Suicide is one of life’s unfathomable mysteries, one you have to go through yourself to fully understand. And then it’s too late.
The World Health Organization tells me more than 720,000 people die due to suicide every year; it is the third leading cause of death among 15–29-year-olds.
When I was growing up, suicide was spoken of in hushed tones, laden with shame and regret. Families left dealing with the aftermath wondered what they could have done to prevent it and why they hadn’t seen the signs. The most asked question: Was there a note and what did it say? Why? Why did they take their own life? Was it really that bad?
I used to think suicide was an incredibly selfish act, a choice that left a slew of broken hearts in its wake. I was younger then. I didn’t know any better. Now I do.
Dr John Akerman of the Centre for Suicide Prevention and Research says:
Viewing suicide as a choice promotes the misunderstanding that people who engage in suicidal behavior are selfish. Selfishness has been defined by Merriam-Webster as “seeking or concentrating on one’s own advantage, pleasure, or well-being without regard for others.” Suicide does not generate pleasure, advantage or well-being. People who take their own lives commonly feel like a burden to others or experience intense emotional pain that overwhelms their capacity to continue with life. Making others feel guilty is typically the furthest thing from their mind.
The comments on an Alliance of Hope post by Dr Shauna Springer explain how it’s anything but a choice.
I doubt anyone knows what’s going in anyone else’s head. History is rife with accounts of seemingly happy people committing suicide. There had been no visible signs. Others are expected, which is why we have the term suicide watch.
The Samaritans have an excellent post debunking the common myths around suicide, many of which I believed myself.
There is a story that does the rounds on social media every so often. It’s based on an original true story by John Wayne Schlatter for Chicken Soup for the Soul.
Mark was walking home from school one day when he noticed the boy ahead of him had tripped and dropped all of the books he was carrying along with two sweaters, a baseball bat, a glove, and a small tape recorder. Mark knelt down and helped the boy pick up the scattered articles. Since they were going the same way, he helped to carry the burden.
As they walked Mark discovered the boy’s name was Bill, that he loved video games, baseball, and history, that he was having a lot of trouble with his other subjects and that he had just broken up with his girlfriend. They arrived at Bill’s home first and Mark was invited in for a Coke and to watch some t.v. The afternoon passed pleasantly with a few laughs and some shared small talk, then Mark went home.
They continued to see each other around school, had lunch together once or twice. They ended up at the same High school where they had brief contacts over the years. Finally the long awaited senior year came, and three weeks before graduation, Bill asked Mark if they could talk. Bill reminded him of the day years ago when they had first met.
“Do you ever wonder why I was carrying so many things from school that day?” asked Bill. “You see, I cleaned out my locker because I didn’t want to leave a mess for anyone else. I had stored away some of my mother’s pills and I was going home to commit suicide. But after we spent some time together I realized that if I had, I would have missed that time and so many others that might follow. So you see, Mark, when you picked up my books for me that day, you did a lot more. You saved my life.”
Do we ever really know what’s going on in someone’s life, in their head, behind their front door?
I know of too many people who have committed suicide. Some I’ve known personally; some I’ve known in passing; others I’ve known of through other people. On hearing the news, my immediate reaction was sadness. Sad that things were so bad for them that death seemed like the only viable option. Sad, too, for those left behind to make sense of it all – if that is even possible.
But deeper still is the profound regret that they died alone. That their last moments were them against the world. That there was no one there with them when they took their last breath. That there was no one with them to hold their hand and say a prayer.
On this day in 1937, Hungarian poet Attila József died. Some say he committed suicide by throwing himself in front of a train; others say it was an accident. The jury is out.
During his short life, [he was 32] from the turn of the 20th century to the late 1930’s, he revolutionized poetic writing, addressing in his prolific work everyday topics as much as politics, odes and celebrations of love or calls for revolutionary upheaval.
Such is his legacy that National Poetry Day in Hungary falls each year on his birthday – 11 April. He penned over 600 poems, a handful of which you can read here in translation.
The sixth verse of his poem, Consciousness, (trans. Michael Beevor) resonates today. It reads:
See, here inside is the suffering,
out there, sure enough, is the explanation.
Your wound is the world – it burns and rages
and you feel your soul, the fever.
You are a slave so long as your heart rebels –
you can become free if you don’t indulge in
builing yourself the kind of house
which a landlord settles in.
In Budapest, by the Danube, there’s a statue of him, one I regularly stopped when I was in the city. I’d sit by him and chat. About anything, and everything. I’d answer as if he’d answered me first. A little like in Mohsin Hamid’s excellent book, The Reluctant Fundamentalist. More than one unsuspecting tourist left thinking there was a crazy foreigner in the city.
The statue, sculpted by the sweet and lovely Márton László (RIP), a man I’ve had the pleasure of spending time with, is iconic.
I’m grateful today that I saw a note on the anniversary of József’s death and the memories it evoked of those I’ve known who left this world too early. May God have mercy on their gentle souls.
