If you’re not on Twitter, or in Vancouver, or a child of the 80s who follows its remaining pop culture, then it might be a shock to you that Andrew Koenig, the actor who played Boner on Growing Pains, was found in Stanley Park today. He came to Vancouver to kill himself, after living a long time with depression, going off of his medication a year ago, and giving away all of his important possessions at home in LA.
Now, with all due respect to his friends here in Vancouver, and his family and loved ones, who I’m sure are feeling the worst pain they’ve felt in a long time, I’m going to say something that I’m sure 99% of you will disagree with, and the 1% that doesn’t, will probably stay silent about…
I don’t have a problem with suicide.
Yes, it’s a selfish act, usually not fully necessary, and always hurtful toward the people who a depressed (or sick) person is loved by, but it’s a human right.
I also, since I’m going out on a limb here (bye, remaining two readers), don’t have a problem with pre-arranged, full-faculties-based euthanasia.
Here’s the thing about suicide.
When people are really in the thick of it, when they’ve planned and fantasized and all they can think of to find peace is ending it, that’s what they have. It doesn’t matter that there’s a mom and a dad, they’re in constant pain. It doesn’t matter that people tell them they’re loved, because they’re unlovable. That doesn’t get erased because they choose to pick up the phone and call a 1-800 number, or a crisis line – not if it’s a serious, in-your-guts-cancer of the soul.
I appreciate that people come back from being suicidal and after unsuccessful attempts. That’s valiant and the effort it takes is something we should all be proud of, and our loved ones (and we) should celebrate every. single. day. they’re blessed with our presence (and the ability to tread above ground), because it could have not been.
That’s not what I’m addressing. I’m not thinking in terms of gray – I’m speaking of the people who have, for a large portion of their existence, so that it’s become all they know and there is no way to unknow it, terminal depression. I’m talking about the people who genuinely wish they’d never been born, who can only associate their life with hurting others, who see no possible respite, whatsoever from the darkness.
We all have a right to govern how we treat our own bodies. I have no right to tell you that the McDonalds, Jack Daniels, sunshine and an SUV is a form of slow suicide and that you should seek out help, immediately. But I can encourage you to find new ways of coping, yeah.
When someone commits suicide, there’s always this cloud of shame over it. This, ‘aw, that’s too bad. Best thoughts for their family and loved ones‘ that cloaks the simple message that I think we all neglect to note in such a situation: this person is no longer in pain.
When a friend’s grandfather passes away of cancer, what do you say to them? I’m sorry for your loss. Do you need to talk? And eventually, when it’s not insensitive, He’s not in any pain, anymore.
Psychological pain can be the worst kind of sensation a human has to deal with – trust me, if you don’t know it, already. There is no ‘not alone’ when you’re in the dark, in your own head; there’s no opiates that can dull it all forever (without being an accidental form of suicide); you can’t wake up one morning and decide that you’ll change, say the right things at the therapist’s and take the right pills and poof!
Deep psychological pain – the kind that drives a person to the really, serious, planning, no-going-back, happy-once-the-decision’s-made suicides – takes forever to work through. And when living with it has been all of the effort someone could muster for the last six months, year, decade, or lifetime, then fine, I hereby grant them the right to say, “fuck off. I don’t want to try anymore.”
I know how insensitive this post is. I know how too soon. I know there are tons of people who will never ever ever in a million years agree with me. And that’s fine. That’s your opinion. But here’s mine, in a nutshell: his friends and family are heartbroken, but he’s not anymore. His friends and family were heartbroken, while watching him feel broken all of the time, and now that’s over with. He didn’t hurt anyone intentionally, even if his actions did, ultimately, and from what I can surmise, he was very private (and respectful) about his method. What I’m saying is, ‘That’s awful,’ about his depression, not his solution to it.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that none of my four attempts were successful, and I’m 99.98% sure that I will never make another attempt at suicide because I’m confident that it would ruin my daughter and that must never ever ever happen. Oh, and I’m happy and not suicidal. But. And this is a huge but.
If I get cancer, or another terminal disease, I reserve the right to party for as long as I can, and celebrate my life, and then end it on my own terms.
That was my father’s plan, originally – but he was so in the thick of denial about his impending death, he didn’t have the chance to do much more than refill prescriptions before he was in a hospice. Four days later, he was in a coma. Three after that, he died, in an incredible amount of pain, with fear and feeling humiliated. There wasn’t anything I, or anyone, could really do at the hospice to ease that pain for him, except for the one statement I could push out to the nurse after he told me that he was scared, “Put him out. Max his ativan and opioids. Bring him as close to it as you legally can, so he doesn’t have to go through anything, anymore.” And they did. And I was thankful on his behalf.
Cancer. It’s an ugly word that people associate with hair loss and chemo, radiation and pink ribbons. It kills, it causes people to rally, it’s like every other person you know has been touched by it. What’s cancer, besides a fucking asshole? It’s cells that grow abnormally. Fast, where they’re not supposed to, virulently. They take over.
What’s clinical depression? It’s a neurons that fire abnormally. Too fast, not enough, sinisterly. A product of nature or nurture or both, neurotransmitters spread like wildfire or forget themselves and rarely come out to play. It’s like every person you know has been touched by it.
I know it’s not the same, and that I might have offended a whole other group by drawing a parallel between the big C and the still-often-whispered little d – but to me, the similarity is clear and strong. No one wants cancer, and it eats you from the inside out, unless you can stop it; no one wants to be depressed, and it eats you from the inside, so there is no out anymore, unless you can stop it.
Sometimes, suicide is the only way to stop it.
