Lunar Roses

The title is an allusion to a song by Tori Amos, but it does seem like something is in the air. Those spring-time suicidal urges are making themselves known. Not me, thankyouverymuch, but an astoundingly high number of acquaintances and even strangers-we-come-across have mentioned, or elaborated on, suicidal ideation in the past week or two.

Sometimes I say something directly to people about it. Mostly I don’t. I don’t have a lot of wiggle room here.

One of the Roses (the one in charge) first tried to kill us all when we were fourteen or fifteen, desperately unhappy and feeling trapped in a way shown very well in the movie “Dead Poet’s Society.” From my safe distance of many light-years, I can assure us all it was a pretty sad attempt. There was no internet to research painless or effective ways to make the body stop. That first stab was stereotypically childish and naive. We were sick for a couple of days. No one even knew we’d done it.

It was not the last time. Gods no. I never personally perpetrated the violence du jour, but for several years I deliberately baited Rome and verbally shot down any hopefulness or sudden movements toward life she might make, knowing quite well she’d slide down and down again. [Or do I remember it that way to think I had some kind of control?] Life seemed hard and hopeless and pointless, and I was tired, but could console myself that if there was a suicide, it wasn’t my choice. See how clean my hands are?

The fact that we’re still alive puts us in a category many people view with great contempt. Almost everyone, it seems. It was Rosemarie who was interested in continuing to live, all of us continuing to live, and she payed a high price for taking action to perpetuate our survival.

I’m aware this may change, all too quickly, but at this moment I can say quite sincerely that I am glad we are still alive. Our life, my life, is not Disneyland. I get frustrated; I get tired. Our emotional states can be extreme. We have to struggle to reach ludicrously (embarrassingly) minimal goals, and function with any autonomy or mastery. Lately we’ve been having a lot of discussions about whether we really deserve to be alive. What’s our contribution? Ironically it’s Rosemarie who agonizes most over this question.

So my footing to advise other people about suicide is not solid. Philosophically and practically, I have a problem with forcing, shaming, and even arguing strongly to convince people in general to stay alive. I’m glad I don’t have to make those kinds of decisions, because faced with a despairing, suicidal adult human being, I can’t say “You have to stay alive.” That is not my call, and I don’t think it should be anyone’s call but yours, or mine.

Would I be here if people hadn’t forced us to stay alive? No. Hypocritical much?

What I always, always want to say is this: Please don’t kill yourself. Please don’t. Please don’t remove yourself from this world, because we need you. We need people who feel things deeply. We need the wounded; we need the scarred survivors’ strength. We need those voices to speak if things are to improve - or even just not get worse for the vulnerable ones who can’t be heard, and there are always and will always be more vulnerable ones.

Please don’t kill yourself. Try something else, and if you can’t think of what else to try, then wait. Hold on. Whatever it is that has you pinned will change. Everything changes. Everything ends. If I have come to a point where I am glad to be living, even if it’s transient, you may too. I would have told you with great certainty it could never happen. I would have generated a list of reasons it could never happen. And I’d have been wrong.

Life is hard. It’s hard for everyone, I think. It’s a lot of other things, too. We’re all going to die soon. While we’re alive, while you’re alive, live.

I never say this. Sometimes, occasionally, an abbreviated version. It’s complicated. Who am I to say these things? Who am I to bid anyone endure great pain for the hopefully future good of the human race or a single member of it? A passing stranger who hears you and wishes you well, and has no power whatsoever to do anything for you, but wish.

LEATHER look I’m standing naked before you don’t you want more than my sex I can scream as loud as your last one but I can’t claim innocence oh god could it be the weather oh god why am I here if love isn’t forever and it’s NOT THE WEATHER hand me my leather I could just pretend that you love me the night would lose all sense of fear but why do I need you to love me when you can’t hold what I hold dear I almost ran over an angel he had a nice big fat cigar “IN A SENSE” he said “you’re alone here so if you jump you best jump far” … Tori Amos