People crap around a lot about “Oh, that suicide attempt wasn’t for real—it was just a cry for help.” I am a frickin’ expert on the subject of suicide so let me tell you something: suicide is the ultimate act of self-control. Men mostly choose guns and—KABOOM!!!—the single act is instantly final.
Women take pills. Don’t know why exactly, but it’s just the way it is. So a woman, with all this strong self-control, takes a bunch of pills and then what happens is the pills, over a period of maybe fifteen minutes, erode all the systems and brain-parts that are committed to self-control.
It’s a lot like getting drunk: you definitely ARE NOT going to have sex with the guy you met at the party—until, of course, you’ve had a couple cocktails or a bunch of beers and then your self-control goes out the window, along with your panties and so on and so forth. So that’s how come women don’t die.
The pills that were meant to kill them actually become the substance that causes them to lose the self-control that is necessary to achieve self-death, and what is left? What is left is this staggeringly strong will to live. Deep down in your soul there is this tremendous desire to keep going. It’s not anything rational. It’s not a choice.
It’s just a will—a WILL to live. And once you knock out your ability to control yourself then your will to live surfaces, takes over, and calls 9-1-1. And some freakin’ moron says, “Oh, it was just a cry for help.” Well, yeah, but aren’t a lot of us making a lot of calls for help? And how many of those calls get missed or ignored through varying kinds of blindness or selfishness?
So many of us make so many cries for help. Have you ever seen a T-shirt that has some message asking you to be kind because the wearer has some kind of disability? I got to thinking that what it comes down to is we all should be wearing T-shirts that say “Human being: Handle with care.” We are all so freaking sensitive and/or wounded.
We all need to be handled with care; it’s the human condition. So what’s the difference between hospice and suicide? One is active and the other is passive. Suicide—you’ve got a gun. Hospice—you’ve got cancer. Or AIDS or diabetes or some kind of crap that sooner or later is going to kill you. The question is, how much sooner and how much later?
And how much are you going to fight? At what point do you decide that you haven’t got enough fight left to make the battle useful? When do you get tired of fighting? When do you say, okay, I quit? And once you say you’ve quit, how good are you at sticking with it?
Stevie the Wonder POA likes to tell the story of last summer when he was Power of Attorney for two people: one was a man with a cancerous tumor growing in his chest. He’s in the ICU and this thing is crushing his lungs, his heart, every damn thing. And he’s yelling “Save me! Save me! Bring it on: CPR, life-support, IVs, tube feeding—the whole ball of wax.”
And then there’s me, living at home, getting around town in an electric chair, saying “I quit. I’m done. No CPR, life-support, IVs, tube feeding—nothing.” What’s up with that? We are all uniquely individual. We each have our own assets and liabilities and, more importantly, our own value systems. We each choose how to let it all end. We don’t choose when. That is in the hands of God or, if you prefer, fate.
Stevie and I had a major conversation last week. I believe that we each chose the circumstances of our life before we were born. This arises out of a psychic who was asked by a man why his wife had multiple sclerosis. The psychic’s answer was that in a previous life the wife was the father of a child with a degenerative disease.
He took care of her all his life but he never understood what that life was like for his daughter so he reincarnated as a person with a degenerative disease. He wanted to understand what his daughter went through. The reason I liked that story was because I liked the idea that I’d chosen my life. I bit off more than I could chew, but that’s like me. Bring it on—I’ll deal with it.
Steve believes not only that we chose our life, but also that we—AND OUR PARENTS—choose each other. How about them apples, bubba? Imagine your mom and dad. Imagine talking to them and negotiating the circumstances of your birth. (The really important question is WHY, but Steve and I didn’t have time to get into that.)
“Okay, if you’re going to be my mom then you have to let me die in the first two years of my life. I’ve just got this one thing I need to take care of and then I’ll be ready to move on.”
“Sure, fine, I can do that but I’m planning to marry a man who wants a lot of children so you’ll have to talk to him and see what he says.”
I don’t know—you could get into a lot of pretty weird scenarios.