Relive

"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse." - Margaret Atwood

You know, I've always believed in skipping niceties.
Fuck the niceties, fuck the pleasantries.
I'm the kind of man who just says it as it is. No sugar coating or anything. It's always best to cut to the chase.
So here's the thing; I died.
Ok, not really. I tried though, really tried, and I fucked it up.
So I ended up in hospital.
It felt like my worst nightmare; being surrounded and catered to by socialists. They'd be banging on about their messiah Jeremy 'antisemite' Corbyn and all that free stuff he'd hand out if he were prime minister.
Of course, he wasn't prime minister, and thank goodness.
But his ideology lived on, and I see so many people preaching his nonsense on Twitter, like how he'd end homelessness in the blink of an eye and how he was 'smeared' by the media.
I guess I was dead in a way. Dead inside, as they say. Bit by bit, aspects of me had died. We all made of many different characteristics, and those said characteristics mix themselves together to make up our personality. We all have layers, but I guess these layers just get peeled away and reveal a rotten core we have within ourselves.
I mean, the left kept saying that we should guilty and ashamed ourselves, basically because we're British and that apparently makes us racist. Leftists were cheering when Marxists BLM tried to burn down our flag. I'm proud to be British. I'm not ashamed of it. I don't think we're racist. Why would so many immigrants choose to come here if we are such a racist country?
Unfortunately society today just comes up with new things that you're meant to feel guilty about, especially if you had nothing to do with, for example, slavery. Slavery happened a million years ago and there's no slavery to speak of anymore. Why were leftists STILL trying to make us feel guilty about it? Bad things happen in the world, that's life, get over it.
The nurse came over to check my blood pressure yet again, as if I was dying. They did this every few minutes and it was getting irritating. I was already confined to this place, at least just let me have a moment's peace. My life was already shit as it is without all that torment.
"You alright darling?" The nurse asked me as she used one of those blood pressure things on me.
"Fine." I said bluntly. I didn't want to elaborate, because it would spark one of these interrogations on me where they ask a bunch of pointless questions that achieve nothing other than getting me to reveal personal things about myself.
My blood pressure was normal, as it had been the last hundred of times that blood pressure machine had been used on me. They were all just being drama queens really, which is ironic coming from me as I had attempted suicide.
So why did I do it? That's the question, isn't it? When it comes to suicide, the why is important.
Where do I start then? I didn't try to die for one particular reason, there's been a multitude of reason for me to die. I was never really popular at school or at uni. I was rather socially awkward and different to them. Most people there were into rap and hip hop or even the likes of Westlife, Blue, Busted, etc, but I was more into stuff like Blur, Coldplay, Radiohead, and pretty much most rock music, and all the popular white boys would pretend to be black so they can appear cool. That would be racist nowadays, but nobody was as woke back then as everyone is today. I was really into my music, which runs in my family. My mum is a Beatles superfan and my uncle runs an indie record label in Manchester.
At uni, I was still socially awkward and I was trying so hard to fit in, in the hope that it would compensate for my lack of a social life during my school days. I especially wanted to impress women at uni. I remember the Freshers reps singing about sexual intercourse, as if uni was some kind of brothel. Sadly, I was unsuccessful with the ladies. There was even one occasion when one particular woman, Beth Colman, actually lied about being asexual just to avoid going out with me, which was pretty damning. I also wasn't successful with making many friends either. I did join societies and got on with a few people, but I wasn't regularly invited to parties or nights out, like at Oceana. I guess me making more of an effort to be funny by making (what some would deem) inappropriate jokes didn't help. I could've apologised, sure, but what kind of friends would they be if they didn't accept me for my fuck-ups. I'm only human after all and am far from perfect. We're all gonna fuck up at least once in our lives. I had housemates in my final year, but we had so many arguments about too many little things, which I guess is just like going on twitter in this day and age. Still, got a 2:1 on my English degree, which was good and managed to get my first job as a copywriter at Hax PR.
It was a good first job. Got me a pay cheque and my own flat not far from Ealing Broadway. I've always loved writing and had a way with the written word. I was never really sociable so I loved to lose myself in books, films, tv shows, etc. I could never resist an escape from reality. Then I started working as a journalist at Ealing Lately. Wasn't my dream job exactly, but it was close. I loved writing columns there about all kinds of things, like culture or the occasional bit of politics. I've always been opinionated, sometimes too opinionated. I loved having my say in critical thinking classes in sixth form. Sure, that may have gotten me into an argument or two, but my opinions are my opinions. It's not my problem that they were all snowflakes who couldn't an opinion different to their's.
Then I met Emma. Went on Bumble and got myself to this lovely. She was great. We had so much in common, like an interest in culture and whatnot. I never had a girlfriend until I met her. I got off with someone at uni, but it wasn't a relationship. It wasn't even dating. I wasn't sure about going on a dating app. I was hoping to have that special 'meet cute' with someone, like what you see in films. I know that I'm not exactly Hugh Grant or Colin Firth, but still. Anyway, I got on Bumble, and went on a few dates which seemed to have worked out but they didn't because they ghosted me afterwards. But I was glad I met Emma. Calling her 'the love of my life' seemed strong, but she was, though partly because she was my first girlfriend. Everything was going so well, but...
You may have noticed the 'was' in that sentence meaning that actually something went wrong.
Well, it did.
We broke up.
She said that it wasn't working out and she couldn't handle my mannerisms, my pessimism, and it was all getting too much for her.
The thing about being pessimistic is that you know that you're always going to be disappointed. Being optimistic is a dangerous thing, because you will soon be met with that inevitable disappointment which tells you that life is going to be shit.
Last year, my dog Ringo died. I've lost people before, like my grandparents, but losing a dog is especially sad as they don't live a long life like we do. It's cruel really, as dogs are better people than, well, people. My mum loves The Beatles, so when we got a dog, she named him after the drummer, even though her favourite member was Paul McCartney. We got a cockapoo as mum had a thing for poodles. Ringo was my best friend, as dogs tend to be. I was never really understood by other humans, but dogs got me and accepted me for who I am. That's the great thing about dogs; they're a great judge of character. They're not as judgemental as people tend to be. Nowadays you're considered worse than Adolf Hitler if you just send a tweet. Ringo brought out my best self, just like how Emma did. I still can't get over Ringo passing away. I was dog sitting him the night before, and then mum told me afterwards that his health was getting worse and he had to go to the vet the next day. I had trouble concentrating on work that next day as I was too worried about Ringo. It was during my lunch break that I found out that Ringo died, and I had a cry for a few minutes in the park, away from everyone, and I felt numb inside for the rest of the day. In fact, that numbness has lasted for a year. I never talked about it with anyone, as I didn't want to upset my family and have people worrying over me.
They say that you should never suffer in silence, but it's just more convenient for everyone and doesn't stress anybody out. Also I don't have people bombarding me with lots of questions. It feels more like an interrogation than anything helpful. I also don't like to admit that I'm weak and a snowflake. It's annoying when lefties do it, so the last thing I want is to sink to their level and play the victim over some mild transgression.
You know how I can't resist having an opinion? Well, turns out Twitter was a good place for that, but the left don't like it. They get triggered by pretty much anything these days, and you can see how unhinged left-wing activists tend to be. I obviously hate racism as much as any decent human being does, but that doesn't stop me from getting vilified online and get branded a 'racist' because I don't like the rioting during those BLM protests and refuse to see George Floyd as some sort of martyr because he was a drugged up criminal. People also assume I'm racist because I'm a conservative and I voted for Brexit. Apparently democracy and being against grooming gangs roaming free in Telford and Rotherham makes me into some kind of bad person. So much for the right to vote if people then berate you for exercising your right to vote.
I've had to get used to people labelling me all kinds of names. Transphobic is the hot new label that gets thrown around like confetti nowadays. If you dare have the audacity to know the scientific definition of a woman, you're 'transphobic' somehow. That's how the world works. They also claim that any accurate definition of a woman is 'literal violence' and 'genocide'. There's this one trans activist, Kristy McDonald, who complains about having his rights taken away whenever anybody uses his real name, which is Chris, and whenever anybody points out his biological sex. There's this other guy called Andrew Compton who pretty much just polices Twitter and pretty much says how any standard tweet is 'transphobic'. I feel like I'm in the novel Brave New World, where people made you take these drugs called Soma so it blinds them to the truth. In this case, trans activists are practically feeding people Soma so they believe in gender ideology instead of biological facts.
Ealing Lately weren't so keen on me being opinionated though. They reprimanded me when I said that Antifa are domestic terrorists, even though I explained that I was against the riots during the protests rather than the cause of anti-racism itself. They seemed to have understood, although the cult of wokeism seemed to have got to them. It was recently that I was sacked from my job because my tweets were 'transphobic', even though, similarly to before, I had concerns about men in single-sex spaces and children being mutilated. Sadly they didn't seem to care, so they went ahead and cancelled me, because I had an opinion that wasn't leftist enough to their liking.
It was all too much for me, being called every 'ist' or 'phobe' on the planet.
I wish I could identify however I choose like gender zealots tend to do, like being the coolest guy at school and uni, or the love of Emma's life, or even just being a good guy in general, but then I was what's known as 'misgendered', which is when someone is called something that they don't identify as, or as it's otherwise known as; telling the truth. Remember when honesty was the best policy? Not anymore it's not. So according to wokeism, I was misgendered when I had trouble making friends at school and uni, when Emma broke up with me and when woke Twitter called me every 'ist' and 'phobe' under the sun.
They said that I was abusive, but like I said; I preferred skipping niceties and pleasantries. The truth is always brutal and harsh, and I had to face up to harsh realities in my life. We all have to at some point.
That was when I did it.
Suicide is by no means an easy feat, and it must be done perfectly.
It's not just the dying but I need to accomplish, but there are the goodbyes I need to do, and to really stick it to those that had wronged me.
When people commit suicide, they don't even leave a note, or if they do, it's just a simplistic 'I don't want to live anymore. Goodbye'. They're doing suicide all wrong. What kind of point does that get across? What kind of lesson does it teach to those that have fucked with you? It's also common courtesy to leave a note and let people know if you're going to be gone forever.
I had to get my suicide right, and trust me, it's the hardest thing I ever had to do.
The note took days to write. It was even harder to write than my dissertation for my final year at uni. There was so much that I had to say. It was going to be my final message to everyone, so I had to make the most of it.
I also made a 'blame list', which is a list of people who've wronged me in some shape or form, and that included Twitter activists like Chris 'Kristy' McDonald and Andrew Compton for labelling me as something I'm not and Ealing Lately who sacked me purely on a whim. They all wanted me dead, so I thought that I'd give them what they want. People often tweet that TERFs (another name I get referred to) should kill themselves. In fact, there are even t-shirts saying that too. I also linked in their social media handles to their names on the blame list so people knew who I was referring to. I know how sociopathic this sounds, but I was trying to die, so I had nothing left to lose. I was simply trying to hold people to account, in the same way the left were trying to, in their words, 'hold the Tories to account'.
After the note and blame list were completed eventually, the next thing I had to get right was the circulation. I emailed my suicide note to my family, but I also put up the note on Tumblr and messaged it to Emma on Facebook and then posted it on Twitter and tagged on Chris 'Kristy' McDonald, Andrew Compton and their wokeist minions.
My chosen method was overdose. Hanging myself in a noose seemed like too much work and doing it in public would mean that people would intervene and stop me from getting the job done and reuniting with Ringo in Doggy Heaven.
However, 999 were called after the note was sent. The police came to my flat, then the ambulance came. The questions came flooding in, which was death in itself. I was feeling faint at that point, after swallowing a whole bunch of pills while having Iris by Goo Goo Dolls playing on a loop. I remember getting into the ambulance and I think it was when I was arriving at the hospital when I heard a ringing in my ears and lost consciousness. I was out for about a day.
I then woke up with a bad taste in my mouth (might have been petrol) and no clue where I was. At first, I thought it might have been some kind of afterlife. I then saw dad next to me, explaining that I was in intensive care. He also explained that mum couldn't come along because of her OCD. She had a phobia of hospitals as she believed she'd catch germs there. I didn't visibly react, although disappointed that I fucked up my suicide attempt and remained alive. Dad kept asking why I did it, but I was too overwhelmed to answer. I was already going through a lot as it was and I'd like to think that I made everything clear in the note, but I didn't want to argue. I wasn't really in the mood for anything. I loved my dad, but we don't really talk about our feelings much. We mainly talk about football as we're both Tottenham fans. We loved going to games together at White Hart Lane/Tottenham Hotspur Stadium (dumb name I know), even if the results rarely went our way. I wish I was able to be more open with my dad and I know I should've tried to tell him what was really going on, but I guess it's a guy thing; us men just can't talk about our feelings.
Another thing about gender ideology; us Spurs fans identify as being the best team in the league, or at least a great team, but we keep getting misgendered as a midtable team, especially by Arsenal and Chelsea fans back when I was at school. I wished that gender ideology was around back when I was younger, could've used it to my advantage at school, at uni, etc.
Anyway, dad then tried to make me promise that I'll speak with the mental health team in the hospital, but I didn't answer that. He then tried to lessen his demand, adding 'just think about it' before leaving me. I then tried to rest, although it was hard as there was some bitchy machine next to me making an annoying sound pretty much every time I moved. It reminded me of Mother from Alien or HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey. I also had to be given sponge baths like some decrepit old man and I had to wear one of those hospital nighties that made me look like Grandpa Joe from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I was pretty sure that this was Hell, as I had my dignity stripped away from me.
So that's what brings me to here.
I checked my phone to see if there's any reaction to my social media posts announcing my suicide attempt.
I logged onto Facebook and saw if Emma has said anything. She didn't message back, but I was blocked so couldn't message her. Guess she was too cowardly to admit her part in all this.
I then logged onto Twitter to see if there's any reaction. I saw people tweeting me 'you're unhinged' and 'get help'. All very blunt, and I saw that Chris 'Kristy' McDonald and Andrew Compton had blocked me so like Emma, couldn't admit their part in this too.
I then put my phone down, instead just lying back and doing nothing. Unfortunately there's never much to do in hospital when you're confined to be in bed all day. It would sound so appealing if there was at least a TV. If high-security prisoners like Peter Sutcliffe and Ian Huntley can have TVs in their cells, why can't us hospital patients have TVs in their wards? If the NHS staff are going to insists on us just staying in bed all day, then the least they can do is actually provide us with some form of entertainment? TV always helped me whenever I was feeling ill or got injured, especially when I'm able to binge watch Friends or How I Met Your Mother. There was still a part of me that was hoping that Harold Shipman or Beverley Allitt would turn up and put me out of my misery.
Then a man came up to me and asked; "Is your name Glenn?"
"Yes." I answered. I should've said this earlier; my name is Glenn. I was named after my dad's favourite player Glenn Hoddle. Never saw him play in person, he was around before I got into football, but I saw his team play when he was manager. He was rather underrated as England manager, but he had a mixed spell when he was manager of Spurs.
"Hi, I'm Nick and I'm a counsellor." He said as he sat down on the end of my bed. "I thought maybe we can talk about what happened."
"Okay, sure." I said reluctantly, as I knew what the conversation was going to lead to; an interrogation. I was blunt with the nurses when they tried to engage in conversation with me as I wasn't in the mood for talking, and I wasn't really in the mood at that moment neither.
"Right, so do you want to tell me what happened?" Nick said.
I hesitated before I replied; "You know what happened. You know where I'm here."
"Yeah, of course." Nick said. "Anyway, I know this might be an overwhelming thing for you right now, but would you mind telling me why you did it?"
Again, I hesitated before I eventually said; "It's in the note."
"Yes, I understand that." Nick said. "I was wondering if I could hear your version of things."
"Again, it's all in the note." I said, as I was getting slightly more agitated. I spent ages working on that note explaining everything. I probably worked harder on my suicide note than on my dissertation. "The note explains everything, just fucking read it."
"Okay, but I want to hear it from you." Nick said, pretty much going around in circles.
"I can't do this anymore." I said as I took out the plastic tube in my arm.
"Woah Glenn, don't do that." Nick said, and then a nurse came to try to intervene.
"I'm sorry, but I can't do this anymore." I said as I then got out of the bed.
"Glenn, take it easy." The nurse said. "You're not ready to get up yet."
"I just did." I said defiantly, but I lost balance for a moment and grabbed onto the side of the bed to stay up and regain my balance.
I saw other patients and nurses looking my way, which made me uncomfortable. I never liked being the centre of attention like leftists do, and I felt such unease that I almost froze.
"Look, I want to go home." I said, trying to calm down.
"I understand that." The nurse said. "We just don't think you're ready to go home yet."
"So you just expect me to just stay here all day and do nothing?" I asked.
"I'm sorry." Nick said, though it looked like an empty apology to me.
"If you're going to keep me here, then at least get me a TV or something." I said.
"I know it can be boring and frustrating." The nurse said. "I know you really want to go home, but we want to make sure that you're ready to go home."
"I am ready." I said. "This isn't prison, you know."
"I know this isn't prison." The nurse said with a smile, but I didn't smile back. I was too miserable in this place. "We still need to check on you and make sure you're okay to go home. We found a lot of drugs in your system, so we're still trying to stabilise you."
I didn't reply. I looked down to avoid eye contact with people. I was just grim in that moment. I still felt like this place was prison.
"Would you at least stay for at least another night?" The nurse said to me. I nodded reluctantly. I was eager to get out of here and at least reclaim my dignity, but I didn't want to cause another scene. Nick and the nurse then left.
Then I got a phone call. I saw it was mum, so I answered.
"Hi mum." I said.
"Hi honey." Mum said. "I just got a call from the hospital and heard that you're unhappy."
"Yeah, I'm not doing great." I said. "I just want to go home."
"I know Glenn, I don't blame you." Mum said. "You know I'm not keen on hospitals myself, but they are trying to help you."
"Yeah, okay." I said breathily, with a couple of tears coming out of my eyes. I wasn't really in a rational state of mind in that moment. Of course they were trying to help me. They might had not been doing a good job of that, not going to lie, but the intent was there.
"I understand you spoke with the counsellor." Mum said. "Did that not go great?"
"No, wasn't great." I said, as I was sounding more tearful.
"Oh honey, I don't like it when you're upset." Mum said. "You know dad and I were so upset when we read that note and we hate it when you're sad."
"Right." I said.
"Did they ask if you could just stay at least for another night?" Mum asked.
"Yeah." I answered, still tearful, and resigning to the fact that they weren't going to let me leave at that moment, I then said with reluctance; "I'll stay for another night."
"They think it's what's best for you right now." Mum said. "Dad will come by tomorrow and hopefully you'll be okay to go home."
"Sure, okay." I said, pessimistic that I'd be allowed to leave the next day.
"Maybe play a game or watch something on your phone to pass the time." Mum suggested. "I know it's annoying, but hopefully it'll make you feel better for a bit. Uncle Gaz sends his love and hopes to see you soon."
"Okay, that's good." I said. I loved Uncle Gaz, and I did feel guilty that I didn't reply to his text while I was in hospital asking me how I was, but I had been going through a lot. You know, because wilfully trying to die can do that to you.
"Love you sweetheart. I hope you rest easy tonight. Bye honey."
"Bye mum." I said as I hung up.
I've never been an affection guy, to be honest with you. This was nothing against my family, of course I love them. I've just never been that guy to say 'I love you' every second with them, give them long embraces (a quick hug upon greeting or leaving them suffices for me) or sign my texts with x's at the end. That was just me.
Thankfully I had my phone charger with me, as I picked up my phone and browsed for something to watch on Netflix and Disney Plus to try and get me through the night.