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"I stood in front of a fast-moving train,
but I actually survived"

Solomon's story and toxic masculinity

As men continue losing hope and feeling "too embarrassed" to voice their mental health struggles, suicide statistics across the UK and Northern Ireland maintain a steady rise. Happiful speak to a suicide survivor about his mental health battle, and discuss why men may struggle with emotional vulnerability.

By Ciéra Cree

Recorded data measuring suicide rates within the UK and Northern Ireland, post-COVID, are on the incline.

According to data gathered by The Office for National Statistics, 5,275 deaths by suicide were recorded in 2022: a notable increase from the organisation's 2020 record of 4,902. Out of these figures, it is estimated that three quarters of the total accounted suicides were by men, with male suicide rates per 100,000 populous standing at 15.8 per cent. This rests in contrast to the female rate of 5.5 per cent.

But these numbers are representative of more than just cold statistics. They refer to a vast collective of individual lives.

Solomon Waters, 52, an Accelerated Emotional Release Therapist and writer, is a suicide survivor. Using his newfound vigour for life, Waters spends his days encouraging people to engage with the creative arts as a form of cathartic expression.

Life had taken its toll on Waters, a once-happy child who filled his days exploring the forest near his rural-Ireland home. It is there where he would write poetry and climb the branches of high-up trees, looking out upon the world in reflection. This was a place of peace - an atmosphere where Waters cultivated safety away from the difficulty of his upbringing. One that, ultimately, led to numerous attempts of suicide.

"I had such a strong, physical sense of despair. [...] I wanted

to rid myself of the feeling for good."

 

For years growing up, Waters was subjected to relentless bullying, harassment, and abuse. Feeling overwhelmed and unable to escape the cruelty he would wake up to, Waters began to develop destructive coping mechanisms as a way to regain a sense of control.

"I got into trouble with the law and began having compulsions to self harm as I transitioned into my teen years," Waters says. "I felt overwhelmed and unable to visualise a future, as well as angry. Then, at the age of 18, I stood in front of a fast-moving train, but I actually survived."

"In that moment I had felt such a strong, physical sense of despair, one that I had been trying to cope with every day," Waters continues. "I wanted to rid myself of the feeling for good."

Before entering mid-life, Waters had already survived several suicide attempts, and accumulated multiple smudges on his criminal record. But it wasn't until Waters spent time behind bars that he was met by the true gravity of his mental state and prior life choices.

"I vowed to change my life and to never attempt suicide again," Waters says. "When I got out of prison, I began training as a therapist, both as a way to learn good techniques for myself as well as to help others facing their own challenges. I needed to be more positive."

The ability to assist others in light of having fought their own battles is something that many mental health practitioners can relate to. Mental health nursing student and overdose survivor Rebecca Holland, 31, believes that learning how to regulate emotions in a healthy way, as encouraged by Waters, is something that people should be taught from a much younger age.

"We're not taught from a young enough age about how to regulate our emotions in a healthy manner, so we can develop into adults who don't turn to maladaptive behaviours to cope," Holland says. "Especially within men, who have a higher success rate when attempting suicide due to choosing harsher methods, conversations need to be starting sooner and more effectively."

Waters believes that one of the main barriers between men and discussing their emotions is the typical nature of their day-to-day conversations.

"When it comes to men, their conversations tend to revolve around 3D practical topics: football, films, work," Waters says. "There isn't the habit of discussing feelings. It would seem out of place and, therefore, becomes even harder to approach."

Although, the structural negation of emotion-based topics can simply be said to stem from society's perpetuation of toxic masculinity, conserved by Gen-Z's creation of the "snowfake culture": a culture that demonises voicing struggles out of a fear of seeming less resilient in comparison to previous generations.

Waters himself, growing up, hid his self-harm scars from his mother, in prevention of sparking further hardship within his life. This thought process is one adopted by many young men today, igniting reason to hide their pain until it becomes too much for them to handle on their own.

From a fear of encouraging uncomfortable emotions within ourselves, being too embarrassed to voice struggles, or feeling as though our pains are not "bad enough" to be heard, there remains a multitude of reasons why those experiencing grief stay silent.

After feelings of loss and hopelessness have resided within a person for so long, it can be hard for them to continue living life in a healthy way. Michelle Bennington, 57, a former psychiatric nurse, believes that one of the main impacts caused by a lack of hope is a person's potential to throw their chance at life away.

"With an absence of hope, one can question if life is worth carrying on," Bennington says. "People think, "What's the point?", and then decide to stop trying to find or create one. It's like a big black void, a pit of emptiness weighing you down. You don't see the light at the end of the tunnel."

 

Waters hopes that men in the future will feel more able to ask for help in a judgement-free manner.

"Men often end up quite emotionally isolated and can feel as though no one truly values them," Waters says. "I hope that the world will have the courage to ask for help one day with no shame."

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