This is a story about grand gestures...

Here's the thing. You can reach the ripe old age of 52, father three children and generally be carrying on life completely unnoticed. You're a nobody. You're just making up the numbers. You can die of old age, and unless you're somebody considered to be important, you won't even make the obituary listings in your pathetic local rag of a newspaper. Most people live and die in total obscurity.

The recent murder of 4 people and injury of 50 more, on Westminster Bridge and at the Houses of Parliament, must have been influenced - at least in some small way - by the fact that the murderer knew that there would be a huge amount of media coverage of his actions: publicity. Whether we call it a terrorist attack or a killing spree, is very important. Terrorism needs publicity. Terrorism needs the media to strike fear into our hearts.

If it hadn't been for the media, I might not have known about the events of Wednesday until she sent me this message showing the memorial flowers. There are deadly road traffic accidents, stabbings, shootings and people jumping under tubes and overground trains, every single day in London. Because of the scale and significance of the attack, at the seat of government, perhaps the word-of-mouth news would have circulated quicker, but the media made it their top news item for four or five days, maybe more.

You may hate me for this, and think me detestable, but it plays heavily on my mind that these words that I write, even if they're not read today, are very likely to be read if I prematurely end my life. I write with that in mind. I write about what's driving me towards suicidal action. I write to leave a record of who I was, how I thought and what made me tick. I write to leave evidence, should anybody wish to investigate how a person who - to outward appearances - has nothing but opportunities, but yet could end up on the mortuary slab.

'Depression' is a cop-out of an answer. If you dig deeper, there isn't some difference between my brain and yours. Measuring the levels of 'happy' chemicals in our brains cannot be said to be the symptom of a problem, or the problem itself. Yes, we know we can manipulate our brains to alter our moods, but we also know that non-chemical things alter our moods too: when our sports team win; when we see a loved one; when we eat our favourite food.

There are so many variables to control for. The rich cry too. However, I refuse to accept that the cure for a condition that was identified in Ancient Greece - some 14,000 years ago - as melancholia, has to be pills, and not the freedom to escape from the confines of this crazy society.

It might piss you off to think that part of me wants to die, so that some attention is drawn to all the things I've been writing about; so that some questions are asked about why it happened.

I'd never go on a killing spree, but I wonder if dying for a single identifiable cause makes it easier for the public to understand. What would I choose? Anti-capitalism? Socialism? Wealth inequality? The difficulty of the choice is perhaps part of the reason why I'm still here today, writing, rather than having made my grand final gesture.

A friend made a couple of trips up to London to see me when we were both feeling really glum. I hope he doesn't mind me sharing - anonymously - that he'd tried to take his own life a couple of times. An old friend I had fallen out with came to see me in hospital, which was a nice surprise. My two friends who I've seen most regularly since returning to the capital, visited me in hospital. I have a friend who I got to know through my blog, who has been incredibly supportive and loyal and has gone to great lengths to keep me alive. I have a girlfriend who has slowly and naïvely unearthed the multiple additional issues that often accompany bipolar disorder, but she has worked hard to keep an open mind, be forgiving and kind, and be incredibly supportive. There are a handful of other people whose path I've crossed in London who care enough to help if I was in trouble. In Portishead, Killavullen, Bournemouth & Poole, Weymouth, Abingdon, Nottingham, Newcastle and perhaps even in Hythe, Woking, Biggleswade, Milan, Wimborne and Worcester, I think there are people who know me and care about me and would be upset by my departure from this Earthly realm.

Does it keep me glued in place, knowing the pain it'll cause so many people if I come unstuck? No, I'm sorry to say that it just adds a kind of guilt... a weight of responsibility.

People have their own problems and busy lives, but the stuff that makes the difference is when somebody says they'll help; even just opening my post. Even just sitting with me while I place an advert for a new flatmate. Even just getting me out of bed in the morning so I can make an 8am hospital appointment. It's rather childish and immature, to have to be babied and receive such hands-on care, but I've reached a point where I've lost all hope. I have no belief that there's any way out of this sticky situation I'm in. Things could be so much different if somebody just sat with me and answered my phone, and when it's HSBC ringing me back about a bridging loan, they can hand me the phone and we can see if we can get that sorted.That would completely change my optimism about the future, if I had adequate runway to get to the point where I'm consulting again.

My head's gone down. I've given up somewhat. I actually gave up fairly prematurely, and without much of a fight, on the face of it, but I'd had a long exhausting stressful wait with very little to do over the festive period, with regards to marketing my consultancy talents.

I've had a couple of kind offers from people to get me out of London and get me earning some cash elsewhere, but I'm so trapped by tenancy agreements, plus I'm in love with her and can't stand the thought of only seeing her at weekends and stuff. Fuck knows. It's a big shit sandwich, and I've got to take a great big bite.

You know, I'm TechStars accelerator alumni. I could leverage my network. I've got 500+ LinkedIn connections. What the hell am I worrying about? Well, I've got an MRI on my ankle/foot on Wednesday morning. I've got to go back to the Renal High Dependency Unit straight after that. I'm still pretty drugged up and in pain. I don't want another false start like I had with Lloyds. That was heartbreaking.

With the complexity of it all; the challenges that lie ahead; the cashflow projections that look terrible; the sheer number of pissy little jobs that need to be done, there's a voice that loudly and clearly says "why fucking bother?". That voice says "you've had all this stress before, and it's gotten you nowhere. You're back where you started. Why don't you just give up?". That voice says "take some pills and never wake up". That voice says "cut your carotid artery and that'll be the end of it: no more struggle, no more strife, no more stress".

I have to admit, that voice is one of the most reasoned and intelligent I've heard.

Tags: #suicide #terrorism