It’s too early to have established a formal tone for this blog, I know, but I am hoping that this post will be as serious as I ever have to get. I’ll rant and rage over future events, I’m sure, but as far as humor, sarcasm, and my usual optimistic and light-hearted personality go, this post will be as devoid of them as I can handle. I’m talking about the absolute worst possible thing I can think of out of any age and any circumstance: suicide.
Earlier this month, an acquaintance of mine, who shall remain nameless out of respect for his family, committed suicide. I could probably count on both hands the number of actual conversations we had. But I live in a residence hall at the college I attend, he lived on the floor where most of my friends were, so there were many brief encounters, salutations, and I had a general sense of the guy. He was blond, kind of short and slightly overweight. His voice sometimes had a bit of a nasal, scratchy quality that would momentarily irritate me. He was opinionated and not afraid to tell you so. He was kind and cheery and sometimes reminded me of a jolly dwarf. He was funny, or at least he laughed a lot, and seeing people laugh makes me laugh. He was a Tolkien fan and even came to the hall’s Halloween Dance Party as a hobbit, glowing sword, jerkin, and all. And he played the most beautiful violin solos at the most bizarre hours.
I say this not merely to describe my sense of him, but also to set up my view on this matter. It is two-fold. On the one hand, I believe those who are suffering from depression need help and care and support from family as well as complete strangers; on the other, I believe that suicide is a selfish act committed by the cowardly as a means of escape and self preservation.
It is generally agreed that souls are the most fragile and yet most sacred and guarded part of ourselves. Depression is a worm, a ninja assassin, a poisonous gas that seeps through all of the safe-guards and walls that someone uses to protect his or her soul. And once it seeps in, those safe-guards and walls become his enemy because, just as they are there to prevent anything getting in, they are also there to prevent anything getting out (souls are also generally agreed upon to contain our deepest and darkest secrets, our crazy adrenaline-high sides, stupid childhood dreams that we long to accomplish anyway. Would you honestly tell anyone but your best friends those things?). And so those who are depressed feel trapped with no way out. Enter family and friends.
This is not to say that support systems are supposed to throw pity-parties. Sympathy and pity parties have their place after break-ups and hard days at work or school, but they do not belong in the presence of depression. What is needed is empathy. Sympathy, defined, is feelings of pity and sorrow for someone else's misfortune. Empathy is the ability to understand and share the feelings of another. Buried in depression, one craves understanding above all. Substituting sympathy for empathy is common, but in the end, what actually helps is understanding and encouragement. It is incredibly difficult to place these words next to each other and hope that my meaning is recognized without an example. There are 2 sayings: 1) “A picture is worth a thousand words”. 2) “Actions speak louder than words”. In both cases, the statement, though present, is second to the expression. A tight hug is more effective than saying that ‘everything is going to be alright’. The written word, especially the hand-written word, is much more effective than telling someone that you care and that you’ll be there.
No one can be told “I love you” too much. No one is hurt when you care enough to release them from their loneliness and self doubt. A candle, in all cultures, is a sign of hope and hope is the only ideal that humans can’t live without.
Out of the role support systems serve in helping those with depression, I leap to the obligations of humanity and the disappointment and irritation I have for those who evade them. Suicide is an empty decision, a choice one makes when the pressure of uncertainty and sense of failure push the physical and mental limits of one’s being. Someone without hope is truly someone to be pitied and assisted, but, and Alcoholics Anonymous clearly stipulates, one must pull himself out of the hole he’s dug. Depression is a little like an addiction. Once in, it fuels itself so, after a certain point, the soul doesn’t care at all, believing that it’s situation could only get worse if it ventures out to try something new. It might as well just stay where it’s at. This point is the precipice of suicide and self-mutilation. There comes a time where the soul is so sick and tired of being held back by apathy that it has to move forward in one of two ways.
The courageous and honorable path recognizes the sacrifices and needs of society. Parents have paid for clothing and food and shelter and schooling. Friends are in trouble again, either with sports or boys or parents or drugs. In short, there are debts to be repaid, financially and personally, to pets and libraries and the police. The strong-mindedness and determination of will of the individuals who take this path realize two things: that these debts need to be repaid, and that they will never stop collecting debts. There is always going to be that one puppy that was nice to you, or that random guy that knocked you down but took the time to help you back up before he ran off again. Depression never really goes away. There are days when the emptiness returns in a rush and she’ll find herself curled underneath a bathroom sink, soaking wet, praying for it to end. But the ever present knowledge of the obligations to humanity, of hope and prospect re-conquer the invisible foe and once again return the soul to contentedness. This is the proverbial high road.
Evasion of these debts due to uncertainty of self or even simple failure to recognize the debts is cowardly and, forgive me, stupid. It leads to harmful activities to escape the reality of one’s situation, namely that there is no physical being to drag him out of the empty depression but him. Enter drugs and drink to aid eradication of memory, self-mutilation for self-assurance of either a faux ‘repentance’ or affirmation of how much you deserve your pain, and suicide, the final escape of a whole load of back-watered payments and debts. These individuals don’t stop to think about what their actions might do to others. Background is irrelevant. No matter where YOU came from or what lifestyle YOU are used to living, there is someone, something, or someplace that will be devastated by YOU passing.
The pivotal moment where one chooses the high road or the low road is terrifying. Holding the chosen vice is the tangible symbol of exactly how much rides on the choice. To one who is still lost in failure and emptiness, it’s horrifying to hold such responsibility after denying it for so long. This singular moment decides exactly who they’ll be for the rest of their lives and for those who succeed in suicide, there is no do-over.
And so I believe that a strong empathy and action driven support system can help motivate those on the precipice of catastrophe into choosing the high road. And while the support system should be there, the choice belongs ultimately to the soul as to it’s redemption or reduction.
I apologize for the length of this post, but suicide is a matter very close to my soul. I have been there. I dug myself a hole that led to nowhere. I turned to God, not because I believed in Him, but because I needed something to believe in. I took a long bike ride in the cold, dry wind of a Midwestern winter, and now I am here, sharing this with you because since that day, my only goal has been to help save someone’s life.
I have failed with my friend.
I do not want to fail again.
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