And That Which Kills Us Makes Us Dead

For my years, I’ve seen a lot of death. I was out before AIDS and watched many people die – some good friends, one an uncle. I guess suicide would be second on the list and cancer third.

Many people remark on how strong I am. I’m not really - I’ve just survived my own demons and some health stuff. When I heard last week that my friend Frank overdosed intentionally, I was sad, angry and had a lot of questions.

A decade ago I wanted out desperately. My method of escape was enough pills that should have killed 3 of me. The doctors were amazed that not only I survived, but that I woke 24 hours later with little physical damage. Emotionally and spiritually, well that’s another story. How I survived is anyone’s guess.

A lot of work and therapy ensued. Despite the inward focus and attempts at understanding for several years, one thing I can’t know is why I’m still around while others are not. Some say I’m here for a reason – others that the body is stronger than we imagine. I’ve read about and heard a huge range of theories as to why some people succeed with suicide attempts and others fail. The worst is when someone who has never faced such a situation feels the need to tell me their feelings. I can’t help but resent their ignorance. When it comes to that dark chapter in my life, I am not very understanding of another’s need to explain away the situation even if I know their reason for trying is to make comfortable a topic that is not.

There is nothing comfortable about suicide. I can’t begin to imagine what a bullet through the skull feels like – my father does, well did, but he didn’t survive to clue me in on the subject. He had been suffering addiction and insanity for many years and I suspect the pain was unbearable, but I’ll never be certain.

This is the thing, when one wants to die he or she doesn’t really talk on the subject much. Everyone I know that has wanted to or attempted never clued anyone in to the feelings. There are those that play out the cry for help which is a different matter although some die anyway, the serious, “I’m outta here” ones are pretty silent about this.

Although I’ll never have the definitive answer as to why I’m walking around on the planet still, I tell myself this – I can at least use my experience to perhaps benefit others.

Sometimes I can’t though – as was the situation with my friend who has just died. A few weeks prior, he and I were in my bed having sex for hours, laughing, and being intimate. I hadn’t a clue of his inside struggle. He didn’t want me to or anyone else it seems. This is what makes his suicide so terribly difficult for me. Had I even a suspicion I would have at least attempted to hold onto him tight and keep him here with the living. Dead inside is easier to revive than a stopped heart or inactive brain.

Speaking of dead inside, I’ve been a bit myself. When those I love leave, a part of me goes with them, just as a part of them remains here with me. It does go both ways. This is where the grief comes. Lately my study of grief has increased, a week before my friend, my grandfather died. This summer was a year since my father.

My grandfather, unlike the other two, was simply ready to go after a full life. He died under the best of circumstances and seemingly peacefully. There is comfort in this.

Like Frank and my dad’s story though, this one I write comes to an end – no nice wrap-up – and no comfort.