Suicide is an odd thing. I understand it, and yet I don't. I can sympathize and empathize (per se) with it, and yet I can't. Another one of the many grey area points of intrigue that I have run into time and time again- which is the purpose of this post.
Every classroom in every school across the nation has at some point had talks about it, or a designated grade wide meeting about it. Every workplace will tell you to look out for it and keep track of the red flags that may lead to it in your coworkers. Even sports teams do these things, proctored by not-so-well-trained but all the same very much concerned coaching staffs. And yet, even with all the incentive to step up, out or above the call of duty in compassion to speak out for, or to, the at-risk people, few ever do. Or I guess more forgivingly, ever have to.
Such is not the case for me. Oh no, not me. Not little old me, who by the way, happened to have attempted suicide twice myself before the age of twelve. I of all people, comically ( morbidly or rightfully so, you pick) am the one has been forced to ( by the self-important compartment of my heart that believes me a hero) since those days both deal with multiple suicides of others (friends, might I add), and prevent such dark finales from occurring on now two other social stages. Sorry for the awkward sentence, I don't know quite where to start on tweaking it.
Now I know I can't just mention the above without giving any background whatsoever, so I'll say this. I was young and didn't quite realize what life meant yet, so the conclusion was much easier to jump to. Once, it was after a particularly melancholy day whilst unloading the dishwasher with my older brother while my parents were gone. I remember it was just the two of us alone in our Dallas area duplex, stuck inside for safety reasons on a downcast day. The large TV playing a VHS tape- something I cannot remember beyond that of it being colorful, barely loud enough to mask the hum of the tape player. Blueish grey light colored the peeling, white window sills, flooding under half-drawn spotty blinds and in slits across the living-room behind vertical ones onto brown and mold-green worn tile floors in prison bar fashion from the glass sliding door to our uneven backyard directly across it. The only light on in the house was the one in the kitchen, casting the shadow of leaky faucet and, apparently, knife-drawn me with blade held over head with both hands aimed back at my forehead across the white laminate floors. Upon seeing this and coming back from his potty break, my brother ran over and without thought punched me hard in the face. I dropped my arms and asked why he was so mad- why he stopped me. He simply told me to "stop being a dummy" before taking the jagged bread knife that was forked at the end out of my hands and placing it in its rightful place in the knife rack- just out of my tiny reach. The other time, playing across the street on the basketball court right in front of our house I was evidently absolutely livid, because whatever happened, as soon as I spotted a car tearing down the street in the way cars usually did in that neighborhood, I darted for the street. I wanted to meet the hood of the car there and have it take me out. I really did. But as the car, funny enough it was an elderly lady, came quite close my brother cried out for her to stop and snatched me out of the street. The vehicle stopped only inches away from my legs. He threw me onto the grass just over the curb and hit me really hard, then walked me back into the house and told me to not come back out for the night. All the while the lady sat in her car, probably thanking God that she didn't kill that child that she quite honestly should have seen, and bolting off as my Dad answered the door to let me in. I wonder if my brother remembers these things.
Fast forward give or take ten years, and despite personal issues of my own I decide to shoulder hers. "Her" being the girl who sat to my left in speech class senior year. She always had something off about her, and it wasn't just her style of dress ( though it had seemingly endless variations of off-black and grey). I saw the signs. The pain and unrest that resided behind her eyelids and never once outside of them- she never cried... Or even complained. She just "hated people and loved books"- direct quote, though they weren't enough. I offered her some throughout the year and got a special level of joy out of seeing her smile when I'd ask her about them, but I don't think she smiled any other time. It was just good enough for me that it made the cuts stop showing up. Or at least they did at first, but eventually that wasn't enough either. Soon enough I caught the fresh red lacerations hidden under the table and behind long-sleeves and bracelets all over again. And I couldn't let it go. But I also couldn't outright confront her due to lack of deep connection. So I thought long and heard for some time before finally resolving with this (despite subtle doubt and worry that a friend expressed in my ability to improve things)- a letter. In it I would not only detail my own journey through life and the former encounters with suicide, but also my genuine care for her and wishes for her to turn from the road she is taking- all anonymously. I wanted her to know that I understood her in a way that transcended such facts as her favorite color or hometowns or hopes and dreams. One that didn't need fact, only the connection of emotion drawn from all the prolonged eye-contacts and silent vigil I'd kept over her over the course of the semester. Understanding and analyzing all that she was in how she walked with shoulders drooped, or how she must have known quite well every splotch on the school carpet but not a single inch of the school ceiling because she spent so much time looking at her feet, or how speaking seemed like something she was so detached from- genuine and sometimes funny but seemingly reminiscent of another time, much like how the light we see emitted by the stars now is only just now hitting us but was actually sent hundreds of thousands of years before. Dazzling from a place far away and quite possibly no longer existent. I felt her sense of joy embodied this celestial truth. It was a Friday during my PALs class that I delivered this letter to her house office and disclosed everything about the situation to the girl's counselor, and I remember after my last class of the day replaying the meeting in my head where they said they'd "address the issue as quickly as possible", ]and walking slowly down the main hall just in time to catch her out of the corner of my eye walking slowly as she always did up the stair toward her house office.
They said that given the nature of the issue that they wouldn't be allowed to share with me what came of their talk. Because it's part of the contract and code and all. I said that was okay. Maybe I didn't want to know what path she chose to take after that meeting. I hope I get to see her again.
The second time I've tried my hand at answering the cry for help came just a few days ago. It's four in the morning on a school night as I write this so I will cut to the chase- I went to office hours and noticed those tell-tale lacerations on her forearm just barely peaking out from beneath her three-quarter length sleeves. As I left and handed in my make-up quiz, I decided I'd address it
"Hey uh... I hate to pry, you don't have to answer the question, but what's the story for the markings on your arm?"
"Oh these... *shakes head with eyes closed and flat smile* I have issues. Mine are just a little more visible than other people's".
"We all do [have problems] and that's okay. I understand. Just thought I'd ask"
And with that, I told her to have a nice day, smiled flatly and left. Just like that.
Please know that I say all this not to build myself up in any way. On quite the contrary, I've never been one to seek attention in the least for my deeds or accomplishments. Even when that was the case, I never received it. I think more than anything I wanted to share this with you, whoever is reading this, for the simple natural high I get from getting things off of my chest and unloading things from my brain. Now I no longer have to hold on to these things and can let the immortality of the internet carry the weight of sentiment galore for me. Now the internet gets to share in my amusement with the coincidence that suicide/suicide situations continue to create in my life. The fitting irony in my story thus far of former offender being the new "prevent-er" and inspiring people to maybe even try it for themselves... Prevent suicide, I mean.
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