Coming Back: An Escape from Suicide

By Neaz Subhan

"Coming Back", chronicles my journey during which I escaped from a dark and painful place in which I was a prisoner of depression and suicidal tendencies. Having reached the precipice of giving up, something, through the intervention of people and unexplained incidents, held me from tipping over. During that journey, the bully depression proved to be, its overwhelming force and lure to seek refuge in the arms of death, took hold of me. To break free, took strength to first accept that I had a problem which needed help and that taking my life should not be an option. It took strength to find strength to break its stranglehold. In doing so, I became fortified with a renewed purpose for living allowing me to fend off the beast depression could be. In the end, I was able to reject its calling and thankfully, now in a better position than before to be able to share my story with the hope that it could be found useful by those who suffer, especially those who do so in silence. I am also hoping it could empower others to speak about it in an effort to help remove stigmatization.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098352691

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Prologue

Without time to draw my gun, which was tucked in the backside of my waist, I impulsively and with all the strength I could muster, forced the door open. It swung inwards and my intention was to slam the intruder into the tiled concrete wall on the inside of the room. The door flew open, as if without resistance, causing me to stumble in. Instantly my face was doused with a liquid rendering me almost helpless.

In whatever time I had to think, I thought it was acid for the intense burning sensation felt, was immediate. Just as my eyes were about to be shut down, I saw the attacker about to light a match and I suddenly recognized what the scent was; gasoline.

Instinctively, I held on to the attacker’s hands to prevent the tip of the match from making contact with the strip of sulfur at the side of the box.

The horrific consequences flashed frighteningly through my mind. Not wanting to be a victim, to survive, I held onto those hands for dear life screaming for help as I never did before. In those fleeting moments, what was strangely more painful, were my inner ears.

I felt as if the tympanums were shattered probably from my high-decibel cries bouncing off the walls of this semi sound-proofed room into them.

I barely managed to prevent the attacker from igniting the match and in between the painful blinks of my burning eyes, I recognized who wanted to light me afire; the revelation was profoundly shocking. I involuntarily froze in utter disbelief as lifelessness instantaneously engulfed my body.

Chapter One - A big irony and an elusive understanding

The media landscape was constantly inundated with reports of cases of suicide and failed attempts. It seemed a fixture in the news over the past six years or so and led to the country being given the unfortunate label of having the highest suicide rate per capita in the world.

That may have shocked many who were not necessarily following what appeared as a noticeable trend. The obvious question was; how could a country with about three quarters of a million people, come to have the highest rate of self-inflicted deaths?

Then, for the masses, that probably wasn’t an unfair question since, more than likely, they were unaware of the international formulas that would precipitate such pronouncements. For those following the foreign news broadcast, now made easily available through the seeming excitement of cable television, the label bestowed upon the country was probably unsurprising.

At some point during that trend, the prominent and influential international news conglomerate, Al Jazeera, carried a report on what they believed to be an alarming rate of suicide in this third world nation; Guyana.

I saw it and was taken aback; not because of the suicide rate angle, but in some disbelief that such a respected and mega news outfit, would actually have the time to invest in human and technical resources for a story nestled in the small and only English-speaking country in South America.

That new label was no ordinary development for the country, for it was once again propelled into the international spotlight; at least so I thought. I related and discussed it with colleagues and we all expected that news to snowball. After all, this is the country known for the infamous Jonestown massacre in which over nine hundred American citizens were forced into committing suicide by their cult leader, Rev Jim Jones.

Years after that, when the country topped that unfortunate list, suicide related discussions suddenly heated up through various organizations and individuals seemingly jockeying to be branded as advocates, probably with the expectation of benefits to come. Disappointment may have crept in after the expected international news snowball failed to materialize, at least with the optimists like myself.

In 1978, Guyanese were probably the last to know of the mass suicide in their own densely forested backyard where only foreigners died. As boys, our stares were affixed to the sky during the ensuing days after it was eventually announced on radio.

It’s a flying elephant; look, screamed an excited young village pal.

No, it’s not. It’s a big sky-bird, yelled another.

Scores excitedly pointed and competed to demonstrate who was more knowledgeable on what traversed constantly and noisily over our houses.

Those few days provided images never seen before. As a matter of fact, there were unimaginable. As good as we were in making up stories, this was one we couldn’t construct.

We subsequently learnt they were aircraft airlifting bodies from Jonestown to the Timehri International Airport, now the Cheddi Jagan International Airport (CJIA). That provided an air show for us who lived along the East Bank of the Demerara River.

Despite the mega birds in the sky, we could not truly understand the magnitude of what was unfolding. We were young, playful, carefree, happy and probably never heard the word suicide. We heard of Jonestown and we knew it to be a village on the East Bank just on the periphery of the City of Georgetown.

We kept hearing the elders lamenting over the deaths of many people at a place which, for them and us, was a just about five miles away. With the belief of that occurring so close to home, some semblance of fear might have crept in.

In reality, it was a different Jonestown, hundreds of miles away in the heart of the jungle and relatively close to the Venezuelan border. At our age, we couldn’t image the distance and our only attachment was the sense of loss we felt when the ‘flying elephants’ ceased to hover. That new-found excitement was stolen.

At that time, there was no internet or cellphones. I am not certain if those words actually existed then. The sprinkling of land lines was just for the privileged few. Battery operated radios were the main conduits for information.

Newspaper for us had a different purpose; the same usage as toilet paper. Personal hygiene aside, the international media outfits spared no effort in racing to what was probably at that moment, a country unheard of, at least by some.

One of their colleagues, a correspondent, Don Harris (born, Roy Darwin Humphrey) from the leading American Network, NBC, was killed along with a United States Congressman, Leo Ryan, during the Jonestown massacre. It seemed unheard of; Americans in Guyana to live; Americans dead in a foreign land at the behest of one of their own. The stakes were too high for missing out.

Other than war, I understand that incident had the unfortunate record of claiming the most American lives in a single occurrence of mass deaths until being eclipsed by the bombing of the World Trade Center in Manhattan, New York, on Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

At that time, in 1978, the average Guyanese citizen was consumed with trying to eke out a livelihood in a country where its economy and social and physical infrastructures were collapsing or already did. The political climate that reeked of oppression, forced those with the means, to escape by any way possible to the country Jim Jones and his dead flock escaped from; the United States of America.

There could not have been a bigger irony in the history of the nation of Guyana. It was similar to a victim being trapped in a room and frantically screaming,

Let me out, let me out, and those on the outside shouting, let me in, let me in.

After viewing the Al Jazeera news story, I was convinced that suicide on a mass scale was therefore nothing new to this small country, which has vast untapped potential.

In retrospect, as boys, we were probably insulated and never knew how close we came to be able to understand the effects of suicide. We technically basked in its result and looked for excitement when others grieved. Of course, we didn’t know better.

We knew, that death and its aftermath, were scary and that’s why whenever we pointed to a nearby cemetery, we immediately bit our tens fingers, all from one hand at a time, and counted our ten toes aloud.

The myth was, if that ritual wasn’t observed after pointing, the appendages would rot and fall off. In many ways, those rituals may have served to embolden us, for we had the armory to confront the fear.

We were innocent and, somehow, we laughed at death. Nothing therefore could have forewarned how my life would subsequently become so intertwined with suicide; which clearly, is not a laughing matter.

In those innocent years, laughter prevailed and tears were scarce, probably forced to flow from a prolonged disciplinary whipping. In the troubled adult era, laughter could not be found and tears needed no prodding.

But how many would remember the Jonestown massacre some forty-two years after, is a different issue. Since those four decades, cellphones are now ubiquitous and the internet a most vital necessity. That exemplifies the vast difference in generations and the country’s rapid and unprecedented transformation through modernization.

Media entities swiftly mushroomed thereby increasing competition to inform a receptive mass, with social media a now fixed part of life; a new culture for many. While as boys we gazed in astonishment at the flying elephants, never in our wildest imagination could we have fathomed the technological revolution that was to come.

That aside, other obvious questions are; why after having achieved the second uncontested world record relating to suicide, the highest rate being the latest, the international media did not swarm the country like they did in 1978? Why after this damming revelation, suicide education and prevention were not made a priority by the government of the day as some had called for? I was one.

Some posit that the international media was occupied with things far more important like, the fight against terrorism, the Arab Spring, the war in Syria and the refugee crisis, among others. Similarly, for the Guyana government on either side of the 2015 change, other priories seemed foremost; probably understandably so in a country trying to sustain its new found development. Questions surrounding the value of human capital could not have been avoided in some quarters.

It may be fair to note that, locally, not many would have seen that Al Jazeera’s report simply because access to cable television was limited. At the time, I believe that service might have been confined to the City and its environs, while suicide was seemingly more prevalent in the far rural areas.

While that may probably offer a seemingly plausible excuse for the general citizenry, especially in the areas of concern, those in authority could not claim one. They seemed aware of the Jonestown settlement before 1978. Importantly, the news report in question, did not only allude to the high suicide rate, but highlighted the shockingly easy access to chemicals, especially pesticides, in some rural farming communities.

That report should have been a reminder, more so a warning, thereby raising the proverbial red flags. The ingestion of poison seemed the preferred choice for suicide, predominantly by one particular ethnic group; Guyanese of East Indian ancestry.

Of course, suicides were not confined to that particular means, area or group, however, stigmatization was unavoidable countrywide. Some efforts to streamline the purchase and storage of particular pesticides, appeared to be implemented subsequently.

Gramoxzone, a brand-named herbicide that can cause fatal poisoning, seemed the weapon of choice. In addition, a few symposiums were held, however, they seemed reflexive endeavours into public relation exercise rather than anything meaningful.

The impact of those engagements is still unknown and appears ineffective as incidents of suicide and related attempts, continue. While it would never cease, questions regarding meaningful interventions abound. In my estimation, before dealing with preventative measures, one must endeavor to try to find an understanding as to what propels someone to end his/her life.

While that exercise would be fraught with immense challenges, one must unrelentingly endure the hurdles along the path to derive a better understanding in an effort to deliver pertinent information. This is against the backdrop that individual circumstance may be different despite the broad generic causes.

The hope is therefore for a more scientific approach in analyzing the findings. Many would naturally question why someone would take his/her own life. As a journalist, producer and host of television and radio programs, it was the priority question. The question of why is a basic journalistic instinct in news gathering and, similarly, characteristic of police investigations.

Relatives and sleuths are often stumped when answers to this particular question are not forthcoming. That reaction may seem natural, but as someone who sought a way out of life’s existence, the question seems to become irrelevant to those who suffer. It’s consciously not considered in the context of the alternative. I believe, that to understand why, in the context of that irrelevance, is to reach nearer the understanding of suicide, if at all that could definitively be reached.

How all of this eventually impacted on me was unforeseen. I was even denied the privilege of a warning. Sometimes I questioned this and asked myself if I failed to heed the subtle signs; in hind sight, verily not so subtle. Were my actions unconsciously deliberate to arouse denial which at the time seemed to offer some hope?

These are unfortunately only unraveled generally after the passing of time; the straw-clutching cliché of hope. Why not in real time one may ask? If that were to obtained, then these tales, in my view, become unnecessary.

Chapter 2 – Identity and a disappearing train

The old question of, who am I seems pertinent. Knowing who or what I am may provide the resource to aid understanding within this context. Who am I? Who I am? The difference may border on dwelling on semantics, at least in this case or depending on who you are. Who am I to others? Naturally that depends on who the others are.

This makes me remember a short comedy skit I produced for television some years ago. Passengers had lined up at the check-in counter at the airport. Shortly after an official turned up and joined the line, which, in the first case, was very surprising.

The line moved slothfully and his patience was short-lived. He rushed ahead and presented his documents. The attendant politely told him to return to his spot. He refused, and became agitated, while the attendant remained suavely cool under pressure.

The official snapped, and loudly asked, Do you know who I am to treat me like this. Do you know who I am?

The attended held her composure and picked up the intercom.

She said, Your attention ladies and gentlemen, there is a man here who doesn’t know who he is, if anyone can assist, kindly report to the counter. Thank you.

The official embarrassingly walked back to his spot in the line. What does it mean? On the surface, probably someone who thinks he/she can somehow contradict the belief of others. How do others see me or you? Often, the real answer is not revealed. Fear of offending may be responsible. They say a true friend should provide the real picture. Well, friends are human too and can sometimes be fearful to offend.

How would I want others to see me? I think that implies displaying unauthentic characteristics just to appease others; you now not wanting to offend. In other words, I opined that who you are may not necessarily hinge on who you really are. A sense of pretense can become infused depending on circumstances, sometimes unavoidable; a display of Darwinism in some way as we try to adapt to fit in.

I never felt I fitted in, not at any moment. I saw myself throughout my young-adult and adult life as a societal misfit; inelegant, unattractive, not belonging, simple, earthly and withdrawn with a phobia to approach others. This probably could be explained or compounded by my lack of any financial status and being conscious of my dark and unenviable physique.

While that may have summed it up, many times I reflected that my introverted being and its related dislike for crowds and attention, was the real me. I have never seen myself with any ability to woo lovely lasses. My belief was that guys like me are not in the class of the fair lasses. I felt and still feel that way. Yet, I did engage fair lasses. The irony is inexplicable. This probably confused my endeavor to derive who I am, or who am I. My doubts still linger.

What brought the fair lasses? The consequent rendezvous with them probably were in some ways responsible for perching me on the cliff. It wasn’t confined to just them, but those engagements may have assisted me to commence the climb to that point. It’s perplexing. With whom, not an individual, but the type, I always felt was beyond my class, somehow embraced me; or seemingly so. At the time, with jaws dropped, I wondered how. It was mirage-like even though the sun slept.

Were the forces of nature toying with me? How could a poor country trench-bathing lad waltz with goddesses who seemed to be specially molded? As boys, we taunted each other and reminded that you cannot be ugly and rude. So, we were polite; always. I pondered how I evolved to be ugly and seemingly lucky; at least, in that context. The perceived luck seemed to have walked alongside me in flowing garbs. To say I was ecstatic, would be an understatement.

It was like standing on the highest level of the Olympic podium and noticeably gloating. It was like holding a cherished prize even though I didn’t compete. I was always afraid to compete in those races and stayed behind the starting line. Maybe that was my mistake; the prize seemed to present itself there; where I was.

I learnt that by not racing, exuded an intriguing form of magnetism. Of course, not within my realms of understanding and anyhow, I would have been the last to know. It’s almost impossible to understand the feeling of euphoria that is imbued when the underdog gets the coveted bone; success without deliberately trying.

A dark Joe alongside an angelic Snow White? Not within my imagination of reality, but it’s a feel-good story; at least for the Joe; an unthinkable happy ending with expectations rife for a happily ever after.

The resulting lesson may prove that such expectations seemed etched only in fairy tales. The party-pooper is the actual reality itself, since feeling good is temporary and the disparity, even in the hue, would eventually surface. The downside is the lengthy time it takes to recover and the pain it hauls.

A lass in earlier times, complimented my patience and drooled over what she believed to be my likeability.

How do you do it? she asked.

Years after I asked myself, Where the hell did the patience go? Was it ever there?

I am unsure, for I don’t know what she saw.

My dad felt I was too simple and that I displayed an intriguing dislike for money. My cousins say I was nice and so did the neighbours. Schoolmates said I was reliable and friendly while my teachers said I was bright and hard-working. My aunt said I had nice teeth and fingernails. Who was right? How could all this be? I questioned whether they really knew me. I learnt the answers as the years rolled. I think we all do; don’t we?

Despite my ethnic identity; my daily job routine and periodically engaging in my hobby, I really didn’t give much thought to who I am. The question seems to place itself in the upper echelons of the intellectual realm of which I have little interest. Other than that, I thought I knew. Don’t we all?

My science background basically pushed me to the understanding that I am a product of my heredity and the environment and shaped generally by the more dominant one. I looked like my dad they say. Remarkably, he and I have the exact pattern of what looks like stretch marks just above the armpits on our left arm. What it means I don’t know, but my mom jokingly reminded that he cannot disown me.

I had the fortunate opportunity to be in an environment to access an education which clearly helped to mold what I have become. Was I satisfied? Are we ever?

While intensely modest as others vindicated what I believed of myself, I was forced to be cognizant of my public stature which was obviously bestowed through the admiration of others over time. My efforts to remain a simpleton were relentless and sustained. It was the one thing I felt I owned and couldn’t give up. I did my utmost for it not to be compromised.

The irony however, was despite being a public figure; playwright, a stage and movie actor, director, former politician and a Member of Parliament; I was shy, suffered from what I self-labeled as ‘acute inferiority complex’ and thoroughly disliked crowds. Many, when they realized, found it as expected, surprising; immensely so. Some thought I was being deceitful, even to myself.

Obviously, I am not without flaws and have certain peculiarities. After all, I am human. Who doesn’t, except for the vain?  But I laboured to remain humble and was least interested in fashion trends and its related brand-name fad and products. I was never comfortable donning international branded commodities. It just didn’t feel right on me especially when being a product of extremely humble beginnings.

I felt that was like seeking unnecessary attention while needlessly forcing the stares of others unto you. I had no qualms about wearing one pair of trousers for more than a week and for a large part of my life, had only one pair of footwear at any given time. At one point it was a red-looking Chinese flat footwear that I wore for months to every place and occasion I attended, including work.

As a young man growing up, one day, I overheard my hard-working father telling my mom how displeased he was to see me dressed often in one pair of pants. Beggar man pickney, was the phrase he used to describe my appearance. We were not rich, but my dad did his best to provide the best of what was available for me and my younger brother.

Sometime after, I realized that despite his humbleness, which I think I inherited, he wanted to be proud of how his children looked, in some way a satisfaction from