**Trigger warning: This post discusses mental health issues and suicide. Today is World Suicide Prevention Day.**
I drove to a popular tourist spot almost an hour away from my home knowing what I was going to do. I had no feelings about it.
Pulling up and locking my car for the last time, I didn’t even glance over at the stunning clifftop that was my destination. Instead I was headed to the gelato store across the road for a large scoop of my favourite flavour – peanut butter.
I was 50 cents short.
Letting out a sharp laugh I ran across the road and went back into my car to retrieve an extra 50 cents and then ran back across the road to pay for my final indulgence.
I walked towards my destination, looking like any tourist out for the day to see the sights. I started eating my ice cream. It was completely tasteless.
A little stirring of unease was in the pit of my stomach, not over my decision but over my ability to execute it perfectly. I knew the spot, I knew the method, I knew the reason.
I climbed the stairs and took in the view.
I took a photo, ice cream in hand and texted my husband. A goodbye? A call for help?
Have fun hon, see you soon.
He really had no idea what I was planning to do but if he just knew how much pain I was in, if he felt what it was like to try and get out of bed each day, move my limbs, use my brain, think and make decision, then he’d want this for me. Peace.
My son’s face flashed in my mind and I quickly pushed it away.
I was looking for a particular spot where someone whose story I’d followed for years had lost her own battle with depression. I read stories about her and watched documentaries about her several times a week.
When I wasn’t thinking about her I was watching the movie Helen. In their flat, dead eyes I saw myself.