LITMIR.BIZ

2 Stepping Back from the Edge

Mark, the founder who had set out to change this world, had committed suicide. As an investor in his company, I was still grieving, trying to process this, going for long solo walks and having conversations with Mark's spirit. Part of me was sad. Part of me was guilty. Part of me was angry. And it did not make it any easier when another investor sent out an lawyer like email, demanding a special shareholder meeting, seeking an inspection of the books and the status of the cash. Investors, fiduciaries, and all that jazz – yup, we have duties and responsibilities. To the company. But what about our duties to the spirit and the soul? When I sat down with Mark's family member, I fumbled for words. I did not know what to say, where to begin. They did not know me. And probably wondered why I had shown up; I, who was a part of the problem. Are you here to represent those cold-hearted shareholders?, they may have wondered. Where was I when Mark was struggling? Had I failed in my role as a human being, one who could not bond with another?

      Later that night, I read Meggie Royer's poem, “The Morning After I Killed Myself,” in which she narrates the regrets of a suicide and how she tries to unkill herself. She writes about the orange tree and the red cloud – the sun rising, setting. She writes about eggs and toast and cheese. About love for her mother. I wished that Mark had read this poem too. Because if he had read it, maybe, just maybe, he might have changed his mind.

       The Morning After I Killed Myself, I Woke Up

       -by Meggie Royer

       The morning after I killed myself, I woke up. I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

       The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

       The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

       The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors' yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

       The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

       The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

       The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn't finish what I started.

LOOKING FOR CLARITY

The last thing a suicidal person wants is to be reminded that their final act will cause more damage. Caught between the jaws of their own unmanageable pain, hopelessness, and fear, writes author Al Alvarez in his book The Savage God – A Study of Suicide,

       Suicide is, after all, the result of a choice. However impulsive the action and confused the motives, at the moment when a man finally decides to take his own life he achieves a certain temporary clarity. Suicide may be a declaration of bankruptcy which passes judgment on a life as one long history of failure. But it is a decision which, by its very finality, is not wholly a failure. There is, I believe, a whole class of suicides who take their own lives not in order to die but to escape confusion, to clear their heads. They deliberately use suicide to create an unencumbered reality for themselves or to break through the patterns of obsession and necessity which they have unwittingly imposed on their lives.

Part of me feels like there is nothing we could have done to prevent a suicide. This was destined to happen. Part of me screams that hell yes, we could have reached out to him. Sometimes, it's just one conversation. With a poet, a philosopher, or a friend.

      Source: Twitter, Inc.

      This Might Be Just a Passing Phase, One of My Bad Days

Most depression episodes last for less than 10 months (see Figure 2.1). For those who have been dragged down to the depths of depression, each day is a drudgery, and 10 months may seem like eternity. But when we put things in context of our entire life, 10 months is a short phase. A tough phase, for sure. But it doesn't spell the end of it all.

Figure 2-1 Most depression episodes drop after ~10 months.¹

       I Go Down to the Shore

      

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