Lex Luthor wrote:
Lastly, the act of taking his own life was extremely selfish and it seems he had little regard for his family.
I used to think like this, but I don't anymore. My experiences have changed me. Some of them I've discussed with others, even publicly. But there are others I do not speak of.
There's a scene at the end of "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" in which the Professor cautions the children:
Quote:
And don't mention it to anyone else unless you find that they've had adventures of the same sort themselves. What's that? How will you know? Oh, you'll know all right. Odd things they say -- even their looks -- will let the secret out.
The realm of the suicidal is not the realm of the living. It connects to ours. You can get there from here. But it is a separate and alien universe with its own set of rules. There's an unspoken code among those who have seen it. The first rule of Death Club is you don't talk about Death Club. Not fully, anyway.
It isn't just that the experiences are too personal. That's true, but anyone still alive to talk about it has suffered worse indignities than that. You don't talk about it because you want to shield the world from what you know. I know this won't make much sense to a lot of people, but to fully understand suicidal ideation is to experience it and vice versa. You can think I'm being melodramatic if you wish, but knowledge of that place is
dangerous. Some of the thoughts and feelings that followed me out of that world will probably haunt me to the end of my days -- not merely because they are terrible thoughts, but because I still cannot successfully answer them. Escaping that world entails a certain amount of self-deception and willful forgetfulness. I'll try to offer a glimpse of what I saw there, but if I really thought I could offer anything more than that, I would refuse.
Is suicide a selfish act? In one sense, yes. But whenever this subject comes up, two things immediately come to my mind. The first is a news article I read in high school. I was active in speech and debate. One of the tournament events was extemporaneous speaking. One particular day, I was helping file articles in our domestic extemp bins. In one magazine, a series of stories about wildfires caught my eye. One of them told of the discovery of two bodies -- one male, one female -- lying by a stump outside of a home that had been swept up in the fires. I don't remember why they hadn't evacuated. It doesn't seem relevant in light of the following truth: it wasn't the fire or smoke that had killed them; they died from self-inflicted shotgun wounds. They had been hemmed in by the fire. At some point they realized that escape was impossible. They chose to kill themselves rather than endure the agony of the flames.
The other image that springs to mind is a bear trap. They say that animals caught in such traps have been known to gnaw their own leg off in order to escape. It's horrible to think about it, but here's a truth: trapped in conditions of sufficient suffering, an animal will do
literally anything to escape the pain. It's no different for the human couple in the woods. It's no different for any of us. There's a price of pain that would buy your life. This is one of the ugly truths I brought back from the other world. Don't believe me? Good. I hope that you don't. This is one of the illusions that keeps us anchored in the realm of the living. For God's sake, cling to it if you can.
But here's the sticking point: even under these circumstances, you can't really dispute the selfishness of it. That couple in the woods almost assuredly had friends, families, people who would suffer in their absence. No doubt, the couple knew about this and even consciously thought about it during their final moments. But it wasn't enough. In the end, the weight of their own pain exceeded the weight of those obligations. They chose themselves. And yet, whether or not we agree with their actions, I think few of us can find terribly much fault. It was an act of self-interest, yes, but it feels wrong to call them selfish. What choice did they really have? The flames were real and their situation was hopeless.
What we understand about them, we do not understand about the suicidal. We cannot see the flames. We do not see the certainty in their doom. It doesn't make sense that these things could be real. I pray to God that it
never does make sense to you, because that would mean you are in a very deadly place. But try to imagine for just a moment that the pain a suicidal person feels is every bit as real and terrible and tangible as that wildfire. Imagine that this pain is utterly inescapable. Know with cold surety that there will be no rescuers for you. Know also that your present pain -- which is already intolerable -- will only grow with time. Know that you bring nothing but misery and darkness to everyone who has the misfortune to get close to you. And now imagine that you are expected to endure that ever-increasing pain
forever and that if you somehow manage it, you'll only succeed in bringing more pain and misery upon your loved ones. You're no fool; you know that killing yourself is going to hurt them, but surely it's kinder to them than the alternative. Know that the task is too great for you, for you are weak, mortal, and small. Know that when the burden becomes too great, you will not find aid, for you are unloved and unlovable.
Maybe they shouldn't be feeling any of these things. Maybe if they were a stronger person they wouldn't. Hell, maybe even some of them
deserve to feel these things because their own choices have lead them to this place. You can argue all of these things. You can even be right about them, but none of it matters any longer. It's like arguing about why the couple in the woods weren't evacuated. It might be instructive to others, but it doesn't change anything. Whether or not these things
ought to be real, they
are real.
I came across this anonymous prose years ago. I think it says it better than I can:
Quote:
There was a time when I had strong feelings about suicide. It was completely beyond my understanding that someone could prefer death to life.
I'm not religious. I don't believe in any concept of an afterlife that permits consciousness and awareness after the body's demise. As such, I failed to understand how anyone could find relief in death.
"It's not," I thought to myself, "as if you're going to kill yourself and then suddenly think 'ah, that's better'". Even if nothingness was better than the current situation, there was no way you were going to be aware of the nothingness and that it was somehow better. So what was the point? Life is clearly better than death, right? Just as something is better than nothing. Right?
There we were, my strong feelings and I. My "superiority" those who thought they always had death as a way out.
My friend Pete committed suicide last April.
"Why" is not the first question people ask when you tell them your friend has killed himself. That's tactless and everybody knows it. But eventually the question is posed; when the time is right, when things can be discussed rationally.
I'm not going to tell you why. It doesn't matter, really. The easy, short response is "he was sad". The longer, real answer requires (of course) a complex analysis of Pete's life, a lot of assumption and guesswork, facts related second or third-hand, and personal details that it's just not right to tell the world at large. And, anyway, the short answer seems a lot more meaningful.
At the end of the day, Pete is dead because he was sad.
That stupid, banal, gargantuan understatement is the only way I can understand it. Because what I can't understand, what there's no possible way for me to fathom, is the depth of his sadness.
And that's why my strong feelings about suicide have evaporated. I am ignorant. I was arrogant.
At Pete's funeral his older brother Mat, my friend...my brother in all but blood, read a eulogy. He loves Pete so much. And hearing his expression of love and grief, his words of joy and pain, was the most emotionally devastating thing I've ever experienced.
I was sad, but Pete was sadder. And that's all I can know.
I have no right to judge suicide. There is nothing in my experience that has reduced me to the despair that Pete felt. The only opinion I can have, all I can say is, "right now I have no reason to kill myself". Right now at this moment, I don't. And I don't forsee it. But that's as far as I'll go.
Pete wasn't being selfish; he was sad. Pete wasn't begging for attention; he was sad. Pete wasn't being escapist; he was sad. Pete wasn't trying to hurt us; he was sad.
And now he's dead.
That's all there is to it, really.
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