felt like I no longer had a grandfather - the wake up in the middle of the night with a cold certainty of fear around your heart thing - but apart from that SMS, my spidey senses were off this time around.

Waking up in the morning, I had my shower and all the freshening up routine before heading downstairs - usually on the weekend, I just scrubber it until at least midday, but I was putting off bad news until the last possible moment. I have previous form for procrastination, though that won't surprise long term readers. As well as, I dunno, look my best or something like that.

After getting the news, the next hour or so was quite unproductive. The whole start something, think of something else, start the new thing, repeat repeat repeat cycle. Ended up finding myself playing shoot em up games on the XBox - yes, Virginia Tech is far enough in the past for me to play first person shooters again.

Then went down to Chermside shopping. Got a dozen prints of the one pic of my grandfather - from when I was on holiday over there in February, my grandmother liked the shot, will be handing copies out to relatives, and it will be the front page of the service leaflet. I feel a bit honoured even, that my picture was good enough to get picked, but am not thinking too deeply about it because that will bring the emotions. Damned emotions.

On getting to and navigating around the shopping centre for the first hour or so, it was as if I couldn't breathe deeply enough, that I felt all wrong just doing the normal weekend window shopping thing when over the ditch my mother would already have been in deep mourning. But after a while, the feeling of breathlessness went - still couldn't concentrate on anything to even think about making a purchase, but the general stress levels abated.

Even got to see a movie. My thinking was that we would get the movie of the week out of the way as quickly as possible, and as long as it isn't one that I was wanting to see, that actual real life emotions could possibly ruin the experience, then if it was bad and/or my brain could function at the same level as popcorn, then things would be generally okay. Thank god I didn't wait until this week to see Reign Over Me. Even Shooter I gave a miss, in case it was too brainy or likeable.

Sunshine was a good choice to see in the circumstances. All those cabin fever isolation nutbag computer sci fi movies you have ever seen, well be glad you saw them instead because this one tried to take them all together and rock the genre, but it didn't. If you have enough time during the actual movie to think about plot holes, well, then the movie was bad in the first place. That suspension of disbelief or throw more action at it and the audience will be confused should last at least an hour after you leave the cinemas.

Got home and made the flight bookings for four different family members, with four different itineraries. 1 x Brisbane to Auckland, return 23 Apr to 25 Apr, 1 x Brisbane to Auckland, return 23 Apr to 1 May, 1 x Brisbane to Auckland, one way 23 Apr, 1 x Auckland to Brisbane, one way 1 May. Having to make four different bookings, being made to feel that booking flights online is a spectator sport, along with all the general stress of the day, I was getting snappy, I'm afraid to say.

Added to which, telling Vicki that she didn't need to come was the hardest thing I have done in a while. Probably since the last time I messed up in that sphere of things, eighteen months ago or so? She has met the grandparents, so there is an actual personal angle in there as well. She wanted to come, but I couldn't make a decision yesterday, added to that I had been putting off decisions on funeral arrangements the last couple of months, until 'stuff happened', and, when it came to the crunch, I said no. I could add any number of self justifications here, but I won't. We will get back to that in future I am sure, but not just right at the minute.

Today is feeling very bland thus far, before the emotional firestorm that will be the next three days. I am thinking of drafting something up to say at the funeral, but whether I get around to saying it or not is the question.

Wish me luck.

What's Important

With the mass shooting in Virginia earlier in the week, the things that are important come into focus. Family, friends, a sense of belonging, love - as long as it isn't in the too saccharine sense. Although it seems that thousands of people die violent deaths each day, most of those out of sight of the major international media, when something like this is flashed over the wires, you take notice pretty quickly.

I like waking up and hitting the another five minutes button in the morning, but as soon as I heard the Virginia Tech story at 7am yesterday morning, I was up and out of bed and watching TV as soon as. Who were giving all the local, Australian, sports results when I hit the TV on button.

I tell you, when I saw that mobile phone video that one of the students took, the popping of the gun or guns in the background, and the shaky, handheld effects while he - or she? - was running, it so reminded me of the latest first person shooter video game I have gotten, Ghost Recon. Especially the ducking down behind any cover that student could get.

So will be playing that particular game a lot less over the next wee while. But I guess it is a bit like the reaction to 9/11 - at the time, no one could think that Hollywood would ever make disaster movies ever again. Well, hello all the blood and gore that has been splashed across our screens since. Once the initial shock wears off, the whole episode for those outside Virginia will fade back into the usual white noise background. There is far too much information nowadays to even think of processing it all on a daily basis.

And I feel that the 24 hour channels are less news than reality television now. Instead of all news all the time, there seems to be a tendency to focus on just a few stories, and run with them. How many shootings are reported on a year? Send a reporter out, get some experts lined up in the studio, get some viewers to email things in. Same with political stories, or celeb stuff, or natural disasters - wildfires, for instance, interview the fire chief, and one or two of the nearby residents. It can be so formulaic when you really think about it.

In other news, my grandfather continues to worsen - the nurse visited today and doubted whether he would last another week.

The Drip Dripping of Bad News

No, not Iraq, Iran or any international hot spot, but instead trauma at a more personal level. The news from back home on my grandfather continues to move in a negative direction.

I am sure I have mentioned this before, maybe on my other blog, but my grandfather has had prostate cancer for at least eight years. There was concern he would slip away quickly after diagnosis, but a move from chilly Wellington to balmy Tauranga means he has been generally okay in the time since. Generally being the operative word, there have been a few trips, slips and falls along the way, a few hospital visits and admissions, as well as the slow, steady, awful arrival of what is in all likelihood dementia.

About three or four months ago the docs discovered a mass on his lungs, which has turned out to be a secondary cancer to the prostate thing. Who knows how long it has been growing there, but from my understanding it happened fast - there had been no issues with the lungs until last winter, when my grandfather started complaining about shortness of breath and other flu-like symptoms.

The docs considered operating, but part of the mass has almost completely encircled one of the main blood vessels - either the aorta or pulmonary artery, I'm not a hundred percent sure which. So in the first instance any type of surgery would have been life threatening, and any subsequent survival likely would be uncomfortable. Typical Paul understatement, and I couldn't quite find the phrase I was thinking of.

So it was decided not to operate. I hot-tailed it over to New Zealand in early February, and my grandfather seemed okay for the most part - he was aware of the environment, was a bit unsteady on his legs a few times, but all in all, relatively okay. Because we have to plan our leave months in advance at work, I even pencilled in a week in November to get over to help celebrate his eightieth birthday.

However, about a month ago I got home from work, and my mother was half packed to head to New Zealand the next day. Her father had been coughing up blood most of the afternoon, and his breathing was very shallow. The doctor had even made a house call, so that was how serious it was.

Mum decided to go over, one way ticket, to help out as she could. Whether staying over for 'the duration' until something happens or coming back when - if? - he gets better, that is still uncertain. Any plan is still very much in the air and being made up as it goes along. And the week in November might not have birthday celebrations attached.

One good thing, one of the few is that with my grandfather being so ill the past few years, Mum has had plenty of time to talk to her work about this. Therefore her bosses are aware of the situation and giving her time off for the forseeable future. Carer's leave, I think it would be classed under.

The last week, in the spotty third person way I prefer to get told things, it has sounded pretty horrid. Definition of spotty third person reporting - Mum talks to Dad, Dad talks to me, I don't go searching for detail. A couple of days ago, my grandfather didn't seem to know where he was, had contracted some sort of bladder infection and had a low blood oxygen level, which required a nurse to come around and bring an oxygen bottle with her. My grandfather also required help getting around the house, I guess his legs were too weak to hold his weight?

The kinda sorta report I just got an hour ago tonight also sounds bleak. My grandfather apparently believes he is living at the family bach thirty to forty years ago. Whether that is dementia or illness, who knows. He is walking around the house with more ease today, but that seems purely due to the availability of an oxygen bottle. His youngest son, my uncle, is up for Easter holidays, and let's just say that uncle has never been known for much of a sense of patience. Highly strung, it's all about him.

Yes, it sounds very bleak. And puts my birthday wishes for an XBox 360 well into context. How bourgeois materialistic of me, when one of the smaller tragedies in the world creates such heartache.

Don't Panic Captain Mannering

Were any other Queenslanders cringing at the Premier's tsunami performance yesterday?

There was a massive, 8.1 Richter earthquake off the Solomon Islands early yesterday. As well as the Solomons themselves, there was a tsunami alert raised for Queensland, specifically the outer Barrier Reef islands and Cooktown.

A bit of confusion reigned, what with some of the far northerners heading for the hills but not sure how far up the mountains to go, Cairns Hospital cancelling all elective surgery and evacuating the ground floor, and schools and a fair few businesses closing. They even closed the beaches on the Gold Coast and as far south as Sydney, where they also cancelled cross harbour ferries.

Overreaction or what, especially the further south it went, it is understandable looking back to the Aceh and Thailand Boxing Day thing sixteen months or so ago. Early reports from the Solomons themselves are that some villages have been swamped by five metre waves, a couple of dozen dead and thousands homeless - again, just early reports at this stage. By the time it got to Oz, the additional water was a mere surge of ten to twenty centimetres.

What is less understandable is how Smart State Premier Peter Beattie did a bit of a rant and rave about it all -

"What we didn't know was what was the extent of the tsunami, was there a tsunami coming, where will it hit, how much damage is it likely to cause, and how far people had to be pulled back from the beach,"

Yes Pete, I am sure those nefarious federal officials and scientists weren't telling us for an actual reason, perhaps because the state government is of an opposing party, rather than the simple fact that they did not know. Earthquakes are random, both in timing, location and effect, and even the computer modelling will not be sufficiently powerful for another two years. But let's put in a complaint about that as well. Queenslanders lives are at risk, do you understand?

If the premier is waiting around for the feds to give him instructions as to how to go about natural disaster planning, we are screwed. What's the money on SES being the next departmental fuck up. Does Beattie go and have a whinge to the Commonwealth if there is a bushfire or cyclone or drought? Well, on the latter one, maybe, but apart from that, I would hope that the state government has some idea of what to do when 'stuff happens'.

I can usually put up with any number of idiotic statements Beattie comes out with, but just the 'Queensland as Hicksville' impression he gave yesterday made me extra special venomously livid about the whole state of affairs. Pete needs his hand held after doing the latest Chicken Little show, awww.

Yes, yes, I know, sarcasm doesn't become me, lowest form of wit, but just shaking my head, rolling my eyes at the whole thing. Needed an outlet to get it out.

Long, But Necessary

This is what I did for today's therapy session - basically reading out this, which I had written up over five parts in an earlier blog. The mind of a seventeen year old screw up indeed...

I don’t know when I first felt depressed.

I can, however, remember the circumstances where I was picked on as a kid enough for it to sear into my brain, as good a starting point for this essay as any. My family had moved to Australia, and I was short and funny accented. Easy pickings.

I had fought in school once, when I was eight years old, against six year olds, if I can remember correctly. I was defending my friends, or something, but the shame I felt when the teacher gave us a dressing down has stayed with me for the rest of my life.

So when I was teased at high school - I can’t remember being teased as much in the last two years of primary school, even though that was also in Australia – when I was teased at high school, I couldn’t lash out, even if I wasn’t the smallest boy in the year group. Instead, I took it, laughed at myself, made a joke of myself and thus pre-empted any verbal attacks.

Which was fine in high school, kids can be so cruel, but the more time flowed past, the harsher I became on myself, even when I had gotten beyond the pettiness of teenage years. When you are harsh on yourself it so easily leads to self-loathing.

As I said, I can’t remember when I first got depressed, but I can remember when I first thought of suicide. I was fifteen, and I took a knife into my room. For a week I flirted with the thought of using it, late at night, to plunge through my ribcage and pierce my heart. I don’t know what brought that thought process on, I was doing OK enough at school – by this time we had moved back to New Zealand, no more funny accent teasing.

I stopped flirting with the idea after my paternal grandfather died. I thought it would be unfair on my family to give a double blow in so short a time, but don’t ask me why I thought they could handle the possible single blow of me dying. The knife slipped back into the kitchen, unnoticed.

When I was sixteen, I missed a chemistry project at school. Completely. I hadn’t started it two days before it was due, and had a huge crisis of confidence. The day it was due in, I skipped school. The first time that I can remember doing that without being validly sick. I believe it was Melbourne Cup Day 2002, as I watched horse racing that day, and that is the only race that I watch ever.

I didn’t complete the project. I ‘convinced’ the teacher that I had handed it in, but it must have gotten lost. There was a practical part to the project where you gave a three-minute speech, but I refused to do it. I believe the teacher thought it better not to push me on the matter. The whole matter was the first major blow to my long-held belief that school grades were actually important in any sense.

On my seventeenth birthday I got a phone call from out of the clear blue sky. My birth family had found my family’s phone number in the directory.

I had known I was adopted for as long as I can remember, my parents never believed in hiding that away. My first memory is of a wishing well cake, with chocolate frogs and jelly for water, for my adoption party, when I was three and a half – I had been fostered since four or five months by the same couple, which led to my long held belief that all foster children should stay with the same family and is a natural progression to adoption. I am too cynical these days to believe that, and I was and have been very lucky with the family I found myself with.

My parents had kept all the correspondence from my birth family, waiting for me to be old enough to digest the information. I believe I was thirteen when I read it all. I then contacted my birth family, writing letters, sending photos perhaps every four to six months or so.

Being rung by my ‘brothers’ to be wished a happy birthday and to be told that I should visit them by the time I turned twenty one was not part of the overall contact plan. As the conversation progressed on the phone, I turned gray in complexion, and felt sick to the stomach. When I got off the phone I brushed the incident off, though told my parents as much as I could remember.

Less than a week after my seventeenth birthday, my self worth plunged precipitously.

I personally believe it was due to me suffering burn out towards my schoolwork. Ergo, I would not go to university. Ergo, I would not get an interesting and fulfilling job. Ergo, my life would be a waste. Ergo, why bother, and let’s just give up.

I had concentrated for four years on my high school grades, and had been getting more and more frustrated by the combination of my procrastination and the last minute efforts I had to put in to do projects and such like. Combined with a sense that even my best effort would not get me into university, a civil war broke out inside me.

This was fought with the sense of responsibility I have had throughout my life, opposing the desperation of helplessness that even my best would not be good enough to get me through. My helplessness was ably abetted by the chasm of the unknown that would be my life without grades, homework and the like. I just snapped and wanted OUT.

The silly, very silly thing is, I could have left high school the year before my breakdown, gone to a polytechnic institute and learnt a trade that I had a great degree of interest in. But I insisted that I could put it off for a year, join the herd mentality of final year of high school and THEN going separate ways after that. Boy, do I regret that decision every single time I think about it. And yes, my parents were right in that argument.

It was a Tuesday, maybe a week or two after my birthday, when things came to a head. I stayed home, with the intention of killing myself. Somehow, I can’t remember how, I managed to psych myself up to the point of cutting my wrists. The pain, bearable. The blood, beautiful, in its destructive way. But although I felt faint, I didn’t feel particularly close to death.

I cut deeper. The pain got more intense, yet still somehow bearable. This wasn’t going anywhere fast. I had lunch, and then worked at my wounds, almost like a craftsman, whittling a bit here, another bit there, deeper, always deeper. But the blood wasn’t flowing as I felt it should, and it started clotting as well.

Evening came. My family came home. Being winter, I put on a long sleeved woolen jersey, to hide my wounds, flirting desperately close to insanity with that decision. I was quieter than usual in my interactions, but still managed to make the effort to appear normal. My family not having an inkling of what was going on in my head, they took the acting at face value.

The above three paragraphs repeated over the next three days as well, Wednesday to Friday. I felt trapped. I couldn’t tell my family what was going on, I couldn’t just go back to school without a sick note and go cheerily on, all I felt I could do was cut deeper, even though by now I knew I wasn’t going to die because of this, and treat my wounds as if they were works of art, making them as ‘perfect’ as they could be.

Saturday was ordinary enough as well. Sunday, I went to a friend’s place, to play wargames - yes, I was in the geek section of the whole high school experience. Before I left, I penned a quick note about what was going on, and put it on my parents’ bed. And left it to fate, if they read it then it was meant to be, if not then I would battle on myself for a time yet.

I came home, and went to my room. Everything seemed normal. Five or ten minutes later, my mother knocked on the door, red rimmed eyes as she looked in and said we need to talk. We went into the lounge, where my father was also, and showed my wounds, everyone bursting into tears. The conversation after that is a blur.

The next day, Monday, my mother took me to see our GP. Who made an appointment with a psychiatrist at the hospital. After the initial psychiatric scan - no I am not gay is the only answer I can remember giving - I was enrolled into the children and young person’s programme, to see a psychiatrist once a week for the foreseeable future. I believe I was also prescribed anti-depressants at that stage.

The next couple of months are a blur. The first few weeks my mother took time off from work to keep an eye on me – when I had opened up about what was going on, and had seen the GP and psychiatrist initially, there was a week to go before the next round of school holidays. So obviously, I took that week off.

In my appointments with the shrink, I seethed. I can’t remember what I was so angry about now, but all I know is that I was very angry at the world. I had bottled my emotions so long that they all flowed out of me in a torrent. I remember the shrink saying that my note to the parents was almost poetic, but that is about the only positive thing I can remember being said in those sessions.

In the family group appointments - yes, they do happen, and yes, I know they are a cliché – I remember a sense of my parents and siblings recoiling from my flood of emotions, self-hatred, and anger. I can’t remember if they actually did recoil, but I can remember that sense. At home, knowing that I was under an uneasy combination of eagle eyed surveillance and the others walking gingerly, as if on glass, around me.

Of all the things that I regret about this time, one in particular is my sister hearing my parents talking about the note that I had left that Sunday. She was only eleven at the time, and yet to know how devastated and hopeless I was - yes, one of the many regrets.

Slowly, glacially it seemed to me at the time, the appointments got better, I was keeping my emotions better leashed, and school had removed itself from my list of worries. I had dropped out of the end of year exams, and I believe was bragging about it. Very fucked up way of thinking, yes I know.

And the School Ball was coming up. And I had asked a girl to go with, and amazingly she had said yes. Things were as positive as they could be, it seemed. My shrink said I was OK enough to go from weekly appointments to three monthly check ups, and I continued to take the meds.

The school ball was a disaster. Well, it wasn't a disaster, but I had held it aloft for months as an answer to all my issues, that I would suddenly become popular, part of the alpha male group, that I would have the most fun of my life there. I had built up expectations to an unrealistic level.

When, on the night, I danced, I socialised, I wasn't invited to any pre or post ball parties - it just didn't seem enough. Also around this time, my year group deans convinced me to at least register for the end of year tests again, if I didn't feel like doing it I could back out closer to the end of the year - that put extra pressure on me, as if I had to start trying to do something at school again, other than just float.

Although I didn't fall as blackly as before, there was another touch of insanity about the subsequent decision to not take the anti-depressants, to stockpile them, in case of a 'rainy day'. Yes, I did think in terms of that rainy day wording, as if I was not depressed or suicidal yet, but just in case it happened later, I would be able to put the correct plan in action.

Stockpiling the pills was harder than it may sound. I was rationed two pills a day, the actual full bottle was under the watchful eye of my parents, and they watched while I took the pills and water. However, I put the pills in my mouth, under my tongue, drank the water down, went to my room and took the pills out of my mouth. I continued to do this for just under a month.

I was still angry at the world. At the school ball not meeting my expectations. At my psychiatrist, whom I thought obviously could never understand me, signing me off as cured. At my teachers for twisting my arm to enrol back into the end of year tests. At myself even, for only trying to slit my wrists a few months earlier, that if I had really wanted to kill myself I would have done something 'better'.

I convinced myself that taking pills would be a 'real' attempt, worthy of the whole suicide thought. That although scars on my wrist were nice and all, surviving that was easy - if I had a real attempt and I made it through I would have done my 'best' in the whole destructive process way. However, partly to raise my chances of survival, partly to show how much I was hating school, I decided to take the pills just before going to school and still wander in, see what happened.

After about three and a half weeks I think, I finally summoned up the courage to go through with the idea. And yes, even though it is the most destructive act one can do, it is still a matter of courage to go through with it - it is not a coward's way out, in the sense that so many people think. It is not the most courageous decision one can make, but there is at least a sense of courage about it. That thought and belief has stuck with me even when all the other suicidal thoughts have been lost or discredited.

It was a Tuesday I believe. I soaked in the minutae of the morning, was it porridge or weetbix I had for breakfast, or perhaps toast. Drinking in the sights of my family, determined to crash and burn later on that day, saying goodbye to my mother as she headed to work. I went into my room, looked at the pills, got a big glass of water. And proceeded to take about thirty of them. For some reason, that was only about half, the others kept in case of another 'rainy day'. Yes, I was insane at this stage.

Tears streaming down my face, listening to REM's Losing My Religion, again, and again, and again. It was on tape, so play, rewind, play, rewind repeat. My favourite song of all time, and the lyrics meant so much. The mandolin solo at the end.

I put myself together as much as I could, wondering how this would all turn out, and walked to school. First period was Biology, and although I felt faint when I arrived at school, I was still OKish. About ten minutes into the period, which I was not taking any notice of at all, my heart beat quickened, and the teacher came over and asked what is wrong. I said I had overdosed.

Two classmates were quickly assigned to take me to the sick room. My body went limp under me as I was carried into the sunlight, one of the boys asking what I had taken. I remember slurring out the name of the drug, and I passed out – fade to black.

Muddled memories from the rest of that day. Coming in and out of consciousness, but only barely above a dream. Being wheelchaired around the hospital, moving around on the bed - or was it all part of that dream? It is all so fuzzy.

I remember waking up the next morning, in darkness, with my mother reading the paper beside me. I had taken the best attempt doing the worst thing I could do to myself, and seemed to have come through. All the tension of the past few months just drained out of me, no doubt flowing into those around me a hundred fold. But it was out of me - I was in no mood to try again. At least that day.

I was asked by the shrinks whether I wanted to admit myself into the psych ward in the region, for a week or two of observations - one of those moments where your life could go in one of two directions. I thought long and hard about it, consulted with my parents, and decided not to go into institutional care. I would of course see the shrink regularly again, for an unspecified time, but I was discharged that day.

I felt broken, completely torn apart, and needing to rebuild myself completely. And this time I was receptive to help, whereas in the interval between the first and second attempts I continued to be secretive. I still loathed the world and myself, but wanted to improve rather than destroy myself this time around.

I dropped out of trying at school again, which I feel was one of the best things for me. I should never have agreed to sign up for trying there again. Unsurprisingly, I had another two weeks off before the next set of school holidays. For the final term, I just turned up to attempt to start socialising again, although I felt a huge space around me, from staff, classmates and friends - I never wanted to confirm what the gossip was about me though. Our school was on the news while I was away from class as being hit by a suicide epidemic - there had been about four 'successful' suicides in a period of two years, with an unspecified number of attempts. Now I feel sympathy for what the staff were going through, but back then, I couldn't care less.

The next four months are basically a blur. My self confidence and self esteem were in the cellar, I was NOT taking medication - it had done so well for me last time around, obviously - and was attending the psych clinic twice a week those first few months. My social life was going to school. What I had feared was about to come to pass - the end of school, the end of my social life, and feeling broken and useless for the impending workforce.

I got a job the next year through my mother's work - another section, I wasn't working with her thank goodness. My social life improved, and alcohol was finally included at parties I attended - I discovered the wonders of beer and spirits. The teenage stereotype is that this happens during high school, as part of a funny story which would make a brainless but entertaining movie, but as stated before I was so not part of the A-league there.

My self confidence improved, if not my self esteem. Is that understandable? My confidence in myself grew in incremental steps, bunnylike hops in their smallness, yet my confidence in how others saw me remained at rock bottom, and has remained that way most of the rest of my life thus far.

The cutover point where the crisis ended and the rest of my life began happened approximately two years after my two suicide attempts. The trigger point where my 'hamster spinning in the wheel, merely waiting to drink on the weekend' stage ended and where things could move forward again was the travel bug hitting, and starting to organise a European trip twelve months out from the actual trip. My self confidence and esteem were still very low, but for the first time since I had started attacking my wrists, and probably a lot longer before that actually, for the first time in a long time, things were steadily and consistently moving up.

I was not cured, but I was on my way.