#SmallTalkSavesLives [Trigger Warning]

If you find the idea of death and suicide triggering, now is the time to click off. I honestly don't want to trigger something for you if that's what makes you anxious. This is your warning.

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I retired this blog a little while ago. And, if I had my way, I wouldn't write it again. But I saw something earlier today that really played on my mind and I felt the need to comment on it and share my own experiences of this. As, it's been long enough, and it's something that needs to be discussed i think.

It's a video by the Samaritans in which an announcement is made at a train station that there has been a 'serious incident' on the line and that trains have been delayed. Now, anyone who travels on trains enough will know that a 'serious incident' is when a person jumps onto the line to commit suicide. As this is announced, the faces of the passengers turn into the inevitable "oh for f***s sake, really?" (We've all done it).

But this changes when the announcer reveals that the person who jumped was called 'Sara', who was 28, and was suicidal. You can see the passengers start to feel more sympathetic towards the person once their name and age is released, humanizing the person who has jumped. The announcer then goes on to explain that talking to someone who looks like their about to jump (e.g, small talk) could save somebody's life. (Something which has been demonstrated in the past). I'm not going to spoil the video's ending, I'll share it below, but the general message is that #SmallTalkSavesLives.

I watched this video and cried. I sobbed like a bloody baby because I identified with this. In fact, I've been in a situation where I've been saved by someone. Not by small talk, but by intervening at the right time.

It was 2013. I'd been to Newport for university and it hadn't gone as well as I'd hoped. I'd left the university, I'd been in a shitty job for a couple of weeks and I felt lost and without direction. I then got a job which, for the most part, I enjoyed. But I still had this gaping hole in me. I was feeling really shitty and I wasn't really enjoying things. I didn't really take any notice of it but, actually, I was really struggling with trying to take back control of how I was feeling. But I didn't say anything. Because I felt that I could do it eventually and that, if I said anything, I would be laughed at. Ridiculed and told I'm just being over-dramatic.

And then, there was the straw that broke the camel's back.

I liked someone who lived quite a way away. A young woman who shall remain nameless. A mutual friend and I had been talking, I'd revealed to them how I felt about said young woman and the mutual friend believed that the feelings were reciprocated. I was happy. I finally felt happy that something may well go my way. I finally felt I had something good to hold onto.

So, in agreement with the mutual friend, I wrote the young woman a letter declaring my feelings for her and sent it off.

The day after I'd sent it, the mutual friend messaged me telling me they'd grossly misjudged the situation and that the feelings were, in fact, not reciprocated at all.

I couldn't believe it. After sending the letter as well. I felt upset, angry and embarrassed.

Mainly embarrassed.

A few days later, I got a response to the letter outlining what I already knew. I still have it somewhere as a reminder. But that'll become clearer later.

I felt broken. It was June 2013 by this point and that was it. As far as I was concerned, I was done. Nothing mattered. I was struggling and struggling but I still felt I couldn't tell anybody. Not Mum, not my friends, no one. I felt embarrassed, dead and alone. Not a lot of happiness except momentary happiness. Happy in the moment, but not really happy when looking back.

I often refer to June 2013 as the 'Dark Time'. Because, in my life, it was. I started to become more angry, more hot tempered, I changed so much that my Mum once told my aunty "he's not my son. I don't know where my son's gone but this isn't him". I'd changed that much. Still feeling alone. Broken. Like nothing was worth anything.

Because, if I had that much shit going on and it was getting on top of me, there wasn't going to be an end to it was there?

Then, later in June, that's when it happened.

I was in the house alone. Mum had gone to work and I had a day off. I was home alone, stewing on my problems. Letting them fester like I had done the other days I'd had. Other stuff had happened in June that made me feel worthless, stupid and idiotic and I'd just had enough.

I was doing the wiping up in the kitchen when I picked up a large knife that Mum had. I was wiping it and I was staring at it. I spent a couple of minutes staring at it and thinking. I kept thinking "if I just did something with this, the screaming in my head would stop. The self-loathing would stop, it would all stop. I could finally be happy again".

That's when I decided I was going to end it.

A split second. That's all it took. A moment where it all got too much and the opportunity presented itself. The emotions, the means and the delightful outcome all arrived at the same moment. If I ended it all I could finally be at rest. And the hurt wouldn't hurt anymore.

I took a deep breath and put the knife up to my throat. I'd always thought that dying of suffocation or lack of air was the worst way to die. So, I figured, for the bad I'd done recently and all the upset I'd caused, I deserved to die this way. I took a few more deep breaths and came to terms with what I was about to do. It still felt right to do it. Because, if I did, it'd be quiet.

I cried a little bit as I finally started building up the resolve to do it. I started to pull my right arm across when, suddenly, the doorbell rang. The knife nicked me ever so slightly as it did. But when the doorbell rang, I paused. And that's when I snapped out of it. I stared into space for a moment before looking at what I was doing. I dropped the knife and gasped for air. The reality of what I was about to do hit me like a train. I started to cry.

I ran to the door and opened it. It was Tom. One of my best friends.

"Alright?"

He commented on my crying, but I told him that I'd seen something sad on TV. Still believing I couldn't tell anyone I was struggling, let alone what I'd just tried to do.

"I've got the afternoon off work and was thinking of going to Southampton. Wondered if you'd like to come with?"

I don't think I've said yes quicker to anything in all my life. As he came in and shut the door, I ran back into the kitchen, quickly washed the knife again and put it back so it didn't look out of place.

I tried to act normal. I brushed my teeth, got in the car, and went to Southampton with Tom.

Now, this is why I think this new Samaritans campaign is important.

I was lucky. Tom knows what happened, I told him a couple of years after it had occurred. Tom literally saved my life. If he hadn't have come round at that exact moment, I may have died. By my own hand. It's not necessarily small talk, but it's still an intervention.

My reasoning for wanting to end it is petty. I know that now. I look back on it and I hate myself for ever thinking that these little triggers were worth dying over. But that's the nature of the beast. Little things, no matter how big or how small, build up. And that's when the little voices in your head start to niggle away at you. Telling you that you're worthless, no one loves you, no one will miss you.

And, with some people, the idea of taking their own lives can come to them weeks in advance and they meticulously plan it. But, for some, like me, it could be a moment. A moment of weakness when you're at your lowest point and you can't see a way out. It's that easy and can happen that suddenly.

Personally, I'm at peace with this now. Tom knows what happened, I recently told Mum about what happened (don't worry, she's not going to find out through this!) and I'm ok to talk about what it was like and how it felt to be in that moment.

Not because I'm trying to draw attention to myself or because I want to seem more important than anyone else, that isn't it at all, but because it's important to talk about this.

In the UK, 76% of all suicides are male suicides because men just don't feel that they can't come forward or show signs of struggling. I've been through that, I know what that's like. To feel like, as a man, you can't show signs of weakness or anything. Because, you're a bloke, you're meant to be the strong one apparently.

Many people I know have tried to kill themselves or have self harmed and it's a shame that this sort of thing still isn't taken as seriously as it could be.

I know some people who know me will be shocked, maybe even saddened, by what I've written here today. But I'm lucky. I found a way back from it. And, this may surprise you to know, it's largely down to a song I wrote called 'Molly's Lullaby'.

I wrote it after a dream I had about a future daughter of mine, called Molly would you believe, who refused to go to sleep until I sang that song. When I woke up, I wrote it and performed it at a gig I REALLY didn't want to do in Sturminster Newton. But the song went down well. Grown men cried. I put it up on YouTube and people really liked it. To this day, I still think it's the best song I've ever written because it's saved my ass on so many occasions. Someone even once commented to me that they liked it because you could hear the emotion and passion in my voice as I sing it.

Want to know why there's emotion and passion?

Because it was born from a dream at a time where I was at my worst and lowest. And to have a dream where I have a daughter, have a future that I can visualize? At that point in my life? I think of it as my victory song.

But not everyone can find a way back that easily. I've felt like ending things since in the moment, but nothing to this extent. And it's largely over things that are fixable. Reactionary, if you will.

But for others, it's a daily struggle. They can't just have a dream, write a song and slowly get back to a better place. It takes years of drugs, of therapy, of God knows what else to get them back to a point where they can feel confident that they have a future of some kind.

But interventions, small talk, anything like Tom did, all helps. It doesn't cure the problem but it cures the moment. It could save someone's life.

I'm forever indebted to Tom for saving my life. And he didn't even know it at the time. (And, when I told him, he was dumbstruck).

But, please, regardless of what gender you identify as, if you're struggling, please tell someone.

Tell someone you trust. Or call the Samaritans on: 116 123

And just help yourself. Or, if you're not in a situation like this and you're a friend or a family member, just be there. Listen, don't judge and help them.

You never know.

It could save a life.

Famous Last Words

Hello everyone.

It's 2017 and, as per usual, I've been re-evaluating certain aspects of who I am.

Around the start of every year, I take a good hard look at myself in the bathroom mirror and I remember everything that's brought me to that point. I then look at those experience, how they've shaped me and whether or not the way I am at that present moment in time is compatible with the demands of that moment. While this might seem odd to most, for me, it's a good way to keep on top of life's challenges and the changes that life can throw at you.

But there's a sad truth I must confront in 2017. The idea of coping with the changes and challenges has ultimately failed me in 2016. Now this is down to many reasons but, I'm slowly learning that, I'm not as flexible as I once thought I was.

This is due to a number of reasons. Three close deaths last year, a turbulent Political year and a heck of a lot of personal changes. In 2016 I finished university, the comforts of full-time education, lost the support available to me at university and ended up in a job that, while I think it might be starting to get better, takes a toll. This weekend, alone, I've been very ill from a cold. Thankfully I had my partner with me to look after me.

On the flipside, I got a good degree, I moved into my first professional house, got a wonderful girlfriend and had a brilliant Christmas and New Year holiday.

But it doesn't detract from the main point that I'm not as sturdy as I once thought or, indeed, maintained.

I'm getting more easily irritated, my immune system is taking a hit from the commuting I do and the early mornings to get to work and I'm starting to feel slightly alienated from many aspects of my former life. While the new paradigm that's coming is wonderfully exciting, it's hard not to feel sad that I feel that many people from my old life are starting to fade away. Mum tells me this is perfectly normal and happens to everyone, but when have I ever let that fact stop me from complaining before?

Here's why this pisses me off more than anything.

As someone with Aspergers, I always wanted friends. Now, I was lucky in the fact that, at primary school, I was kind of invisible. Everyone spoke to me but, when you're that young, that's perfectly normal. But when secondary school comes, that all changes. In secondary school, the cliques become more obvious. In my experience, navigating this experience was difficult at best. Being in a situation where your friendship group at school consisted of a boy you'd been friends with since primary, a young man who you remembered from your first primary and a guy you just about tolerated.

I also knew that having friends was important. So, once I was outed as ASD and came to terms with it better, I tried very hard to make friends and keep them. Admittedly, this is tricky. Especially as people change. And I guess, in hindsight, I always put more of an effort in with a certain group of friends than another.

Most of my friends were in my hometown. And went to the secondary in that hometown. However, I did not attend that school. I went to the school in the next town over. Where I had a small group of friends but, as time wore on, there were only 3 or 4 I really considered my friends. Or, at least, people I could even come close to trusting. I only speak to one of them now as it happens.

But I put more effort into the friends group in my hometown. For many reasons. Primarily because I have more of a historical connection to them. Also, I just got on with them better, Can't argue further than that.

But it's this friendship group that I feel more alienated from. When I'm back home, it's great, We meet up, we catch up, we have a laugh. But, truthfully, It's been nearly a year and a half since any friend from home has come to visit me where I live. I have asked too.

That's not a dig, I'm sure there are a whole multi-verse of reasons. But I guess I'm struggling to come to terms with things changing once again. In fact, I kind of feel like Ed Sheeran when he sings Castle On The Hill. 'But these people raised me'. So to see them so far away as we all get older and have different goals and plans is hard.


One is struggling mental health and addiction.

One is planning to go to Australia for a while soon.

One is struggling with a new family dynamic.

One is a wife,

One is her husband.

One is in the next city over, studying a masters.

One is working in an old folks home.

One continues to be an artist and has just started being a model.

One doesn't enjoy his degree.


The fact of the matter is, we're all changing. And I have to adapt to that change too. It's time to recognise that the people I grew up with aren't always going to be there and nor will I always be there for them. And we must lay certain things to rest as a result. For the sake of sanity or because something has just naturally run its course.

Which brings me onto this blog.

The reason this one is called 'Famous Last Words' is because, as far as the blog is concerned, that's exactly what this is. I'm stopping this blog because it no longer fulfills the function in my life that it once did. I never think to contribute to it anymore and, if I do, I'm too tired anyway. It solves no useful purpose to me any longer and, while I know it has bought some people laughs, tears and moments of realization, it's best to leave it here while those feelings are still raw.

I'd like to say that it's been a hard decision for me to stop this blog but, actually, it's one of the easiest decisions I've ever made. And, certainly, THE easiest I've had to make recently. And I suppose if it was this easy to come to terms with that conclusion, maybe it really is a good thing it's coming to an end. What's the point in continuing something you don't enjoy anymore?

I've tried so many different ideas which I've deleted because they've been crap or they just aren't relevant but, to all those who have stuck with it and read my whinging over and over again, thank you. It really means a lot to me that you read all those ramblings and took some heart to them. I've told stories, given opinions, shared lyrics, poems, I've done lots. In the 5 or so years I've been running this damn thing, I've done more than I ever thought.

But now it's time to start.

So, if I'm going to finish this, I'm going to do it in a stereotypically flamboyant way. I want to send one last message through this thing for people to take heart to.

Here goes.


Realistically, the world is in a fucking dire place right now. Divisions are becoming clearer than they ever did before and we're at a point now where it looks like history might be starting to repeat itself. But we need to remember one thing.

Just because some dickhead in a wig tells you that Muslims or Mexicans are bad, just because some posh tweed-wearing idiot tells you that Europe is evil and just because someone tells you that LGBT+ people are evil, or that disabled people should be euthanised, it doesn't make it true. That's one opinion in a world of over 7 billion people and rising. Since when did one person speak for the whole world? These people are not Gods. They are humans trying to be Gods. And we rejected the idea of God as absolute a while ago.

Division can't last forever. Hatred cannot last for eternity and resentment will pass. Love will be the one thing that lasts.

I imagine, if she read this, my partner would make some argument suggesting that it's human nature to do all these things so we shouldn't fight it. I think the fact we've come this far and we're being pulled back to it speaks volumes. We have the capacity to overcome nature. We went to space, we've conquered the seas, we as humans can do literally anything we set our minds to. This is the 20th Century. Don't let these antiquated ideas keep us back and don't let them tear us apart. That's not what we're meant to be.

One day there will be a day where we will find a common unity to fall behind. (It'll probably be in front of a mushroom cloud but all the same). Don't let the ideas of old tear us apart and, as Ronnie Barker so eloquently put it in Porridge, DON'T LET THE BASTARDS GRIND YOU DOWN.


Thank you again so much for putting up with my ramblings. I would use my usual sign off but, it'd be a lie this time.

From me here at Writer's Block...goodbye.

Confronting The Reality That Is Unknown

As Christmas Approaches

I shot myself in the foot this year. Massively.

I'm currently writing Christmas cards. Which I've done every year for years and I've tended to write them to the same people. Or, at least, have people in mind when I'm writing them in case Mum and I both do one to the same person with both our names in it. This year is different though. This year is different for a number of reasons. Firstly, I'm writing most of my own cards now. So I get to decide who gets them and who doesn't. Anyone I don't really know the address of or who I don't think would benefit from having one from me is for me to decide.

Secondly, I've starting to write cards to people who are no longer with us. Or, I started to write them before remembering.

This year, I went to a funeral for the first time. Then I went to a second one in a week. And, then, I went to the third funeral in as many months. I don't know what kind of drugs 2016 has been smoking but I suggest we collectively confiscate them and banish this year to the annals of history. Very few good things have occurred this year and, let's face it, those good things are going to be in our personal lives, not the public consciousness.

But I felt the need to explain this on a blog before I end up crying on my bed for the upteenth time over this.

This story stars early this year when my Mum and I discovered my great aunt, Phyllis, was diagnosed with stomach cancer and, because she was in her early 90s, she'd refused chemo. So she was terminal. We all knew her death was coming, it was only a matter of time. But it was how she would end up going which still makes me upset.

Back in May, Phyll was admitted to Salisbury Hospital after bringing up some black vomit. (This was later found to be down to a number of things, the cancer included). She was sent into hospital and put into an isolated room in case she had Norovirus. (A pointless fucking exercise if you ask me because she didn't have Norovirus). Anyway, she was promised a bed in a hospice soon after she was admitted but this sadly never occurred. She spent the rest of her life in that isolated room, shut off from other patients.

I went to see Phyll 3 times before she passed away. I didn't intend this to occur, it just kind of happened. But, as they transpired, I did this for a number of reasons.

1. I always thought a lot of Phyll, despite family quarrels, and I figured that, considering I hadn't experienced a close death by this point, the more I saw her before she died, the easier her eventual death would become.

2. At that moment in time, it was easier for me to get to Salisbury and make the time than it was for my Mum and my Nan (Phyll's sister).

3. I like being of assistance. So I went to help Phyll's daughter and grandkids if they needed it.


The first time seeing her was fine. She was a little shattered but, hey, hospitals. She didn't recognise me at first but then when she realised who I was she seemed happy I was there, as she was happy with everyone.

The second time was a little more tricky. By this point, she was starting to deteriorate rapidly. She wasn't keeping solids down, she wasn't keeping much fluid down either. And her morphine had been increased. So she was starting to come in and out of consciousness.

The second time was hard for another reason.

Long story short, my maternal grandfather, Donald, died in 1981. This was hard for everyone in my family to cope with. And he's continually talked about. Obviously, being born 13 years after his death, I never met him so I only know him from words and stories. No video footage exists so I don't even know what he sounded like.

During the second visit of mine, Phyll started to see various people from her past. (And, as it turns out her future! She saw her great-granddaughter as an adult apparently). But, at one point, I was standing at the foot of her bed. She looked at me for a moment, then looked to the side of me and smiled more. Before saying "Donald...Donald Frampton...what are you doing here?"

I couldn't help but feel my heart break a little. I ended up telling Mum on the way home. It was weird watching someone deteriorate like that.

The prelude to the second and third visits were somewhat weird though.

I was in my room one day after seeing my girlfriend off home. She'd been ill the whole day and her dad had come to get her so I was on my own. 10 minutes after she left, I got a phone call from my Mum. I answered it and heard her crying. I assumed that Phyll had passed away that day.

"When did she pass away?"

"It's not Phyll..."

"Then what?"

"Uncle Sandy died this morning..."

"..."

Uncle Sandy was Phyll's and my Nan's younger brother. He'd had dementia for a couple of years before he finally passed away, but given we were all expecting Phyll to go, Sandy was the first.

In my own head, I'd mentally prepared and accepted Phyll's death to be first. Sandy's death, in my own personal life, was a complete blindside. My girlfriend text me to tell me she was home and my response was near enough me asking her to come back and help me because I'd been crying uncontrollably.

I suppose, in a way, Phyll was too out of it to realise Sandy was truly gone. Which might be a good thing? I don't know. But it was how he suddenly died that caught everyone off guard.

This also led to the third visit, the tuesday of the following week, a little weird. Phyll, by this point, was more or less gone. She was out of it most of the time.

The only coherent conversation I personally managed to get out of her was her telling me how she liked the Beatles. Oh, and she asked why I wasn't there with my Mum or Nan.

But there was one thing about that third visit that still gets me to this day and I still feel completely stupid for it.

Mum told me, when I started visiting, that the best thing to do in that situation is to not draw attention to what's going on. Act like everything's normal. Which pissed me off in a way because these were exceptional circumstances and I didn't see the point in acting normal. Anyway, I took Mum's advice.

When I was leaving, I gave her a kiss on the cheek and I ended up saying to her "get better soon!" To which she just smiled.

I felt stupid the moment I said it and I still feel kinda stupid now.

Why am I telling you this?

Both my mother and I nearly ended up writing Christmas cards for them.

Also, without going into too much detail, one of my best friend's dad's died suddenly in August. And I'd be lying if I didn't nearly write his name in their card instinctively.

The death of Phyll in particular has affected me most out of the three. Probably because I took the time to see her before she died. I still catch myself getting upset about it. And, tbh, if I hadn't just trolled my girlfriend in Arabic on Facebook asking her Syrian hamster to shit on her t-shirt again, I probably would've cried throughout all this.

So why have I written this?

Catharsis. I'm not going to really think much about Phyll, Sandy or my friend's dad over Christmas. I don't really see why I should in real terms. But it's just the fact that it is still weird. It only occurred to me the other day that I didn't get a card from Phyll because she died nearly 2 months before my birthday. It's little things like that that make the whole thing weird.

Mind you, one funny story that I think Phyll would've funny.

At her funeral, we found out she'd decided to have a wicker coffin instead of a big box. I was asked to be one of the the pool-bearers and I accepted the honour. However, I've never done it before. When the coffin was lifted up and put on our shoulders, we suddenly felt something give inside the coffin. I still don't know to this day what it was, but I was convinced that Phyll was going to make a guest appearance in the chapel!

I still don't know what I'd have done in that situation but all I know at the time is that I'd decided that, if it had happened, I'd look at my Nan (who'd probably horrified) and nervously go "ta-da".

Yeah, my sense of humour needs work.


So the moral of this?

Don't dwell on the dead. But spare a thought now and again. Christmas will be difficult, especially if you lost someone this year. I also know someone whose Mum passed suddenly so I don't pretend to be the expert but it will be weird. Especially for the kind of exposure we went through with Phyll.

Merry Christmas either way. I probably won't make another blog post now until 2017 so I wish all of you a merry Christmas and a very happy new year. And live life now. If this year has taught us anything, with deaths that are public and deaths that are private, you never know when things might just suddenly stop.