The theme from Mash is a song I grew up listening to. “Suicide Is Painless.”
suicide is painless – it brings on many changes
and I can take or leave it as I please
In the depths of my sorrow and black moments I have been reminded of the damning effect my sister’s suicide had on me personally, as well as my entire family and family to come. It’s possible I was nudged away from my own ideation by my sister’s angel. Or, just the suffering and pain her sudden jump caused all of us that remained.
There is an amazing book, “When My Brain Is Trying to Kill Me” or something like that. It spoke to me at an important time. I had been identifying my catastrophic thoughts as depression and madness for some time. I was pretty good at laughing at the bullshit coming from upstairs in my own mind.
“Wow, McElhenney, that is a really fucked up thought.”
And in many circumstances this sort of detachment or meta-mindfulness is enough to keep the suicidal impulses at bay. But after my walk to the the bridge, I knew my illness and despair had moved to a dangerous level. It was time to seek additional help from my team.
My mental trick, however, my own guardrail came in the form of a promise to myself, however. “If I’m going to commit suicide, I’m going to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.” It sounds cliché, I know. But here’s the rest of the idea. IF… If I were in a suicidal mode, and began to act on it, make plans, it was time to check myself into a hospital immediately. My care team was good, but not fast enough to save me. In the book, the young woman says, “If you’re thinking about suicide, that’s normal. If you’re imagining all the ways you could do it, also fairly normal. It’s when you have a plan to off yourself that rapid intervention on yourself is required.
As my pact with myself went, if I wanted to jump off the GG Bridge there would be steps and planning, even the trip (plane, train, or automobile) that provided moments and points of intervention. Buying a one-way ticket to San Francisco, for example, would indicate my intention to myself, my care team (if I shared it), and any loved ones who were near.
I have never looked into one-way fairs to SF.
That’s not to say I’m cured of the thought of suicide. And if there were some certain and painless method offered to me… Well, during the blackest moments, I might have become a statistic, an awful morning for the SF coast guard patrol. An end of my life would certainly finalise my pain, while unleashing unlimited pain and sorrow for my kids and my family. But, it was my kids who kept bringing me back from the edge. Or as John Irvin’s character in Cider House Rules, “Keep passing the open window.”
I have never looked twice at the open window since my suicide contract with myself. I’ve gotten sad since then. I’ve driven recklessly. I’ve felt the dark pull. The black dog is still an occasional companion, but no longer speaks to me.
Once you’ve been gifted with the pain of suicide, both your own or someone you love, your life is changed. In the song it says, “It brings on many changes.” That’s true. The change for the dead is oblivion. The change for every life that person touched is pain. Like an old filling in a deep molar that needs a root canal. You know the problem is still there, you can feel the dull ache from time to time, but you resist going to the dentist because of the pain. Expense too, but mainly the pain.
If we made a painless suicide option available, we might slow the population explosion. Maybe normalizing euthanasia on humans as we do with our beloved pets, “When their quality of life is diminished, it’s time to consider the needle.” I guess we’ll see how Canada does with their “right to death” movement.
In my case, I can think of about five times in my life that the cursed dog was whispering in my ear with the message of destruction. My mediocre therapist at the time used to say, “I’d rather you be homicidal that suicidal.” He had a point. Anger pointed inward becomes depression. Anger pointed at the target can become motivation for change, motivation to get revenge. Spite is a great motivator.
I tried to imagine different solutions. Pills. I love Ambien, as a sleep med and occasional dreamy thoughts and feelings drug. But suicide by Ambien is quite painful, apparently. Gun. Nope. Bridge. Again nope, but the idea of San Francisco…
A few months ago as this father/son struggle was hitting the high notes, I learned that Kurt Fucking Vonnegut attempted suicide in is 70s. What the fuck? I don’t know the details, but I was saddened greatly by the information. Also, I completely understood. I had just reread Slaughter House 5. Horrific. Sad. Despairing, laced with Tralfamadorians, time travel, and the bombing of Dresden.
Becoming unstuck in time is what allowed this writing to accelerate into whatever *this* is. (Points to computer screen.) Kurt has been a guiding light. His son’s adventures in madness in Nova Scotia is documented by Mark Vonnegut in Eden Express. The rest of the story is told in a book Mark wrote 40 years later. His dad came to Nova Scotia to rescue him. It worked. Mark went on to become a well-respected man about town and family physician.
And then we’ve got the greats. Hemingway. Hunter S. Thompson. Musicians. Elliot Smith, Chris Cornell, Kevin Gilbert. Artists… I don’t need to go on, you get the idea. Creative people are often using their creativity to vent the bad gas in their minds. I know that my writing has saved my life many times over. Writing, or journaling, has also clarified my mind in many ways. Writing gives structure and language to your experience of the human condition.
We’re all sad. We mourn ghosts, old lovers, pets, moments, and even things that never happened. My mom used to say, “I’m ready for Him to take me now.” It became loud after my sister jumped. For a while, in her major depression, she tossed around for a reason to live. She found it in her old Presbyterian church, in helping the shut-ins with love, food, and lively conversation. After my brother died in her living room, her laments became more frequent and consistent. My mom was a true believer in the redeeming quality of Christ. She was ready for Him to bring her home.
Somewhere in her mind, the mind of a young girl who’d lost her mother, she would be rejoined with her mom, her daughter, and her son. Heaven was a place of joy. Her life had become a place of sorrow. Was it time to give her the morphine button to press repeatedly until she blacked out? No. Many in her family, me included, had more love to give and receive from our mom.
I don’t count bullets like my son did. I don’t own a gun, though there are now three pistols and two AR rifles in my house. And so many bullets. Mags full of wicked-looking gold-tipped death magnets. I feel no pull toward the weapons. No warmth or joy for me. My son had developed the obsession. It nurtured his OCD fidget-spinner nature. He loved to polish his weapons. Load and unload the mags. We would constantly ask, “What were you doing the entire night if you didn’t sleep?”
I have so much more to give. Love for my son and daughter are the top motivator for my tenacity.
“The best years are ahead of us,” I kept saying to my son. Even as he continued to nod in and out of my life, as he needed money, or shelter, or something else, encouragement, optimism, hope.
I am the harbinger of hope. Like my mom taught me. Turning exes into plusses. I will never give up on my kids. I will never quit seeking my son.
YouTube: Suicide Is Painless – MASH Tribute
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