Is it really painless?

I'd hoped the six or so beers would be enough for me to drink myself to sleep but I suppose I should've started drinking later than 1.30pm. Besides, one of the teenagers opposite is throwing a party and I'm out of weed, out of booze, and can't find my earplugs so there definitely won't be any sleep for me until the party has run its course. I may as well blog.

Anyway, for reasons I can't fathom, the shrinks always ask you if you've thought about how you'd commit suicide, not whether you'd commit suicide. I never have figured out why. The last time I did was shortly after I'd been set up, stitched up, and fired from Interbrand Toronto, circa April '08. I went for a walk to 'clear my head' that night, happened across some railroad tracks, and started to consider the practicalities of it. It struck me, no pun intended, that just standing on the tracks would be a waste of time because the train driver would see me and just stop the train. I'd have to jump out from the bushes at the last minute and hope he or she couldn't get to the brake in time.

It would have been far more convenient to just take a flying leap from our balcony but the trouble was that it was only on the eighth floor. The only thing that can go wrong with taking one's own life is if it doesn't actually work, which can potentially be worse than death itself. Thus I shied away from the sans-parachute quasi-base jump because there was a strong possibility I'd be maimed, crippled physically and/or mentally, but not killed, despite the inviting expanse of grey concrete below. We didn't have a rooftop patio in our building though I knew from talking to the concierge that it was possible to get out onto the roof somehow. However, when I checked it out, a pretty sturdy padlock fastened the trap door, and I'd have needed a step-ladder to get up there anyway.

I'm a bit of a wuss when it comes to blood and guts so anything involving cutting, stabbing, or impaling is out. Plus, it takes just too damn long to die that way, and the last thing I'd want is to be thinking about the fact that I'm dying as I'm actually doing it. They say that of the proportion of GAD/clinical depression sufferers in North America, more women than men are affected. However, when it comes to the proportion of those who seek an easy way out, more men than women actually die. It seems, statistically at least, that women aren't very good at suicide.

If you're now considering accusing me of sexism then kindly e-mail your points of view to totallymissedthepoint@headupyourownarse.com

A gun would be nice. Quick, clean, portable...but impractical. I don't own a gun, wouldn't know where to steal one much less buy one, and know of only one in existence, which belongs to the cop in my group therapy posse. Little chance of borrowing it for a weekend.

I must admit I didn't brainstorm methods or anything. There was no research. In the end I defaulted to hanging, although - again - the impracticality is that there's nothing in the house to actually hang myself from. The only girders strong enough to support my weight are in the basement, where the ceiling is so low that I have to stoop in order to get from one side to the other without knocking myself unconscious. The only place with any chance of success would be the garage. I don't have any rope but there's plenty of cable in there, either from an appliance or just an extension cable. There's things to stand on and leap from too. Even lighting, if the mood should take me in the middle of the night.

As I thought it through though, I realised that the only person likely to find my body would be my housemate/landlord, whose penchant for procrastination would ensure that nobody would realise what had happened until the winter, when the time came for him to actually put his car in the garage. I don't understand why that seems like such a problem for me when I'd be pretty fucking far beyond the point of caring anyway, but it is.

Then the Eureka moment. If anyone should have to find my body then why not my ex-wife? After all, it was she who brought me to Canada under the pretence of living happily ever after. It was she who not only kicked me while I was down and divorced me when I was already at my wit's end, but also actively contributed to my downfall through her ignorance of mental illness, its symptoms, and its triggers, and by telling me that it was my fault that my career had failed. She even went as far as to suggest that me being honest with her about my suicidal thoughts was an attempt of mine to make her feel guilty. Someone should have filmed the scene so it could be uploaded into wikipedia under "selfish".

The good news is that I still have the keys to her apartment, and there's plenty of places to attach a rope.

So why all the consideration of checking out? Well, it gives me three, as opposed to two choices.

Choice one is to stick around here in Toronto. However, whilst I do have a freelance contract in the bag, it's with a not-for-profit so not very lucrative, and likely short-lived (again, no pun intended). I have no other income, and apparently despite being seriously ill, broke, and unemployed, I am not eligible for benefits, or "EI" as it's called here. I've been applying for jobs since November and got nowhere. In fact, I barely have two rejection letters to rub together because apparently nobody in Canada bothers with those. Because I've been either too sick to work, or comprehensively rejected for everything from my quasi-dream job (public sector communications for the Ministry of the Environment) to being a bike mechanic at MEC, I can't even say that any future income is in sight. It isn't. And, now I have the mysterious hole in my resume to explain to any future employer. When I think about some of the recruitment processes I've been though - interviews, IQ tests, presentations, writing exams, bla bla bla - I just can't see me getting through it. I don't think I can hold it together for long enough to fool any interviewer. Not even by phone. Besides, who am I kidding? What likelihood is there that I'd even get as far as an interview?

I no longer have any family in Toronto. I have few friends. I have no job or career here, and everything I own would fit in a cube van. In short, there is nothing to keep me here, and if I stay then all I have to look forward to is more therapy, followed by being forced to move because I can no longer afford the rent, followed by bankruptcy or some other kind of financial ruin with no end in sight.

That's choice #1.

Choice #2 is to literally walk away. Scrape together sufficient cash to get a taxi to the airport, beg my parents to pay for the flight, and return to the UK. The trouble I have with that though is the shame. The admitting of defeat. The inescapable conclusion that it wasn't just my marriage that I allowed to die, but my entire Canadian way of life. My one thought about dealing with paperwork, tying up loose ends, organising transatlantic logistics etc is that I just can't face the thought of it. Not again. Not now. Least of all when I'm one month from 38. It just sounds so pathetic that I can barely say it out loud without my stomach churning. "He couldn't handle it", "...he couldn't take it"..."what a pussy, what a mummy's boy"..."what kind of a 38 year-old runs home to his parents?". Besides, it's not as if there's a wife, family, job, career, home, white picket fence waiting for me there. I would be in the same position as I was when I arrived in Canada in 2005, worse in fact because I'd have zero cash, zero savings, no job to walk into, and no fiance. And I'd be four years older. I'd have to go through all the healthcare bureacracy bullshit immediately too...or I could just lock myself up in a room somewhere, go cold turkey, and see what happens to a human being when it goes from 225mg daily of Effexor XR to zero in one day.

Anyway, that's choice #2.

The third way, as Tony Blair used to say, is suicide. It doesn't cost any money, doesn't take any time, doesn't require anyone's permission, and - thank god - isn't something like EI or a job that I have to fill out another fucking application form for. And it's easy, so much easier than #1 or #2.

I suppose if I'm honest then there are more than three. There's the glittering international superstar DJ career...that I can't afford because it takes so long to get anywhere in DJing that I'd be bankrupt before I got to even the same postcode as making it cover the rent. There's the quick-fix moneyspinning ads I keep seeing on Google, but I just can't believe they're true. There's the PR training company idea I had, but I can't imagine being able to get that off the ground either. I haven't thought it through but after everything else, what reason do I have to believe it'd actually work? Then there's the planet-changing, global 'ecomart' business idea I had, but have neither the funding nor the expertise to bring from pipe dream to fruition.

The catchphrase/inside joke amongst those suffering depression is that they'd commit suicide, if they could only find the motivation to do it. However, in my case motivation seems irrelevant. It's about choice, or the lack of it. Frankly, the only thing stopping me taking a moonlight stroll to the garage right now is the fact that my folks would be really upset if I did. I'm glad they're not dead. If they were, then I might be too by now.