How Not to Kill Yourself

One of The New York Times Book Review’s Critics’ Picks
One of the Boston Globe’s 55 Books We Loved this Year
One of Kirkus’s Best Nonfiction Books of The Year
One of TIME’s 100 Must-Read Books of the Year

A New York Times Book Review Editor’s Choice
One of the New York Times’ 9 New Books We Recommend This Week
A Publisher’s Weekly Book of the Week
One of The Millions’ Most Anticipated Books of the Year
One of Lit Hub’s Most Anticipated Books of the Year

“Sui generis . . . a blunt and bracing read . . . as cogent and (yes) rational an account of the mind existing in the shadow of its own self-destruction as I have read . . . For all [Martin’s] focus on suicidal trauma, he is, most fundamentally, trying to write his way out from under it, to create a book not of death but of life.”
—David Ulin, The Atlantic

“I can see [this book] becoming a rock for people who’ve been troubled by suicidal ideation, or have someone in their lives who is, and want to understand the mentality, which can seem utterly mystifying to the unafflicted. Swirling with anguish and argument, tempered by practicality, it airs an often taboo topic with the authority of someone writing what he knows — all too gruesomely well.”
—The New York Times

“Candid and at times haunting . . . an urgent call to reframe how we think about suicide and those who struggle with self-destructive thoughts. Martin is never afraid, delving into his most vulnerable moments in detail to humanize a subject that so many are not able to openly discuss. In doing so, Martin crafts a captivating argument about suffering and survival.
—TIME, “The 100 Must-Read Books of 2023”

“Idiosyncratic, beautiful, and studded with caveats: sometimes this trick won’t work, Martin concedes, and sometimes this other one won’t, either. Even he doesn’t always follow his own advice. It’s an admission of sorts—that so much great literature can be read, that so much work can be done, but that another day to survive is always approaching. The work of choosing to not kill yourself isn’t the act of making that choice one time but making it over and over again.”
—The New Yorker

“There’s no sugarcoating or attempts at the salacious. It’s a deep meditation that searches through Martin’s past looking for answers about why he is the way he is, while also examining the role suicide has played in our culture for centuries, how it has evolved, and how philosophers have examined it.”
—Esquire

“Compelling . . . I admire this book, admire what it wants to do and be.”
—The Washington Post

“One of the more remarkable and lucid explorations of the human instinct for self-annihilation I’ve encountered since Walker Percy’s thought experiments about people he termed ‘ex-suicides’ 40 years ago.”
— Arkansas Democrat Gazette

“A book called How Not to Kill Yourself is not only tough to read on the subway in hardcover, it also seems, at first blush, possibly dangerous for a depressed or suicidal person to read. But even as Martin spares no detail about his depressive episodes or suicide attempts, the book lives up to its ambitious title. Inherent to the hopeful message is Martin’s overarching philosophy that we as a society must eliminate the idea that suicidal or depressive or addictive people are bad or sinful, an idea that’s baked so deeply into our culture we may not even realize it’s there.”
—Emily Gould, Vulture/New York Magazine

“A remarkable book—self-flaying in its honesty, harrowing in its dark narrative turns, clear in its philosophizing, and ultimately consoling in its message of hope. Treating sometimes dangerous material with care, How Not to Kill Yourself is illuminating, riveting, and—for those of us who are suffering, or know people who are—potentially life-savingly helpful.”
—Scott Stossel, author of My Age of Anxiety

“The power and healing in How Not to Kill Yourself . . . is, I think, directly related to the compassion, vulnerability, and straight-up naked guts of author Clancy Martin. [His] offering of his own inner world and failed suicide attempts . . . is a profound service.”
—Lion’s Roar

“A riveting and inspiring read for anyone who has had to keep company with the chthonic feeling that the breath of life is a curse. Martin is one of the few members of the Socratic guild who is also a masterful writer of fiction. His knack for descriptions enables him to bring abstract concepts down to earth.”
— Los Angeles Review of Books

“Offers good counsel and advice, suggesting various ways to cope with self-defeat.”
—The New York Sun

“Thankfully, readers will find hope here in the midst of despair, and the loud message that you are not ever entirely alone.”
—Eureka Springs Times-Echo

 “Th[e] tone—bluntly direct and deeply human—characterizes this remarkable volume, an attempt to bring discussion of suicide out of the shadows so that we can better understand the powerful impulse to kill oneself and how we might circumvent it.. . . It’s not an easy book to read, but it’s an urgently important one.”
—Kirkus

“Feels vitally important because it goes deeply into a conversation about mental health so few of us ever have.”
—Vulture, “8 Great Audiobooks to Listen to This Month”

“Transfixing. . . This provocative dive into a difficult subject shouldn’t be missed.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review

“[I] found myself both shocked and captivated by [Martin’s] story. . . . How Not to Kill Yourself is in part a memoir . . . But more than that, it’s a primer on literature about suicide, an investigation into whether there is such a thing as a “death drive” and a deeply empathetic advice book for people considering suicide and those who love them.”
—Los Angeles Times

“It had me rapt. It seems rare to see an unambiguously life-affirming book from someone who’s been to such dark places.”
—Tao Lin, author of Leave Society

“Disquieting, deeply felt, eye-opening, and revelatory.”
—Kirkus Reviews, starred review

“Written with surprising tenderness and humor, this memoir-cum-critical-inquiry is a perspective-shifting study.”
—The Millions

“A critical memoir diving headfirst into our darkest and most taboo desire.”
—Lit Hub

“Clancy Martin has written an extraordinary, thoughtful book that combines his heartbreaking experience with clear-eyed suggestions. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything quite like it. Required—and, yes, somehow optimistic reading—for anyone interested in this enormous mental health problem.”
— D.T. Max, author of Every Love Story is a Ghost Story: The Life of David Foster Wallace

“In this unusually brave book, Clancy Martin dissects the anatomy of his own suicide attempts and, deploying other people’s stories and a wide range of literary sources, gives voice to the large questions that suicide raises: why some people want to live and others do not; why some fluctuate between the poles; why he is grateful to have survived his attempts but still hears the siren call of self-annihilation.  He writes confidently, philosophically, dramatically, and with great clarity about a life that has been both wondrous and agonizing.”
—Andrew Solomon, author of The Noonday Demon

“Suicide is impossibly difficult to understand but Clancy Martin gives first-person insight into why some choose to kill themselves; importantly, he also gives witness to the kind of hard work it takes for a suicidal person to opt for life.”
—Kay Redfield Jamison, author of An Unquiet Mind and Fires in the Dark

“The most honest, complicit, searing, and discomfiting book I’ve ever read about suicide (and I’ve read quite a few—out of purely scholarly interest, of course). All great narratives pose a battle between the force of life and the force of death; How Not To Kill Yourself does this as brilliantly and powerfully as any book I have encountered in quite some time. Thrilling and useful.”
—David Shields, author of The Thing About Life Is That One Day You’ll Be Dead

“How Not to Kill Yourself is devastating and encyclopedic. Martin offers his own story, full of dangerous challenges and surprising lessons, and gives the reader many ways to think about suicide—the problem in literature, the problem in history, the problem in daily life.”
—Donald Antrim, author of One Friday in April: A Story of Suicide and Survival

“Clancy Martin reminds us that the most existential questions around suicide—what drives a person to want to die and what has kept them alive—are not answered by the act itself but by people like him, who have long suffered and are authentically seeking what it means to go on living. He fearlessly and relentlessly asks these questions of himself and is thankfully here today to offer his many valuable lessons, both for those who are struggling with thoughts of suicide and those who work to help them.”
—Dr. John S. Draper, Former Project Director of the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline network

“The book is both helpful and harrowing, asking readers to do what Martin says, not what he has done.”
—Publishers Weekly, “Clancy Martin Explains ‘How Not to Kill Yourself’CLANCY MARTIN is the acclaimed author of the novel How to Sell (FSG) as well as numerous books on philosophy, and has translated works by Friedrich Nietzsche, Søren Kierkegaard, and other philosophers. A Guggenheim Fellow, his writing has appeared in The New Yorker, New York, The Atlantic, Harper’s, Esquire, The New Republic, Lapham’s Quarterly, The Believer, and The Paris Review. He is a professor of philosophy at the University of Missouri in Kansas City and Ashoka University in New Delhi. He is the survivor of more than ten suicide attempts and a recovering alcoholic.1 The Suicidal Mind
 
“You know what’s funny? Your jail anklet saved your life. They should put that in an advertisement. They should get a testimonial from you. If it weren’t for that anklet, you’d be dead right now.”
 
I came to in a hospital bed with a sore head. I reached into my hair and felt the staples in my scalp. A handsome young darkhaired doctor with a bushy moustache and brightly lit, amused eyes was standing at the side of my bed conversing cheerfully with me. I didn’t know how long he’d been talking or if I had been talking back. I seemed to be joining the conversation midstream. But that might have been his manner: perhaps he simply launched into conversation with his patients and let them catch up when they were ready. I was very thirsty, and still nervously fingering those metal staples, I reached with my free hand for the large plastic cup of water on the bedside table. Then I realized that I was handcuffed to the bed.
 
“Here, let me get it for you.” He tucked the bottle between the bed rail and the pillow and bent the plastic straw into my mouth. I drank the water and then spat out the straw. My throat was burning.
 
“Did I have an operation?” I asked.
 
“No, you were very lucky. Two minor procedures.” He reached over to gesture at my head, where my staples and my fingers were. “You must have fallen at some point. Your head was bleeding. Quite a nasty cut. You have a mild concussion. You’ll probably be experiencing some dizziness and nausea.”
 
This was my second concussion in less than a year. Seven months before, I’d fallen down some stairs while drunk and had staples on the other side of my head. I couldn’t remember either accident. I remembered taking all the Valium and getting the knife, climbing into the clawfoot bathtub, and keeping my leg hanging out, bent at the knee. I remembered having trouble juggling a glass of wine, the knife, and my phone. I remembered being at Davey’s Uptown Rambler’s Club before coming home and resolving to kill myself that night. But I didn’t remember how I got back from the bar.
“My throat hurts more than my head. My voice,” I said. “I sound awful. I don’t feel sick.”
 
“We had to pump your stomach, but basically you’re fine. I’m sorry we have to shackle you. They will transfer you to the psychiatric ward tomorrow, and then this security won’t be necessary. You ruined your fancy anklet.” He laughed. He was a very likable doctor. “It seems to have short- circuited. But not before it sent o its alarm. Modern technology.”
 
I wanted to explain about the anklet, that it wasn’t a court-ordered thing, it was something I was trying on my own to keep myself sober, but I realized that any extra details from me would sound defensive and anyway were superfluous.
 
Some years later a good friend, a famous scholar of ancient languages, would tell me, “You know lots of people think that a suicide attempt is just a cry for help. A way to get attention. I know that’s not true, because when I woke up in the hospital and realized I was still alive, I was gutted.” That was how I felt: depressed, very disappointed and even more disgusted with myself. Not sad that I’d tried suicide again but miserable that I’d once again failed.
 
“Next time, don’t get in the bath. Better yet, don’t have a next time, would you? We’d like to keep you around. And if you want to kill yourself, don’t use pills. Nobody dies from overdosing on pills anymore.” Bizarrely, he discoursed for a minute or two on how best to kill oneself. “There’s even a book you can buy that tells you how.”
 
I knew the book he meant. It’s called Final Exit. I don’t recommend it.
 
“But you know, you were very lucky, and most people wise up after one attempt. So maybe this can be your get- out- of- jail-free card. That’s how I’d approach it. You take care. Try to behave yourself. Things will get better.”
 
He grabbed my foot, shook it gently, even affectionately, shrugged, and left the room.
 
I thought, Well, that was actually kind of nice. It was a much more pleasant encounter than you’d expect with a doctor after you’d attempted suicide. That guy ought to be training others on how to deal with people in my situation.
 
I had an IV in my arm. There was a phone by the bed, but I couldn’t reach it, because it was on the handcuffed side. I had a nurse alert button by my hand, but I didn’t want to beep a nurse to help me make a phone call.
 
“Three weeks ago I was in bed at home with my girlfriend,” I said out loud, theatrically, to the empty hospital room. “Three weeks ago everything was normal.”
 
But that wasn’t the truth. My life had been abnormal for a long time.US