April 8th, 2017 — The day after

This article is part of the series “What is like to attempt suicide and fail”. Start there, if you have not read it yet.


This is a day that hardly existed in my mind. What I tell here, therefore, is a salad of vague memories.

The hardest thing when writing about it is to try to recollect my emotions on the date and make sure they are not influenced by what I feel now. An arduous task that will certainly not be executed to perfection. But let’s try.

I woke up crazier than Batman (not sure this very Brazilian expression works in English, but let’s leave it here). Walking slowly and communicating with some difficulty, I was informed that my friend and brother, Agê Barros, was about to arrive for lunch, accompanying his wife, my friend Cris Bartis, daughter Tata and Snoopy, a mini-dog who is wiggles his ass to the the wind blows.

The lunch, a beautiful Brazilian feijoada, was ready by 2pm. My friends arrived and were soon asking me a lot of very important things. I remember nothing.

At some point the theme of how I felt after doing what I did arose. “I did not feel it,” was my reply. Neither fear, nor regret, nothing. Maybe it was the effect of all the meds. But the drawers of emotions were completely empty.

That was when a silence fell and Cris Bartis, internationally known for her verbal delicacy, asked at once, “But do you want to die?”

It took me a few seconds to work it out. Besides all the drugs, I like a dramatic break for such matters. “Yes, I do,” I replied. But I did not stop there. I tried to explain that the desire for death, for those who want to die, is much more a way out, an escape, than an impetus.

Understand the following. Depression leaves you unwilling, it makes everything meaningless. ATo the point that there’s no use saying, “look at your children”, “see the colors of this flower”, “what a beautiful ass has this firefly”.

Nothing changes the fact that the depressive is in a state where absolutely nothing makes any difference. Everything is bad. Any state is bad. To stay or leave. To stand up or sit down. To speak-up or shut-up. The only thing that remains, latent and burning, is the unbearable sense of anguish. A pain in the chest that seems impossible to sustain. Unless you enter through the only door that looks like an opening to peace. The farewell door.

I will post more tomorrow. I’ve created a list of songs I’m listening to while inside the psychiatric clinic. To listen, subscribe to the “After Death” playlist on Spotify.

If you want to talk to me, write to rodrigo@bressane.com.

Be kind,