It always seems to begin the same – at home. The face of a young lad appears on your phone screen, his mother having frantically shared his photo around because he has been missing for a number of hours. Hundreds of others have taken to reposting the appeal, concerned by the fact that he was last seen walking alone, after dark, carrying a bag over his shoulder.
In the photo, he is smiling. He is porcelain and roseate and beaming with the youth of a young man in his twenties with a whole life ahead of him. The local news site lists the items of clothing he was last seen wearing, before stating that Gardaí are very concerned for his wellbeing.
It usually ends the same – at home. The face of the young lad reappears on the screen. His friends have shared pictures of him at college, at work, at a gig, a match, at school – in his prime. This pinpoints the moment when you learn about how he loved life, played cornerback, and had an abundance of friends. These facts are hard to swallow, because they are the very same that accompany the stories of so many young lads who are vulnerable to the same fate.
When I first heard the details of the gut-wrenching tragedy that has befallen the family of Sineád O’Connor appear on the news, that lack of understanding came to the fore. A great wave of desperation washed over me as I sat on edge, wishing to leap into action, but not knowing at all how.
While it’s not about me, I have the unique experience of being that face scattered across the media, missing
I’m not at home anymore. I live abroad, and yet I have developed a bizarre habit that has trickled into my everyday life. As I walk the streets of my English town, I always keep an eye out. For that young man in the social media posts, in the updates on the local news sites, I keep an eye out for the suicidal 23 year old from Ireland who is described as being six feet in height, of slim build, with blue eyes and brown hair.
He will never appear, never manifest before me. But yet, I can’t help it. Ever since I started to notice the abundance of “missing men” notices playing over the radio, I couldn’t stop noticing. The frequency is unrelenting. It comes just at a time when we take a breath and think we are safe from these horrendous storylines. It comes just at that moment when we think to ourselves – no more. Then, as quickly as we can open our phones, we are presented with yet another story following the same tragic plotline.
An ice-cold stillness grips me each time it happens. I grit my teeth and try to withhold the emotion for what I know is coming next – how the posts will progress, how the news sites will be updated and how we will simply just have to sit there, knowing. Yet, we must attempt to go on as normal, withholding the urge to break down and sob in the kitchen, in the car, in the library. But we don’t. We just sit there: waiting, knowing.
I can’t bear it. While it’s not about me, I have the unique experience of being that missing face. I still remember coming home to find photos of my smiling face scattered across the kitchen table, ready to be distributed. I still remember stealing what drink I could and leaving the house in the early afternoon with no mind on me – no conscious thought, no rationality or reason. Armed only with a lack of consideration for myself or anyone else, a complete loss of control, possessing no grasp of the beautiful potential for life stretching out before me.
I now find myself sat studying furiously, poring over mental health law and trying, but failing, to understand why it doesn’t work, why we still go missing, have our lives cut short
I left the house, suicidal. The Gardaí were called. I dodged between the folds of a construction site sporting half-built apartments in Sandyford, watching them linger at traffic lights, my heart in my throat. I gazed at the apartments soaring up, up, up – their walls not built, their fences climbable, their sheer grey concrete ledges reachable.
But I turned around. I survived on the basis of chance alone, for no other reason than the fog over my brain decided not to lead me down that path that day. Years later, I found myself sat studying furiously, poring over vast swathes of mental health law and trying, but failing, to understand why it doesn’t work, why we still go missing, have our lives cut short, and continue to get turned away at hospital doors despite a clear motive to hurt ourselves.
I still don’t understand. I realised that it’s difficult to take action when all we have been taught to do is remain apathetic to the continuous cases of disappearances and suicides, to let them flit by in an easy rhythm.
It is not our fault. Just over a year ago, I published in this paper a description of how we are actively quashed by the lack of state provision around us. That piece included a measured call for the improvement of such provision. Recently, I am losing the heart to sit and toil over measured calls. What I now have is jagged and unrefined pleas – something is not working and Irish youth are dying, and it is becoming unbearable to watch it all unfold time after time.
I am losing the heart to sit and toil over measured calls. What I now have is jagged and unrefined pleas
The socio-economic conditions that exacerbate mental illness in this country have not even begun to subside, nor have the archaic and unsuccessful approaches of the medical system to the mentally ill. While improving funding to mental health services is of the utmost importance, recent events have reminded us that so too is paying sharp attention to how patients are dealt with after presenting to these services. The troubling phenomenon of suicidal young people being turned away from hospitals stretches back years. Now is the time for us to identify this fault in the system and be proactive in ensuring its end.
If you have been affected by, or would like to discuss any of the issues raised in this article, you can contact the Welfare Officer of Trinity College Dublin Students’ Union by emailing [email protected]. Emergency appointments with the Student Counselling Service are also available. You can phone Niteline, the student listening service, every night of term from 9pm–2:30am on 1800 793 793, or the Samaritans at any time on 116 123. In an emergency, call 999 or 112.
