Suicide is Painless

Before I even begin, let me start by saying that this post will probably not be a popular one. It deals with a sensitive subject and my not-so-sensitive opinion about it, so be forewarned.

Secondly, I had an epiphany this morning that is totally unrelated, but I believe that the BS skills I learned in my HS English classes will come in handy and allow me to somehow weave it into this post. Have faith.

On Thursday, I was informed that our little theatre community had lost yet another talented individual to death. The unofficial news spread just as quickly that his death was a suicide. The sad thing... no one I spoke to about it seemed at all surprised. "He was troubled," they say. "He was dealing with demons," people explain. And the ultimate caveat... "Tortured artist."

In May of 2008, a writer friend of mine committed suicide after losing his job at a flailing local newspaper and running into problems stemming from a repeated DUI offense. I heard the same explanations at the time. "He was a self-imposed perfectionist suffering from his inner demons." "He was troubled." ..."Tortured writer."

I never met my maternal grandfather. He was a 'troubled man' who was 'dealing with inner demons' and so he 'chose to end his life' when my mother and her sister were still just kids. He was a decorated war hero, a pilot in the Air Force, that had flown several high-profile missions against nazi targets in southern Europe. A painted portrait of him hung in our house and it used to creep me out as a kid. He left a suicide note in a Sun Pontiac envelope and his legacy (in my life) is no more than a collection of amazing photos from his days flying a B-24 Liberator. His name wasn't often mentioned in our house.

I have countless friends whose lives have been altered and devastated by suicide... and the events of the past week have had me humming the theme song to MASH in that tragically ironic way as I contemplate the ways in which suicide is in no way painless.

In the case of the friend who passed two years ago this month, he left an entire theatre and journalism community stunned and confused. This was no emo fellah sporting a 'woe is me' attitude and guyliner. He was just an average American Joe with problems.

In the case of the fellow artist who passed this week, he leaves behind a devastated mother (who has just lost her 28-year-old son) and a myriad associates and co-artists who have at some point been either infuriated or inspired by him. He was young. So young. And he had problems.

My grandfather... may have committed suicide to save himself the trouble of facing consequences for poor decisions during and after his military career. It's possible someone else may have done the job for him had he not made the swift decision himself. He was an emotionally unstable veteran with problems.

I'm angry with them. And it's not fair. I want to be able to mourn them properly and grieve and celebrate their presence and influence in my life, but I'm prevented by the anger and confusion that I feel.

Suicide is cowardly. It is selfish.

I will admit that on more than one occasion, I've fantasized about falling asleep to never wake up. I've had those 'to be or not to be' moments with myself when I felt like my responsibilities and obstacles were insurmountable. But I was just incapable of being that selfish. And don't get me wrong... I'm selfish. I'm one of the most selfish people I know. But I can't turn off that part of me that considers the pain and anguish of those I'd leave behind.

Maybe I'm just a narcissist and place too much importance on my role in other people's lives, but I can't reconcile being the cause of someone's pain. Especially someone I care about.

Furthermore, the whole concept of suicide (to me) means that you've figured it all out for yourself. There's nothing left to learn, nothing remarkable worth experiencing. I know people that have lived very full lives at 100 that indicate they are still learning new things every day.

We all have problems and we all have issues. And though we compare and quantify who 'has it better' or who 'has it worse' than we do, the truth of the matter is that the human condition is more similar than we acknowledge. Your worst day and my worst day might not have anything more in common except for the fact that they were our 'worst days' and we felt the same depth of extreme emotion... sadness, fear, anxiety, despair. Your best day and my best day can still be factored down to the lowest common denominator of euphoria, joy, victory.

The complex emotions we feel and our ability to express them creatively is what makes us human - much more so than our ability to use tools and develop intricate civilizations. (In my opinion.) Our art... our expression... is so vital to our existence. Though not always pleasant.

And speaking of art... My epiphany this morning was not an anticipated one.
I accidentally clicked on a photo of one of those 3-D art things. You know... the picture that looks nothing more like a bunch of colored dots all over the page. You're supposed to stare at it until you 'see' the picture take shape right in front of your disbelieving eyes.
Well, until this morning, I was starting to believe that they were all a bunch of hogwash. I'd never ever ever been successful and I've made a downright fool of myself in local malls trying.

Until this morning.

I started thinking about art and what it says and whether or not a bunch of dots on a page could be considered art... when I found myself staring into space (aka my monitor) and an honest-to-goodness horse appeared. With a broken picket fence behind it. Holy crap!

And to think that I had almost completely given up on ever understanding or appreciating that kind of art. You see, new things to learn and experience every day. Even on accident.

And so it is with mixed feelings that I write this... knowing that another voice has been silenced. One that was tortured by the dark side of this emotional existence, but will no longer express it through any medium save for the art he leaves behind.

It makes me angry.
It makes me sad.
It makes me grateful that I am made of 'sterner stuff'.
So far... nothing has been unbearable.
And so I count my blessings and hope that they have each found peace on the other side.














Noah Todd as Osric

SWShakespeare's Hamlet (Photo: Laura Durant)





Chris Page
Writer, Critic, Musician, General Funny-Man
















Col. Earl Osborne
Husband, father, commander