Why?: suicide is never painless

By Lady Dawn Annandale

Why? – suicide is never painless’ is the distressing account of the suicide of a seemingly ‘normal’ man and the reason why. This book is a disturbing fictional analysis of the ripples of suicide and the pain which reverberates forever. Why do people kill themselves? What pushes a person over the edge so far that they no longer want to live? This book explores the effect suicide has on the family, friends and those on the periphery of this arguably selfish act of self-destruction. The raw emotion and pain of those left behind is almost tangible – how does a child process the death of a parent or a parent that of a child? So many questions but so few answers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Conrad Press
• Release date: Jun 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781839786228

Book preview

9781839786228.jpg

Why?

suicide is never painless

Dawn Annandale

Why?

Published by The Conrad Press Ltd. in the United Kingdom 2023

Tel: [phone]

www.theconradpress.com

[e-mail]

ISBN 978-1-839786-22-8

Copyright © Dawn Annandale, 2023

All rights reserved.

Typesetting and Cover Design by: Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk

The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.

In memory of Archie.Profits from the sale of this book will be equally divided between the Samaritans and Papyrus Suicide Prevention.

For Louise, for making this possible.

Acknowledgements

This book is a fictional account of the depth of pain suicide brings to a family. I’ve wanted to write this book for many years but it’s taken until now to find the words. My father killed himself. His family and associates, in one form or another, have been coping with the repercussions of that day for more than thirty years. It’s not the first thing I think about when I wake up anymore. Memories are triggered by a song or smell, place or even a face in the distance. I used to ‘see’ him everywhere but, thankfully, that’s rare these days. You do have to cope, to accept, to move on, otherwise you will be consumed and the destruction will continue into the next generation.

Thank you my darling Louise for being you and to Del, who is the best of men. Lou and Del who read the first draft and understood. Lynn and Clairey G for also reading the first draft; for encouraging and understanding the challenges of writing such a cathartic book. To my children who know, absolutely know that I am here and always will be, until my last breath. Rod, in my life I love you more.

I have a wonderful gaggle of girlies who are amazing. Throughout all sorts of ups and downs they are always there, with tissues, vodka, teary phone calls or a hug. Rachael D, Rachel L-H, Denise, Nikki S, Maggie, Andrea, Di, Morag, Woo, Yorkshire Pudding Katie, Lesley, Naughty Katie. Love you all.

Dawn Annandale April 2023

Why?

Prologue

April 1995

He parked neatly into a space near the main entrance of the DIY shop; not wanting the thrashing rain to soak him any more than was necessary. The weather had been appalling for weeks now, he thought, suddenly wondering why this mundane observation had even occurred to him in the circumstances, why it mattered. As if a few raindrops would make any difference now. He turned the key around within the metal casing but it slipped in his sweaty fingers, not moving as the man had no grip to make it do so. Wiping the moisture away onto the denim jeans covering his trembling thigh, he gripped the key and pulled it from the ignition, his hands immediately wet again with a combination of fear, anxiety and anger, yes, anger, he thought, at being caught. He sat watching the rain as the sheer volume of water cascading over the windscreen entirely obscured his view through the glass. The weight of the raindrops thumping the roof like artillery fire, compounding his headache, adding to his self-pity. He had to do this now; it was time and further delay would only compound his torment so he opened the car door and stepped into pouring rain, the cold misery of the day which enhanced his desperation coupled with self-pity, clouding his thoughts, making him even angrier.

Despite the inclement weather, the shop was busy; bored couples not sure what to do with themselves on an unexpectedly wet Sunday afternoon in April. Equally bored, and often boisterous, off-spring running noisily around the DIY store, irritating the staff and fellow shoppers alike. He quickly found what he had purposefully come to buy and stood in line, impatiently queuing behind a family who appeared to be in the process of buying their own jungle in the form of a couple of palm trees and a Yucca precariously balanced on one of those huge flat trolleys that seem to have a mind of their own. He waited, irritated and anxious, mumbling almost inaudibly to himself, willing the cashier to hurry up and finish serving this family in the queue ahead of him. This happy family, who were buying their kids watering cans and tiny forks and spades to make their own pint-sized gardens. He closed his eyes trying to blot out the joy so obvious on the faces of these delighted children. He wanted this scene of domestic bliss gone from his mind’s eye, no reminders of his own family when he had this abhorrent task in front of him. He wanted the young girl waving that bar code thing around to take their money and say goodbye to them, then to scan his three items quickly, without a word to him. It was his turn at last and he stepped forward, placed the Stanley knife, the duct tape and several metres of flexible hose upon the desk finding he was unable to meet the eye of the girl standing in front of him, smiling at him, wishing him a good afternoon. He paid for his purchases with cash, silently, unable to speak, to form any words. The reality of his situation and the decision he had reached now manifested into the three items he now held in his clammy hands. He nodded his head in thanks and strode from the store, into the rain and even more positive about his next destination. He pulled open the boot, placed the three items inside and carefully shut the rusty boot over his bag of implements. He had even remembered the diameter of the hose he needed without referring to the small, sharply folded piece of paper in the pocket of his new Barbour jacket, this recent purchase registering as a waste of money. He stood with his hands on the boot, rain battering him from all angles, just as it had hammered on the car as he had previously sat inside, protected. Whether he was wet or dry was no longer an issue and totally irrelevant under the circumstances. He was transfixed on a building on the horizon, the rain penetrating his trousers and jacket, water touching his skin now, he was cold and soaking wet, lost in the horror of what he had done and had to now do.

A woman tapped his shoulder, asked him if he was alright to which he confirmed he was fine, just had a long day. He smiled at her and she was placated. He wanted to leave here now, to finish this act of whatever this was. He knew it was cowardice and wondered briefly what his mother would say to her friends at the Women’s Institute. That would give them something to gossip about as they made bloody jam to the tune of Jerusalem, he thought unkindly. The rain was lighter now, flickers of late afternoon sunshine finally breaking through the fat grey clouds. It occurred to him that he was intensely aware of his emotions, of his surroundings and was looking at the landscape as if it were for the first time. The car park of the DIY shop had a tall fence protecting it but, on the other side of the steel railings were fields, all shades of green and yellow, flat, continuing for as far as the eye could see, their borders merging into each other. Eternal, empty space, sense of clarity, nothing obscured, freedom. Freedom was what he was searching for, craved. Freedom from his life and the situation he took no responsibility for, even now. He sat with one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding the key, just looking, absorbing, calm now, for the first time in a week, seven days of torture, attempting to live his life normally, to function without weeping, to eat without throwing -up, to exist alongside the knowledge of his secret being exposed, since… well, he thought, just since.

The incline on the dual carriageway was only slight but the car was struggling with the effort. It was actually his son’s car, an ancient purple Nissan, bought for the boy after he had passed his driving test on the first attempt. His son was away at university now and the car was only used in the holidays – it would be a while before it was even missed. His own car was far too modern and new – what he had in mind just wouldn’t work with his car. The Nissan was normally parked in the messy old garage farthest from the house, as opposed to the new ‘double storage facility’ as the building company had called it. The new garage, as he called it, was a part of the extension to the original house which included the games room and indoor swimming pool; totally insignificant now but once his pride and joy. He could feel himself submerged within the pleasantly warm water, could hear the clunk of the snooker balls after a dinner party and saw the carefully placed outdoor lights illuminating the gardens to perfection. Party guests sipping Champagne in dinner jackets and cocktail dresses were part of another lifetime he had accepted he would never again experience. Acceptance was the right word for this, he acknowledged. Acceptance had given him peace after the turmoil, after what he had done, what he had destroyed. But, it wasn’t fair; he couldn’t accept that it was fair or that it should have happened to him, a man like him with his standing in the community. How could it possibly be fair in the great scheme of things?

Why here he wasn’t quite sure but the litter-strewn lay-by full of weeds, an overflowing rubbish bin, dog mess, oil stains and the general detritus of a transient and preoccupied town felt right, suitable. The mess, the shame he would feel if he for one moment acknowledged any responsibility, felt equal to the filth of the lay-by. It was also empty and the hedge, despite it being straggly and thin, would give him a little of the cover he needed. He pulled into the lay-by, its only occupant, for which he was grateful although he would had driven on for another hour then turned around at the roundabout on the by-pass for the next town had there been any other cars or lorries parked up. As he watched the sun set, he felt sure. There was really no alternative; his decision was made and he knew it had to be done because he was a coward. That was all it boiled down to; for all his many years of bravado and confidence he knew he was a pathetic coward. No adjectives could sufficiently describe the type of man he was and would be remembered as being although he had no way of knowing exactly to whom the truth would surface. His mother? His wife? The children? He wondered what would happen after they had found him. Who was this ‘they’ that would have to deal with the grisly discovery of what he was about to do to himself. It was usually a jogger or a dog walker who found such gruesome things – not in this case though. It would be a fellow motorist who pulled into the lay-by after him. He hoped it wouldn’t be a mummy with a toddler who needed the loo. He hoped it wouldn’t be an elderly couple pulling over for a break after a long drive, stopping for some air and a cup of tea from the Thermos flask they would invariably be carrying. Kids; him driving her home, stopping for a passionate embrace after a night out at the cinema, spotting the hose pipe and investigating. He saw the faces of these imaginary people but felt no real remorse, just a faint regret that they would be inconvenienced. He disregarded the impact his actions would have on the poor soul who did make the grisly discovery – he relegated it to obscurity, unimportant and why should he care after what ‘they’ were making him do. The list was endless and as the faces of the people he loved and cared for passed before his eyes, he shook his head and checked himself, cursing his inability to stay composed. It was time; the stabbing pains of self-pity were too much for him to deal with for a moment longer without setting the wheels in motion. Carefully, slowly he began. Taking the letter, well note, it was just a brief note really, from his jacket pocket, he placed the piece of paper on the passenger seat next to where he sat, impassive, devoid of emotion now, just working through each of the stages he knew he must.

Darkness had finally arrived, which he embraced with a huge sigh of relief, could almost see the open arms of his chosen path and the comfort he believed he would finally feel engulfing him and release him from this living nightmare. Opening the squeaky, rusty car door, he stepped into the chilly damp air. His nostrils were immediately assaulted with the stench of the rotting rubbish – God knows what was actually hiding at the bottom of the bin but the smell was disgusting. How appropriate, he almost smiled to himself, but not quite - disgusting was a good fit. The boot of the car no longer locked