Sat at my desk at work, barely a minute (or at the very most two or three) goes by without me contemplating a violent and immediate end to my life. Jabbing a pen upwards into my ear, biting open my wrists, ripping out my oesophagus using my nails, overdosing on a sweet cocktail of the pain killers, cold medicine, anti-depressants, Canesten thrush pills and Chinese “fertility boosters” that usually litter the bottom of my bag, strangling myself with my tie…
But I refrain. I always refrain.
And partly this is for the simple reason that there is little to no dignity in killing oneself in the workplace. But mainly because the act implies, nay gives, a hugely central position in your life (ie your ONLY death) to your job. A position that, implicitly in the act you’ve undertaken, is probably not one you’re 100% satisfied with.
Now, obviously, not all suicides are rooted in job dissatisfaction, not all depression has anything to do with it – one can have a dream career and still be deeply unhappy. However, choosing to end ones life in ones workplace locks you into that company, that building, that street, that desk, that job‘s narrative forever, more than the same act elsewhere would do. And if you hate your job, and that is one of your motives, rather than giving your employer the curse of your memory, you are instead cursing your own memory by having it linked, forever, to a place that made you unhappy.
So my advice – and it is advice tonight, folks – is to not commit suicide at work. I’m off to watch some comedy.