Suicide Narrative - Philosophical Exploration of Suicide Through Creative Non-Fiction
Created | Updated Oct 11, 2002
I've run out of excuses. I realize this because I'm staring myself down in the bathroom mirror, challenging myself, and coming up with a whole lot of indifference.
It reminds me of that old trick I'd do in Junior High to freak myself out. I've told you about it. I'd think about a word, twist and turn it until it started to dissolve. For a few minutes I'd forget what 'light' meant. This was more of a curiosity than anything until I discovered that I could stand in front of a mirror and likewise dissolve myself. In a panic, I would always manage to yank myself back from the edge of that chasm in my mind, but there were times in my life when I would avoid bathrooms for fear that I would dip inadvertently too far into insanity and not know how to recover myself. However now, my dear, there's little to fear. You jumped in and out of that pit on a daily basis, and the only thing that resulted from your final plunge was a funeral. I look in the mirror and see a pathetic, pretty thing; a girl who has traded in all her promise in order to keep company with a dead man. But it makes a good story, doesn't it angel? I don't want to be the one whose chicken-s**t tendencies keep the poetry from playing itself out. We're the kind of people that stories are written about. All it takes is some resolve.
Resolve - and maybe a syringe. Somewhere in my mind Biological Imperative is noting that I'm endangering myself. Shut up, shut up! Besides, I'm all about aesthetics, and the wedding present mortar and pestle looks very pretty full of these pharmaceuticals I'm finding. Green, green marble. Green as Humboldt Gold. I wonder what the pothead suicide rate is. Isn't it ironic that neither of us ever ended up as strung-out heroin waifs? I guess we had too much dignity for that sort of shame. Unless of course you lied to me about your drug use. You were known to lie. F**K, I've never shot up anything. Maybe I should have rented Trainspotting. I've got about a half cup of liver killer now. I think maybe I should just dissolve it and drink it down. Cheers, Ray. Your folly those couple times you tried to do yourself in with drugs was the tequila. All that booze actually saved your life last time (a Syrup of Ipecac for the suicidal?). What would have been your morbid comment of choice for a time such as this? I think I'll ask you. I have a clear glass full of murky sludge. I dub thee Morning Fog. And now with gusto!
No worse a taste I suppose than Jack Daniels. It occurs to me as I slide into a seated position that perhaps I should have done something more artistic than OD next to a toilet. I always thought it would be perfect if I found your gun, trekked down to your grave in Boise, and stuck the barrel underneath my chin so I could shoot for the stars. It would be the closest I could come to spilling my blood on your hands. I'm so tired of playing Pilate.
Well, driving is now out of the question; I'm crawling on the floor, trying hard to control my nausea. It would be such a waste if I threw up. My lingering death will be nothing compared to your succinct little bullet hole in the ceiling. I'm absolutely disgusting now, thinking in the manner that you do. How did I stand you? First thing when I'm dead is to go kick your ass.
I've managed to settle my stomach somewhat. Though I've stopped moving I feel like I've been playing that stupid game they'd put in church camp relay races in which you run around in a circle with your forehead planted on the handle end an upright baseball bat so your peers could gleefully watch you stumble around like a drunk. Like a Southern Baptist high. Jesus Christ, anything to convince an adolescent that the Spirit is better than getting laid in some Potlatch boy's pickup. Well, I thank thee Pastor Tom; instead of teen pregnancy, I entered college with a existential crisis, lost my virginity in the scholar's dorm, and ended up married to a man with Borderline Personality Disorder because I couldn't bear the thought of being such a whore as to not marry the man that deflowered me. I'm worse than a whore now though. In having known truth and abandoned it, I've committed blasphemy of the Holy Spirit. Wasn't that the only unforgivable sin? To hell with it. I always related more to Judas Iscariot than King David anyway. Judas was overwhelmed by his emotional honesty. David was a selfish punk, yet he was considered a favorite of God. I suppose, Ray, that you had the inner turmoil of a traitor and the irrationality of a king.
I attempt to locate my Bible. I recall that it has been moved to my reference section of books from its former place of honor next to my bed, which is now occupied by an assortment of items I placed there in hopes of arousing some life out of this tired body. I flip through Ephesians and Galatians, passages that in times past had been comforting to me. I start to cry a little.
Why couldn't my brain just adhere; like everyone else's? Why was I the one who had to overexamine everything to the point of hopelessness? I was always most fond of Ecclesiastes because it paralleled my observation that just about everything in this life can be reduced to absurdity. How does one differentiate between extreme insightfulness and a simple case of being an ass? If ever I dared share of my inner workings, my mother would have assured me that God would help me. Dad would have told me to knock it off. And then he'd sermonize for me, his one concession to parenting, which must have in his mind made up for the emotional neglect.
I pick up one of my prayer candles and absently roll it around in my hands. I bought them in a Mexican grocer in northern California. I've always had a thing for Catholic iconography. The weight of it is nice, and the glass is cold and soothing against my brow, which is now beginning to sweat. My body is aware that something is starting to go wrong.
The saint of choice for this particular candle is Santa Barbara. "...que me libres de todas las impurezas y tentacionces de El Diablo." Yes, even my Southern Baptist daddy would agree that it is the devil that is the source of my behavior today. In this, it's too bad he will never truly mourn me. I sigh, and feeling ill, I roll the candle back and forth across my forehead.
"Do you not fear the rebuke of thy creator God, child? Yea, e'en as thy life expireth in a manner most unseemly, I beseech thee, go call the paramedics!"
What the hell? I'm so doped up that wax has begun to talk. I don't recall putting any mushrooms in my cocktail.
"All right, I've got the time. My mind apparently wants to put a face on my Christian angst. The only Christian philosopher I've read is Aquinas. The voice certainly wasn't middle English, however; it was more like those cheesy fantasy novels I love so well.
"You don't remember Chaucer enough to make me somewhat authentic. Besides, I'm Italian."
"In that case, Buon Giorno," I reply wryly.
"You are a sarcastic one, lacking more than a little in respect."
"I've always tended to sardonicism, sure, but I never thought my issue was disrespect. I'm a nice girl!"
"Why then this blatant disregard for that with which the Lord has entrusted you? You are a steward of the body you have been given, and of those of your children; your lot is not to tend the image of one who rots below the ground."
I'm not prepared to listen to hurtful words emanating from the guilt file in my own head.
"Just the kind of hindering language I would expect from a Christian theologian. I suppose for you it's as simple as the 6th Commandment! Interesting that there are many deaths permissible in religious warfare and the purging of unlikemindedness, and yet self-murder is a crime against God."
"Obeisance to your God is a simple matter. Moreoever, the obligation of man is three-fold: duty to God, to be sure, but also duty to oneself and duty to others. Self-murder violates all three. First, to disdain life, the divine of gifts, is to show disdain for God himself. As I have said, you are merely a trustee to that which God has given you. Second, nature shows that it is the inclination of every living thing to keep itself in being; therefore suicide is contrary to the natural law God has set in motion. Lastly, every man is a member of the body of his community, just as he is a member of the body of Christ, the Holy Church. By killing himself he does harm to society."
"How Aristotelian. You truly are that little Greek's bitch, as they say."
"Aristotle was not incorrect in saying that suicide is 'contrary to the rule of life.' It would behoove you to drop this defense mechanism you've created for yourself when confronted with your abandonment of the church. You didn't 'lose' your faith. You trapped yourself in circumstances that got out of your control. In order to remove yourself from them, your marriage namely, you had to first convince yourself that it was morally permissible. You then proceeded to behave reprehensibly, all the while rationalizing so that you would not be consumed by the conscience with which God has imbued you. And, as they say, 'the wages of sin is death.'"
I am struck motionless momentarily by his words.
"I didn't kill him!" I finally scream, and hurl the candle against the mirror. The mirror fragments and my tears become prismatic in my reflection. My breathing falters a bit as it becomes heavier and more panicked. I throw up once in the sink, and again meet my gaze. Within, voices of accusation have amplified, and are pressing the limits of what I can tolerate of my guilt. I did kill him. That beautiful, precious child. Had I only stayed by his side and carried him when he needed it, as he carried me! Finally I pick a shard of glass from the mess on the bathroom counter and impulsively tear it across my cheek.
"Do you see me Ray?!" I cry, "My blood is as good as Christ's!"
I drop the glass, and rub my face in my hands, consumed by hysterics.
"No," the voice says finally, softly, "You did not kill him. His deeds lay with him as he awaits final judgment. What remains for you is to live, to repent, and to honor your God."
The voice is gone. I try to recall the name of the patron saint of lost causes, and I whimper as consciousness slips from me.
*
I'm vaguely aware of fumbling around. I think I'm, well yes, it's the baby's room. I musn't get blood on their things. Their sanctity must be kept safe. I must shield them from the poison in their genes.
"Little giiiirl," a voice insistently tugs at my mind, "where aaaare you?"
"I'm here! I'm here!" I answer, dredging up a doe-eyed 5-year-old from somewhere in the vaults of my personality. I pull down my little elephant doll from the stuffed toys hammock. It used to play the nicest song. When it no longer would work I cried brokenheartedly, and similarly, I start to cry and, doll in arm, I crawl into my baby's bed and cuddle under her blanket as best I can. My tummy hurts.
"What a pretty dress," the elephant comments in a somewhat detached tone of voice.
I sniff loudly, and nuzzle the doll. "Thank you. Ray made it for me. I wore it to his funeral you know."
"Yes you did. Do you recall his grandma snapping pictures of you throughout the graveside service?"
I frown. "That was mean. I tried my best to be good for them."
"It was kind of sick and voyeuristic. But you've never been very happy trying to please everybody anyway have you?"
"I try so hard! So hard. And still I disappoint everybody and ruin everything."
"Certainly no duty is owed to your Mormon in-laws. Similarly, there is no god whose will you must be concerned about thwarting, or that you may even appeal to for help. 'There is no balm in Gilead,' as the Old Testament says."
"I miss God."
"I'm sure you do. But you finally denied certainty of his existence for solid, logical reasons. As a result, you can no longer rely on convenient analogical arguments, as Aquinas was so fond of doing. The problem with that sort of religiosity becomes apparent when you are not so sure that there is in fact a relationship between you and god, doesn't it? Besides, consider as well that Aquinas' arguments weren't formulated in a social vacuum. Remember that suicide used to be acceptable to the Roman Catholic church until too many people in the middle ages started killing themselves in order to get to a better place than earth was for them at that time. The church then re-examined its theology and decided this was a bad thing; bad for membership, certainly!
"I think this has been your hardest lesson, and certainly the reason your last year was so difficult. You are just now learning how to navigate what for you is that more tangible and relevant tension between self concern and agapeism."
"When I finally made a decision to help myself, Ray ended up dead. I must have been wrong."
"Sweetheart, Ray's suicide was a long time in coming. You weren't going to save him, not ever."
I cross my arms stubbornly.
He continues, "Moreover, what did Melanie tell you about the call she got from the police on the day Ray shot himself?"
I furrow my eyebrows, and reluctantly answer, "She said she was sure that the police were calling to say that he had shot everyone."
"Everyone who?"
My breath catches. "He...she said..." I inhale deeply, "The babies and I. I bury my head in my arms and renew my sobbing. I thought about my little angels, our little angels! I shake myself out of this childish frame of mind. I had refused all that time to acknowledge that even as Ray was fiercely devoted to his precious babies, he was just as capable of violently taking their lives. I never allowed myself the horrific, but altogether possible mental image of their tiny, broken bodies crumpled where I now lay, where they daily sought repose in peaceful sleep. Blood seeping into the flannel baby sheets we so carefully selected, like the volumes of blood Ray spilt into the carpet, no this could not be! I could not believe this about him, or about my ability to have gotten tangled up with a person like that. Why do I still obsessively seek him in my dreams each night? Ray had effectively muffled the warning cries of my herald of death with one hand even as he stuck the barrel under his chin with the other.
"Even his own mother believed him capable of hurting you. Ray was more than justified in killing himself, he was morally obligated to; in taking his life he was ensuring that the three of you, and whoever else happened to be in his path, would live."
Sickened, I nod noncommittally.
"What of you though? What's your justification?"
"I'm a f**King husk of wasted potential, that's what."
"Nevertheless, have you any idea of the psychological danger your behavior is putting your children in?"
"I have a right to die when life becomes intolerable. I'm not committing suicide, I'm committing penacide. I just want the pain to go away."
"You're skirting the issue and neglecting your altruistic duty. If you weren't prepared to sacrifice yourself for your two children by staying alive, then you should have had your tubes tied."
I look at the elephant sharply. I can only conclude that it is Michael Scriven that is currently permeating my thoughts. Professor did characterize him as a blunt son of a bitch.
"I heard that."
"I don't much care," I retort.
He begins to chuckle. "Miss Lanna, I've lived a long time, and heard many an argument on this or that subject. I'm still amazed at the fired up dialogues and arguments that stem not from logic and honest inquiry, but from human stubbornness. Ray taking his life was one thing; yours is another matter entirely. You were not born with his psychological disability, and came to this decision out of a rash desire to end your pain and to find your beloved. But I have softened enough in my old age to be able to tell you this: The world is so full of ways to help others. Your heart brims, as it always has, with compassion, which I imagine is part of the reason you want to die. You can't bear the thought of having had a hand in Ray's pain and demise. But your altruistic nature would be much more wisely manifested by remaining here with us yet a while longer, and by doing what you can for mankind. Death is a certainty, child, I can tell you that, so I feel badly for anyone who thinks life is too sad to sustain for even the short time we are given. I encourage you to give yourself more time, and more forgiveness, to examine a life which may in fact be worth living."
And the voice is gone.
*
I've wandered into the living room, sickened and inebriated. I feel an accelerated aging of my body as it begins to fail. Sort of like my body's own contribution to the burial process. I should have written a note to my mother, to my kids, to my professors, to anyone who wasted the time to invest something in me. My head reels suddenly, and I collapse onto my knees on the loveseat, facing my aquarium. My fish Sam regards me disinterestedly.
"Where are the other little fish we stuck in here with you?" I ask, though my voice is hoarse and scarcely audible.
He looks at me blankly.
"You did eat them. You little son of a bitch," I accuse, but without much conviction.
"You don't have any evidence of that. I thought you had committed to casting to the flames that which you could not prove empirically."
"F**k that. I should cast you to the flames. You ate my goddamned fish."
I double over for a moment as my intestines object to the chemicals in my body.
I regain some composure, but my innards continue to lurch resentfully.
"I suppose, as you must be my beloved Hume, that you would insist that I can't say for sure that my experiencing this inner convulsion is a result of my having downed a cancer ward's worth of pills." I consider this for a moment. "I suppose then that I can excuse Ray from accountability since one can't say that his pulling a trigger actually blew the back of his head out."
"Well, no, not ultimately. But, like you I must separate my theory of reality from our social reality; one that, for example would be quite revulsed by your manner of speech."
"I'll concede that I've become a little grotesque, but I think I'm beyond needing to be very concerned about that. I'm quite beyond the point of being able to adhere to that natural law of Aquinas."
"If you have the presence of mind to hear me out, I believe I can respond on that precise issue."
"Certainly. Just please excuse me as I recline."
"Your detachment at the approach of death is an astounding thing."
I smile hazily. "I believe the fact that I'm drugged up enough to hallucinate a Humian goldfish may have something to do with it."
"In any case," my fish began, "I had many things to say about suicide when I was alive. If you think you live in a society that stigmatizes the issue, consider the fact that my essay On Suicide was published posthumously. In response to such thinkers as Aquinas, I focused on whether suicide violates duties to God. I will reconstruct my main argument against such a duty as follows: There is a self-rule established by God in two forces of nature; the physical laws of the natural world, and purposeful actions of the animal world. As a rule, God has given humans the liberty to alter nature for their own happiness. Suicide is an instance of altering the course of nature for our own happiness. There is no good reason this instance should be an exception to the rule, therefore, suicide does not violate God's plan."
"I think that most theologians would argue that human life is uniquely important, that it is up to God to choose the time and manner of our deaths, and that suicide does violate the natural order."
"To them I would respond that in the larger scheme of things, humans are not all that terribly important, at least not when compared with a more 'disposable' creature such as an oyster. The second assertion is absurd, because then it would be just as sinful to interfere with ourselves in such a way that we prolonged life. If suicide interferes with the natural order, then we should immediately fill in the Panama Canal and fear the wrath of God for thus disturbing our surroundings. In reality, diverting the flow of blood in a vein to be spilt on the ground is no different than diverting the Nile. Besides, one could argue based on God's supposed character that he would not be 'all good' if he were to refuse relief to those experiencing unyielding suffering."
"What of the argument that a suicide violates one's duties to society?"
"This is my argument from social reciprocity: When we die, we do not harm society, but only cease to do good. Our responsibility to do good is reciprocally related to benefit we receive from society. When I am dead, I can no longer receive the benefits. Therefore, I do not have a duty to do good."
"I still think people would argue that a suicide harms elements of society, at least emotionally."
"The small amount of benefit to society that one could provide doesn't justify the great suffering endured by the individual. I can also argue as a consequentialist, that indeed perhaps it would be a good thing for a person to commit suicide if he is going to be a burden on those around him."
"Wouldn't a utilitarian argue that taken to its logical conclusion that this argument would call for obligatory suicide for social indigents?"
"That would indeed be in violation of the principle of autonomy. However, I am a rule utilitarian, and under normal circumstances, no rule requiring suicide could be established which would produce more good than harm for society. And, since you're going to ask, suicide does not violate one's duty to oneself. I argue that all suicides have been committed for good personal reasons. This is evident since we have such a strong natural fear of death, which requires an equally strong motive to overcome that fear."
"The key then is autonomy."
"Yes. I agree with you when in the past you have said that societal stigmas only worsen the suffering of those seeking release. Indeed, if we would partake in open dialogue on the issue, it might just be that the opportunity given to suicidal people to honestly reflect and receive compassionate feedback may actually deter some from suicide, because they will decide they can remain a bit longer with people who accept them along with their personal demons."
I think on this for a few moments.
"As for you - you of course are free to do as you wish. However, I sense that the revolutionary spirit that resides in that little soul of yours has the capacity to inspire you to stay and influence those around you to seek a more reasonable way of thinking, if only so that the consequences may not be so dire should one of your own children inherit your husband's disorder."
Sam the fish retires to the floor of the fish tank and appears to begin to doze. I've thought about this often. It is entirely likely that the kids may end up with a similar disorder. Butterflies gather in my chest as I explore the ramifications of what I'm doing today. Not only am I making them the unwitting victims of the double suicides of their parents, but I am taking away the last person who not only knows them thoroughly, but who can best protect them in the future. In an attempt to throw off an impending inner storm of accountability, I rationalize that my mother will take very good care of them. She can explain this sick little drama of ours to them. Ray! I expected you to make an appearance by now! Frustrated, I stand up in a half-assed attempt to pace the floor, but I end up crumpled in the center of the living room carpet. Was that really what this was all about? Was I just in need of confirmation that Ray still exists? Everyday I pray to him for a sign. I receive night terrors and other such inspiration for suicidal ideation.
"F**king, f**king drama!" I sob. "Either take me or let me go! I can't continue to live like this!" I frantically search the room, but still I am alone. There is nothing in the air to indicate a special presence, and I slowly ball up, tucking my legs into my chest, and resting my cheek on my knees. I whimper, and rock myself, and my tear and blood stained eyes settle on the Buddha.
My large, glassy eyes look as dramatic as they ever have, I'm sure, but still I have no audience here to amuse; here there is just me and my Buddha. I'm pulling him from his place of honor in the china hutch, enjoying his weight in my lap. As a little girl, when I'd visit my grandpa in Florida, I would pass Buddha as I walked down the hallway to the guest room, invariably patting him on the head. Grandpa thought this was cute, so when he was cleaning out after Grandma died, he sent it my way. Since it's so heavy and gold colored I always assumed it was metal. However, upon further inspection I discovered it was in fact ceramic. How disappointing; he's fragile like the rest of us.
Saddened, I cuddle him as best as I can. My head is starting to hurt. I think about this a little. It's the whole crux of life, this being breakable. I don't understand the whole stigma against suicide. You break a beautiful vase and people say, "What a waste." You break a Coke bottle and people are a bit more indifferent. We only gain a small amount of stardust each year. By and large, the stuff on earth is the stuff we have to work with. Whether a carbon atom is in me, a fish, or the ground makes little difference.
"Why does impermanence bother you so?"
"Oh Buddha!" I cry, "I'm scared."
"What is the source of this fear?"
"I don't know where he is!" I'm nearly screaming with grief, "I WANT RAY!"
"Child, I beseech you: Don't end your life in this place of craving. Calm yourself a bit and hear a story. Will you?"
I hyperventilate a bit in my attempt to stop wailing. I nod vigorously and rub my eyes.
"This is the story of Vakkali:
"On that occasion the venerable Vakkali was staying in the Potter's shed, being sick, afflicted, stricken with a sore disease.
Now Vakkali called to his attendants, saying: 'Come hither, friends! Go ye to the Exalted One, and, in my name worshipping at the feet of the Exalted One, say unto him: "Lord, the brother Vakkali is sick, afflicted, stricken with a sore disease. He worships at the feet of the Exalted one." And thus do ye say: "Well were it, lord, if the Exalted One would visit brother Vakkali, out of compassion for him."
I consented by my silence. I robed myself, and taking my bowl and robe, went to visit the venerable Vakkali.
"Now Vakkali saw me coming, while yet I was afar off, and on seeing me he stirred upon his bed.
"Then I said to Vakkali: 'Enough, Vakkali! Stir not on your bed! There are these seats made ready. I will sit there.' And I sat down.
I said to Vakkali: 'Well, Vakkali, I hope you are bearing up. I hope you are enduring. Do your pains abate and not increase? Are there signs of their abating and not increasing?'
"'No, lord, I am not bearing up. I am not enduring. Strong pains come upon me. They do not abate. There is no sign of their abating, but of their increasing.'
"'Have you any doubt, Vakkali? Have you any remorse?'
"'Indeed, lord, I have no little doubt. I have no little remorse.'
"'Have you not anything, Vakkali, wherein to reproach yourself as to morals?'
"'Nay, lord, there is nothing wherein I reproach myself as to morals.'
"'Then, Vakkali, if that is so, you must have some worry, you must have something you regret.'
"'For a long time, lord, I have been longing to set eyes on the Exalted One, but I had not strength enough in this body to come to see the Exalted one.'
"'Hush, Vakkali! What is there in seeing this vile body of mine? He who seeth the Norm, Vakkali, he seeth me: he who seeth me, Vakkali, he seeth the Norm. Verily, seeing the Norm, Vakkali, one sees me: seeing me, one sees the Norm.
"As to this what think you, Vakkali? Is body permanent or impermanent?'
"'Impermanent, lord.'
"'Is feeling . . . perception, the activities, is consciousness permanent, or impermanent?'
"'Impermanent, lord.'
"'Wherefore, Vakkali, he who thus seeth is repelled by body, is repelled by feeling, by perception, by the activities. He is repelled by consciousness. Being repelled by it he lusts not for it: not lusting he is set free: in this freedom comes insight that it is a being free. Thus he realizes: "Rebirth is destroyed, lived is the righteous life, done is my task, for life in these conditions there is no hereafter."'
"Then I, having thus taught Vakkali this lesson, rose up and went away to Vulture's Peak.
"Now not long after my departure, Vakkali called to his attendants: 'Come ye hither, friends. Lift up my bed and go to Black Rock on the slope of Seer's Hill. How should one of my sort think to make an end within a house?'
"'Even so, friend,' replied those brethren to the venerable Vakkali, and they lifted up the bed and carried him to Black Rock on the slope of Seer's Hill.
"Now I spent the rest of that day and the night on Vulture's Peak. Then when the night was waning two devas of exceeding beauty caused the whole of Vulture's Peak to be lit up, and came me and stood there at one side. So standing one of those devas thus addressed me: 'Lord, the brother Vakkali is bent on release.'
And the other deva said to me: 'Surely, lord, he will win the utter release.'
"Thus spake those devas. So saying they saluted me by the right and vanished there and then.
"Now I, when that night was spent, called to the brethren:--
'Come hither, brethren. Go ye to brother Vakkali, and say to him: "Friend Vakkali, listen to the words of the Exalted One and of two devas. And as to that, friend Vakkali, the Exalted One says this: 'Fear not, Vakkali. Your dying will not be evil. Your ending will not be evil.'"
"...and those beggars did as requested, and Vakkali answered:
'Wherefore, friends, do ye in my name worship at the feet of the Exalted One and say: "Lord, brother Vakkali is sick, afflicted, stricken with a sore disease. He worships at the feet of the Exalted One and thus speaks: 'Body is impermanent, lord, I doubt it not. Whatsoever, lord, is impermanent, that is woe; I doubt it not. What is impermanent and woeful and of the nature to fade away, -- for that I have no desire, no lust, no love. I doubt it not. Feeling, lord, perception, the activities, consciousness is impermanent...for that I have no desire, no lust, no love. I have no doubt of that.'"'
"'Even so, friend,' replied those brethren to Vakkali and went away.
"Then the Vakkali, not long after the departure of those brethren, drew a knife and slew himself.
"Now those brethren came to me and repeated the words of the message.
"Then I said to the brethren: 'Let us go hence, brethren, to Black Rock, on the slope of Seer's Hill, since the clansman Vakkali hath slain himself.'
"'Even so, lord,' replied those brethren to me. Then I went with a number of the brethren to Black Rock on the slope of Seer's Hill. And from afar I saw the venerable Vakkali lying on the bed with his shoulder twisted round (from an attempt to assume the proper lion posture).
"Now at that time a smoky cloud, a mass of darkness was moving to the east, was moving to the west, to the north, to the south, and up and down and to the points between.
"Then I said to the brethren: 'Do ye see, brethren, yonder smoky cloud, yonder mass of darkness moving east and west, to north and south, and up and down and to the points between?'
"'Yes lord.'
"'Brethren, that is Mara, the evil one. He is searching for the consciousness of Vakkali, the clansman, saying: "Where is the consciousness of Vakkali, the clansman, stationed anew?" But, brethren, with consciousness not stationed anew anywhere, Vakkali the clansman is utterly well.'"
I renew my crying, only this time with a sense of relief. "I just wish we could have been kinder to Ray!"
"It must be trying to be the bearer of the memory of one whom your world will never accept."
"I thought that you would have rejected the validity of Ray's death."
"My concern about the value of life emerges from compassion, which is why I generally oppose suicide, homicide, hunting, and the like. Usually those intending suicide have a mind full of anger, recrimination, or envy and they take this negative emotion with them when they die. Thus they have an unhappy afterlife. This should not be necessary. However, you husband was special, wasn't he?"
"Well," I begin at length, "it became very apparent after talking to professionals and examining his records and my memories after his death that he had Borderline Personality Disorder." My voice breaks, as I explain, "My poor baby. He was born with the debilitating disease of extreme self-loathing. I couldn't even count the multitude of scars he had accumulated since childhood from the number of times he needed to burn or cut himself. He first tried to kill himself when he was only eight! He poisoned his body so much and hated himself to such a degree that his body responded with kidney and gall stones and irritable bowel syndrome. He was 6 feet tall and never weighed more than 130 pounds. He got in accidents. He couldn't truly give his heart to anyone without hating and hurting the recipient. He was an alcoholic, he was irresponsible, he was manipulative.
"Yet he was also altogether devoted to his family, showed extreme talent in anything he pursued, and was the best counselor most have ever encountered. He could charm with his Cheshire cat grin. He loved me.
"He was absolutely beautiful. But he didn't, he couldn't, know who he was.
"He had a heart too big to contain his continuing to hurt those around him.
"He bought a gun last year, a .45, so he could decisively have done with it."
I pause, and the Buddha speaks to me.
"More than justifying Ray's death logically, you need to have the compassion to forgive him, and to forgive yourself. You know in your soul that allowing Ray to pass on was your greatest act of love and benevolence. You brought your intense and devoted love for him to a place in which you could objectively let him seek his own peace. You were the one soul willing to do that for him, and it was the most important gift another human ever offered him. You accepted him for who he was, and you honored his end."
Humbled I bow my head. Even as I suffer, my soul exalts at being released at last from the weight of my guilt. I start to slip from consciousness, and am vaguely aware of the front door opening, followed by a fury of activity and a number of people hovering over me, looking very concerned...
*
My eyes flutter open briefly, and through gauzy eyes I see that I am in an emergency room, and people are scurrying about. I close my eyes once more, but instead of the expected darkness, I see the form of my beloved. As he should be, he is seated on a tree stump, smoking a cigarette and grinning. I smile, and attempt to sit up, but am impeded by wires and tubes protruding from every which way.
"No! Stay! Stay, stay, stay," he insists, and walks over towards me. "You're in the hospital, it's time for me to sing. What shall it be?" He starts in with his rendition of "Smokey's Bar." I yell in objection, but recognizing an old conditioned response, I stop and laugh.
"No, it's all right today I suppose," I tell him. He sticks his tongue out and takes a drag off his cigarette, squinting his one eye just as he used to.
"I see you're wearing both of our rings," he notes, "People are going to give you s**t about it." I shrug, and putting on a pitiful expression, beckon him to come sit by me that I might again rest my head on his lap. He does so, and I cuddle close to him, smelling alcohol and tobacco, and scratching my face on the paint splatters that have accumulated on his pants from painting so many sets for the theater department. My heart breaks a little as I run my fingers through his course curls.
"I miss you," I say softly, "You know, Joseph thinks you're just hanging out somewhere in your red car."
"Clever kid," he remarks, but the twinkle in his eyes reveals how much he still delights in observing his beloved children, even from wherever it is he now resides.
"You know, Nannabird, I have a bit of philosophy for you too." I smile and wait for him to continue. "It's from Ecipeptus, and he..."
I furrow my brow. "Oh, you mean Epictetus."
"Whatever. I like the stoics. They thought we should endure what life handed us."
I nod, and he continues, "I lasted as long as I could." His dark eyes look pained and his voice cracks somewhat.
"You have to know how hard it was to leave you and the kids, right?"
He touches my face, "I didn't want to die. There was just nothing to take my pain away. It just killed me to do it..." We realize the absurdity of what he said, and we laugh, the tension broken.
"I know you hate to hear it, hon', but you're going to live. You have to stay to make sure the kidd' heads aren't filled with s**t." He gently kisses me, looks at me for a moment, and then softly says, "Remember how we used to practice me being able to leave the house without you having a panic attack? We're going to have to do it again, because they're about to resuscitate you."
I try my best to contain my pounding heart as he holds me in his lap for another moment before standing up. He strokes my hair, and seeing that I am set at ease, backs slowly away. At a distance of about ten paces he waves, flicks the ashes from the end of his cigarette, grins like a madman and disappears into the darkness.
I quote to myself Epictetus' words,
"...above all, remember that the door stands open. Do not be more fearful than children. But, just as when they are tired of the game they cry, "I will play no more," so too when you are in a similar situation, cry, "I will play no more" and depart. But if you stay, do not cry.
...Is there smoke in the room? If it is slight, I remain. If it is grievous, I quit it. For you must remember this and hold it fast, that the door stands open."
I close my eyes, and am suddenly aware of a rush of air in my lungs. My body surges, as though emerging from a baptismal fount. I breathe in life, and immediately search out my surroundings for the sight of my children, the progeny of our love and insanity.
*
Bibliography of Useful Works
Aquinas, St. Thomas. Summa Theologica. ii. ii., Q. 64, A. 5.
Aristotle. Nichomachean Ethics. Bk. 5, Ch. 11.
Beauchamp, Tom L. 'Suicide'. Matters of Life and
Death. Ed. Tom Regan. New York: 1993.
Battin, Mary Pabst. Ethical Issues in Suicide. New Jersey.
Prentice Hall, 1995
Donnelly, John. Suicide: Right or Wrong?, Buffalo: 1991.
Epictetus. Discourses. Book 1, Ch. 24, 25.
Fu, charles Wei-hsun, and Sandra A. Wawrytko.
Buddhist Ethics. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1991.
Hume, David. "Of Suicide." Dialogues Concerning Natural
Religion. Ed. Richard H. Popkin. Indianapolis: Hackett
Publishing Co., 1985.
Morrison, James. DSM IV Made Easy: the Clinician's Guide to
Diagnosis. Guilford Press, 1995.
Vakkali. Anguttara Nikaya, Book of The Ones, Sutta 208
Websites Without References
http://www.utm.edu/research/iep/s/suicide.htm
http://www.suicide-parasuicide.rumos.com
http://lifegard.tripod.com
http://www.buddhadust.org/TheOnes/theonesenglish188-210.htm
