Oh Gasp! There’s that S-word again!
In our last episode, someone who shall be called Nosey Parker opted to shame me because I had dared mention that the death of a very dear friend might have been suicide.
My friend’s death has been rending for many people, for many reasons. Nosey proclaimed that I had no evidence to include suicide in my speculations. Actually, I had enough to support the possibility. I left that and other things (like a name) out of my blog from a sense of decency my critic appears not to possess.
My entry was an expression of grief and, unfortunately, I’m a writer. At such moments, I must put words down in some medium or other.
For a good education, I suggest Googling suicide in all its forms, especially the question of why people are so horribly afraid of it. You won’t come away with much except a deadening sense of denial.
My resolution of the moment is to say as little as possible about the chronic illness that I live with. After a while, such things are a bore, and one finds that one has said all there is to say on the subject. Still I have now to get one thing straight: that I know a damn sight more about suicide than any self-righteous goody two-shoes.
Like the illness, the prospect of suicide is my daily companion. When things are going well (as they are at this moment), it’s as far in the background as I can shove it. When I have my sickness on, suicide is right out there. No amount of piety, platitude or sermonising can change that. Around one person in six with this disorder takes their own life. They do not act from any of the lightweight reasons you’ll find when you Google the topic. They do it as a reasonable response to a disease that can inflict more pain than the human body was meant to endure, without actually killing it. I have not been to that level more than a few times, so I am only reporting. Such an illness swiftly erases affectations like "fear of death."
Don’t presume, don’t dare, to lecture me about suicide.
(I am grateful that Nosey Parker provided me with a perfectly worthless place to direct my second stage of grief. )
My friend’s death has been rending for many people, for many reasons. Nosey proclaimed that I had no evidence to include suicide in my speculations. Actually, I had enough to support the possibility. I left that and other things (like a name) out of my blog from a sense of decency my critic appears not to possess.
My entry was an expression of grief and, unfortunately, I’m a writer. At such moments, I must put words down in some medium or other.
For a good education, I suggest Googling suicide in all its forms, especially the question of why people are so horribly afraid of it. You won’t come away with much except a deadening sense of denial.
My resolution of the moment is to say as little as possible about the chronic illness that I live with. After a while, such things are a bore, and one finds that one has said all there is to say on the subject. Still I have now to get one thing straight: that I know a damn sight more about suicide than any self-righteous goody two-shoes.
Like the illness, the prospect of suicide is my daily companion. When things are going well (as they are at this moment), it’s as far in the background as I can shove it. When I have my sickness on, suicide is right out there. No amount of piety, platitude or sermonising can change that. Around one person in six with this disorder takes their own life. They do not act from any of the lightweight reasons you’ll find when you Google the topic. They do it as a reasonable response to a disease that can inflict more pain than the human body was meant to endure, without actually killing it. I have not been to that level more than a few times, so I am only reporting. Such an illness swiftly erases affectations like "fear of death."
Don’t presume, don’t dare, to lecture me about suicide.
(I am grateful that Nosey Parker provided me with a perfectly worthless place to direct my second stage of grief. )
posted by Uncle | 00:18
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home