His adventures could have been amazing
His life could have been tragic
He might have tried to dig his own grave
But then they would never have known
And neither would he
Suicide is not simple. The layers of the experience and the depths to which one must plummet are unimaginable to those who have only witnessed the act from outside a frosted window. There is much more than pulling a trigger, swallowing a handful of pills or leaping out of a tenth story window. The mind enters into a realm quite different from what you are accustomed to. Before suicide, everything in the mind was geared towards life... how to survive, what to have for dinner, whether the family can afford to go to Dickey Betts World for an exciting summer vacation. Death, perpetuated by the self, changes the direction of mind, body and soul. Memories become more pronounced. The past takes on more color. Personal history becomes more profound. The future shades itself slowly towards the black.
An act of cowardice? Really that isn't it at all. Cowardice is a cartoonist representation of what cannot be understood unless you have been there. Running away from responsibilities and failures can seem like cowardice, but suicide does not feel like running away when you are in the midst of it. It feels like standing directly in front of a solid, cold steel wall and trying to pass through it. It is based in hopelessness and rooted in the belief that the only reason to live in this world, in this frame of existence, is the hope that tomorrow represents. At the point where passing through cold steel seems easier than life everything takes on a new dimension. In the suicide's perceptions, everything else is so difficult and painful that any other option to facing life is preferable.
Suicide is a disease of the mind. It sweeps over a person when their level of frustration with their life and their self becomes overwhelming. Each new day is greeted with the belief that nothing worthwhile will happen. Many things do, but the suicidal does not recognize these. A tunnel vision has developed that overrides normal sensory procedures. A warm summer day enjoyed with friends that once might have brought laughter and pleasant memories is now seen as a momentary oasis that means nothing in the greater context.
Solitude is all that remains. There are different reasons in different individuals for the downward spiral that leads to suicide. We all process the world and our integrated versions of reality differently. That makes us all unique and worthwhile. The world truly would be worth escaping if we all saw everything in the same way. Yet, in many cases the suicide feels an overwhelming loss of control that triggers a need to take total control over his or her environment and retreat into solitude where that control is most easily entertained.
June 6, 1994 is a day he certainly will never forget. For many months and even years his life, or what he mistook for his life, fell apart around him. Friends who had died, the betrayal of lovers, total dissatisfaction with his job, severe financial problems... the list kept growing. More than anything, there were parts of his life and of himself that gnawed at him and launched constant stingers at his heart. It was something he was rarely honest with himself about, which made it impossible to deal with. He could not bear it any longer. He was overwhelmed and powerless against himself. He wanted out, and so plans were made to end it all.
What happens to the individual at the point where the decision is made is dramatic. There is a difference between wanting to kill yourself, hoping to kill yourself and meaning to kill yourself. It is not done to attract attention or sympathy. The true suicidal is without hope, and so attention or sympathy are not motivations. All that matters is putting an end to the pain. The closer you get to the end, the more it all means and the more your heart tears itself into shreds. At the point of no return, whether it be an instant or hours, everything ceases to make sense.
He was successful. The combination of liquor and pills he consumed were, in the words of a poison control hotline operator "enough to kill a water buffalo." He pumped the pills and washed them down with mouthfuls of 151 rum. He laughed for the first time in months because he no longer cared about the problems that existed in his life. Eventually, he passed out. His life went black, and then his eyes opened again on a river in a world unlike anything he considered imaginable before. No words could describe the differences between that place and the place he had known.
The experience changed him. Everything that happened the night he ended his life, and the events of the following day were not easily comprehended. He studied every aspect of his death and delved deeply into those aspects that puzzled him the most. The dragon. The river. The desert of his soul. The red riders. All that he saw in death and all he experienced became part of him. He changed. He observed the world upon his return, thankful for the opportunity. He asked to return. Something he saw in the light told him it was important to do so.
To this day he remains amongst us.
He is who I am.
No regrets.
That is my story.
It is my hope that this will help anyone who has lost someone to suicide understand what it is like. There is nothing facetious about this story. Much of my writing is inspired by the experience. Reflection is more important. In this life I have found great peace and happiness and the thoughts I had then are far removed from who I am today.