At one point in time, Death, at least the concept of death terrified me. The very thought caused sleepless nights. What lies ahead? Heaven, hell, reincarnation, nothing?
Death seems to exist in the periphery of my existence, ever-present but just out of sight. Rarely has it made its presence known to me, the first memories of which are that of pets, of Lola and Amy, and a chick that fell from its nest, Fish. Lola was by all intents and purposes my first dog. Bought from a man selling puppies just outside my elementary school, my sister and I pleaded with our mom to let us get one. After days of badgering, my mom got us together and made us pray so that we would make the right decision regarding bringing in a pet into our family, and not long after we found ourselves staring down at the box of puppies choosing which one we’d bring home. My sister and Is first choice was the runt of the litter, a black pup that hardly cried, or so I remember. Ultimately my mom ended up picking a white/brown puppy who we would later name Lola, after a dog we once knew in Mexico. Two years later my mother would find Amy, a poodle mix, on her way to God knows where, most likely the grocery store. She always had a gift of finding animals in need.
One day, Amy, who had been with us for less than a year began suffering from seizing fits. From what I remember we tried the best we could, but after a visit to the vet the only feasible option for us was to euthanize her. I vividly remember running out of the building and sobbing uncontrollably, I begged, I pleaded, I offered everything a young boy could offer in exchange for her life, to know I made this offer I do not know, whoever could listen, my mother, the vet, Death? It seemed Death was not yet done with us as less than a week later, Lola came down with the same affliction, and the following vet visit yielded the same suggestion, euthanasia. I’m told my mother held her in her final moments, I could not tell you for sure as I could not stand to watch her die, instead, I sobbed, I wailed, and yet again pleaded to those who could listen for them to not take away yet another loved one. The cause of their deaths I will never know but it seemed poisoning could not be ruled out, due to the cause and timing between. Part of me however will always blame me, as if punished for some action or lack thereof on my part.
At some point during my adolescent years on a Summer day, my mother and I stumbled upon a baby chick at the foot of a tree. Much like that Summer the chick was entirely unremarkable, at least in appearance. Its nest was nowhere in sight, how It got there will forever remain a mystery. Having been the one who found it I took it upon myself to care for it. With the help of my mother, we made it a bed inside a shoebox, I asked an aunt who had taken in chicks in the past, and with her guidance, I learned how to properly raise a chick. We eventually named it Fish, due to a misspeak on my part. I grew to love Fish as one would any pet, its cries for food came like clockwork. So when the day came when I woke up to a silent home I knew Fish was visited by my acquittance, Death. Initially, I refused to even open the box, as if by denying to see his corpse I could somehow deny Death’s claim.
So what does my experience with Death have to do with suicide? Until recently I scoffed at the idea of suicide, at those who attempted, and those who ultimately succeeded. A waste of the divine spark of life, the result of a weak will, as a selfish and inconsiderate act to one’s loved ones. It wasn’t until I read the blog of Martin Manley, a man who meticulously documented and reflected upon his life and his decision to take it. What caused me the most sadness, what made me shed the most tears, was not the details behind his eventual suicide but his writing on his first loves, his friendships, what he enjoyed, his habits. He was just like you and me, a man who had lived, a man who had loved. I could not do any justice in describing his thoughts or his life story, so I’ll provide a link to his website. Through his actions, he revealed to me that suicide could be an act of love for oneself and those around them, that suicide could be an act of mercy.
https://martin-manley.eprci.com/
The connection between the two may still be unclear, but bear with me. Within the past year, I have read books by and/or read about the lives of authors who by sheer coincidence all met their deaths at their own hands. Authors and artists such as Yukio Mishima, Osamu Dazai, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, and Van Gogh. Though their situations were different they all died martyrs, be it for love, out of grief, or pride, leaving behind echoes of those thoughts, feelings, and experiences that resonate with even the unexplored corners of my being.
I have no problem admitting that life contains, often unequal amounts, of beautiful moments, where we feel love, kindness, and joy, like thunder amidst a lightning storm it is powerful, glaring, and memorable. In contrast, much like the lightning, the clouds, and the rain the mundane, the pain, the sorrow, the grief make up the majority of our lives. I would not consider myself a weak man, when the time comes I more than often muster the strength necessary to overcome what is placed before me but I am far from being a strong individual, far from exceptional. Through my own trials I now know that my strength, my will to live, my heart, my being, is finite. Every loss, every transgression against my being dismembers my will, leaving not just scars but a person-shaped vacuum that can never heal.
Eventually, my will to live, my strength, will leave me I’m not sure when but I know it is not soon, 50, 60 years from now maybe. Eventually, all that I have lived for will come to an end. My mentor, a kind and by all accounts successful man lost his wife of over 50 years to cancer over a year ago, when mentioning even the smell of his wife, tears welled in his eyes, through which I felt his love and his grief, tears welled in my eyes as well. Looking at my family history I do not doubt I will live a long time, if no accident or illness claims me, which I see as no more than a curse. Through their example I now see suicide in the service of one’s beliefs and ideals as a viable option, I like to imagine that I would die by my hand if I lost the woman I loved, dying a martyr for love.
Dedicated to my late friend Nguyen, I hope you found the rest you sought. Rest in peace.
At the Crossroads 