On failure, love, and suicide

Before I start writing a post about suicide at midnight I will first tell you that I have never felt suicidal. And with that disclaimer hopefully putting everyone at ease (at least as much at ease as you can be while thinking about suicide) here are some of the things I've read and thought about lately on the topic.

A couple months ago the CDC released a report about how the suicide rate in the US rose 2.4% and is now the highest it's been in more than 25 years. I read that this means that about every 12 minutes someone in the US ends their own life.

Something I read recently: 

from historian and poet Jennifer Michael Hecht, author of Stay: A History of Suicide and the Philosophies Against It, recently published by Yale University Press:

‘When I was getting my PHD in history at Columbia I knew two other poets in the English department.  One of them took her life in 2007, and the other one wrote the posthumous afterword to her book, saying how shocked and upset she was by this. Then, about a year and a half later, she did it too,’ Hecht says.

‘This was profoundly upsetting for me ... in the book, I mention that I was going through some dark times too. When I feel dark, my brain offers suicide as a solution, and even when I’m not feeling terrible that thought comes to mind. I’ve now talked to so many people that I think that more than half of people have that suggestion come to their mind.’

Amid the rhetoric about personal choice, Hecht says it’s important to remember the impact suicide has on not just close family and friends, but even more casual acquaintances. She says that by staying alive despite suicidal feelings, many people are performing a community service.

‘Crying and useless, sitting at the end of your bed is way better than death. It’s a million times better than death. If you feel like a burden, you need to know that your suicide would be a much bigger burden.’

In families where there’s been a suicide, it takes two generations for the rate of suicide to go down.

‘That means that if you want your unborn niece to make it through her dark night of the soul, you have to make it through yours,’ says Hecht.

‘There has to be at least some voice of gratitude in the culture, and I don’t mind starting—thank you, if you’re staying alive for other people, you’re my hero. I know how hard it is, and I am grateful.’

While Hecht says efforts to remove stigmatisation from suicide are laudable, she argues that they can also minimise the reality that suicide is an act.

No Hemlock Rock (Don’t Kill Yourself)

By Jennifer Michael Hecht

Don't kill yourself. Don't kill yourself.

Don't. Eat a donut, be a blown nut.

That is, if you're going to kill yourself,

stand on a street corner rhyming

seizure with Indonesia, and wreck it with

racket. Allow medical terms.

Rave and fail. Be an absurd living ghost,

if necessary, but don't kill yourself.

Let your friends know that something has

passed, or be glad they've guessed.

But don't kill yourself. If you stay, but are

bat crazy you will batter their hearts

in blooming scores of anguish; but kill

yourself, and hundreds of other people die.

Poison yourself, it poisons the well;

shoot yourself, it cracks the bio-dome.

I will give badges to everyone who's figured

this out about suicide, and hence

refused it. I am grateful. Stay. Thank

you for staying. Please stay. You

are my hero for staying. I know

about it, and am grateful you stay.

Eat a donut. Rhyme opus with lotus.

Rope is bogus, psychosis. Stay.

Hocus Pocus. Hocus Pocus.

Dare not to kill yourself. I won't either.

****

from: http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/saturdayextra/5963960

Reading that woman's thoughts reminded me of a song I heard recently and of something I read in M. Scott Peck's, The Road Less Traveled: 

“Life is complex. Each one of us must make his own path through life. There are no self-help manuals, no formulas, no easy answers. The right road for one is the wrong road for another…The journey of life is not brightly lit, and it has no road signs. It is a rocky path through the wilderness.” 

"On Your Porch"

I was on your porch, the smoke sank into my skin.
So I came inside to be with you.
And we talked all night,
about everything we could imagine.

'Cause come the morning I'll be gone
and as our eyes start to close
I turn to you and I let you know that I Love You

Well my dad was sick,
and my mom she cared for him.
Her love it nursed him back to life.
And me, I ran. I couldn't even look at him
for fear I'd have to say goodbye.

And as I start to leave
he grabs me by the shoulder and he tells me:
"Whats left to lose? You've done enough.
And if you fail well then you fail but not to us.
'Cause these last three years, I know they've been hard.
But now its time to get out of the desert and into the sun;
even if its alone."

So now here I sit, in a hotel off of Sunset;
my thoughts bounce off of Sam's guitar.
And that's the way its been,
ever since we were kids but now,
now we've got Something to prove.
And I, I can see their eyes,
but tell me something, can they see mine?

'Cause whats left to lose?
I've done enough.
And if I fail well then I fail but i gave it a shot.
And these last three years, I know they've been hard.
But now its time to get out of the desert and into the sun;
even if its alone.

Even if it's alone

I was on your porch last night, the smoke it sank into my skin.

****

Those words from the father to his child, "Well if you fail well then you fail but not to us", that is just exactly what I am hoping to instill in my children's hearts, and in my own in the process. This truth that life is complex and that it is not possible to ever fail completely just as it is not possible to ever love completely. The truth that thinking in black and white about love and failure is dangerous because both are only colored in shades of gray for everyone, always.

Which sounds kind of non-offensive when spoken of in generalities, but turns out to often be super sucky when faced day in and day out in a thousand different ways. When my kids figure this out I will tell them that I think Friedrich Nietzsche was on to something when he said,

"We have art in order not to die of the truth."

But in the meantime I will just keep doing things like telling them how much their homemade gifts and crayon drawings mean to me, taking them out in nature whenever I can, and keep saying yes when they ask me to turn up the music and dance with them. 

Turns out 'Cause what's left to lose?' is actually a pretty inspiring sentiment.

My favorite kids' gift

Ver woke up a hundred times last night with a croupy cough and I just couldn't do it, I couldn't get us all to church, so I've spent the day slowly unpacking the van from Christmas and trying to do it without chaos reigning. It really is unbelievable to me how much work it is to pack for traveling with three children and then unpacking might just be worse. Add Christmas gear/gifts to the equation and yes, it's4:42 PM and I'm still working on it. A dear friend gave this completely awesome "After Christmas" six hours of stories audio book to Sophia as a gift and she and I listened to this story from it while I sorted laundry and toys and she laid on her bed and watched it make me cry.

"On the eleventh day of Christmas, the children learn that Andy has to return to Connecticut.  This means King’s Night Barn Dance – planned for Twelftnight - is no longer going to include music and dancing.  Brother and sister are deeply disappointed – disappointed that the King’s night event won’t be what they expected and disappointed that Andy won’t be there.  They don’t like feeling disappointed and sad, but Momma encourages them to honor their feelings.

From “Twelve Tales of a Tullyport Christmas”:  “The Feast of the Eleven Sails”   Long ago, an incredible thing happened on the eleventh day of Christmas in Tullyport.  Eleven enormous ships appeared off the coast, set off-course by a large winter storm.  The families of Tullyport gathered torches and lanterns, and lined the coast, guiding the lost ships to safety.   But when the ships set sail from England, there were twelve.  Where is the twelfth?  Could its captain have guided it to Boston despite the storm?  This experience inspired a yearly Christmas feast, to celebrate both the great joys of the year, as well as the hardships."

The Reason for the Season

On the drive to my parent's house yesterday we stopped at a gas station for a potty break and the girls talked me into buying a bag of Twizzlers. When the lady in front of us finished paying the cashier gave a a cheerful, "Merry Christmas!" instead of the usual we're-done-with-our-transaction "Have a good day". The lady gave an enthusiastic Merry Christmas back and then followed it with, "And Jesus is the reason for the season! RIGHT???" The cashier looked away and got busy with something but the lady said it over again with even more emphasis and need for validation while we all averted our eyes and fidgeted. It made me think of something that resonated with me a few days ago:

"As a Christian I am uncomfortable with trite phrases like Jesus is the Reason for The Season, and its derivatives, popular within Evangelical Christian culture (the branch of the family tree I identify most strongly with).

Family is my reason for the Christmas season. It's why I cook and gift and want it to snow. And it's why we give to others in our community or around the world, so they can be supported in loving relationship with their families.

Having said that, the Christian call and tradition to remember the birth of Christ at this particular time of year (I don't actually care how accurate the date is) provides a reflective season, a sacred space in our 21st century lives, to tell the ancient story of our faith, again, to our children."
- http://fimby.tougas.net/shes-makin-list-checkin-it-twice-and-talkin-religion#comments

It makes sense to me that Jesus would probably actually be pretty uncomfortable with people insisting that he was the reason for the season. Like he'd be like, "No, no, it's not about me, it's about US."

:(

Is it wrong to want to stop reading the news? Not that I even read the news, but this is what the "trending" sidebar of my FB reads right now:

TRENDING


Robert P. McCulloch: St. Louis prosecutor says he believes some witnesses lied to Ferguson grand jury


Cairns: Mother arrested after 8 children found stabbed to death in Australian home, police say


Upstate New York: Missing 5-year-old boy found dead; teen cousin charged with murder, police say
See More

I just want to bury my head for awhile. But I feel a tremendous amount of guilt when I say that. I mean, those people are LIVING that pain and I'm like, "Ummmm...sorry, I don't even want to HEAR it."

Song for Dead Children

I didn't let myself read anything about the massacre at the children's school in Pakistan today until an hour ago, because, well...because I had crap to do. And that truism that one mother's loss is every mother's loss is real to me, and so I didn't want to know anything yet. But after I finally got the last child asleep I read. One thing I read was this poem:

Song for Dead Children

We set great wreaths of brightness on the graves of the passionate
who required tribute of hot July flowers—
for you, O brittle-hearted, we bring offering
remembering how your wrists were thin and your delicate bones
not yet braced for conquering.

The sharp cries of ghost-boys are keen above the meadows,
and little girls continue graceful and wondering.
Flickering evening on the lakes recalls those young
heirs whose developing years have sunk to earth,
their strength not tested, their praise unsung.

Weave grasses for their childhood—who will never see
love or disaster or take sides against decay
balancing the choices of maturity.
Silent and coffined in silence while we pass
loud in defiance of death, the helpless lie.

Muriel Rukeyser

And I cried, and cried. And then I got in the shower and cried some more. Because, this is real. This is the world I can't escape and can't save my children from. A world where mothers who would have died to protect their babies don't even get the chance. They are just left to bury their hearts in the ground and walk home with empty arms. Arms that once held their warm child's laughing face.

I also read Anne Lammot's post today where she wrote:

"...he said that 80% of life was just showing up, and it's the truest thing I know."

and

"So yes, I have hope. It is not based on circumstances. It's based on paying attention."

and

"Emily Dickinson said that hope causes the Good to reveal itself."

I'm about to turn this computer off and go lay down next to the baby I'm raising in this world of pain, and those are really the only things I have to offer her when we wake up together tomorrow. I will show up, and I will offer her hope in the form of paying attention. Hope in the form of feeding her when she's hungry, reading her stories when she asks, and putting her to bed when she's tired. And I'm going to hang Emily Dickenson's words on my fridge to remind me to tell her the reason that I do all those things for her, and the reason that I cry with those who've lost someone who was their Good.  

To love life

"To love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it and everything you’ve held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands, your throat filled with the silt of it. When grief sits with you, its tropical heat thickening the air, heavy as water more fit for gills than lungs; when grief weights you like your own flesh only more of it, an obesity of grief, you think, How can a body withstand this? Then you hold life like a face between your palms, a plain face, no charming smile, no violet eyes, and you say, yes, I will take you I will love you, again." 

- Ellen Bass

"We're all angry"

This was so good I read it twice.

http://www.salon.com/2014/12/03/anne_lamott_look_at_the_tea_party_some_of_the_angriest_most_hateful_people_on_earth_and_they%E2%80%99re_backed_by_what_they_think_is_scripture/?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=socialflow


"...To forgive someone is the hardest work we do. I’ve had to be disciplined about it. I always say I’m so disciplined in my writing because very strict discipline is the only way I’ve found any freedom as an artist. Like meditation or in my spiritual journey, or exercise – hiking … you never want to do any hard work – you just want to watch MSNBC and eat miniature Kit-Kats. Believe me, that’s what I’d prefer to do. Or maybe try to catch up with old issues of the New Yorker.

But in my work, I hold an imaginary pop gun to my head, and I sit down and my butt stays in the chair no matter what.

Not forgiving makes you toxic. And then you really have very little to offer your family or the world or your audience, because you’re faking it.

...All wisdom traditions have at their root three basic ideas: To take care of the poor, to cultivate a sense of presence or union with a power much greater than ourselves, and to soften the heart. In the fullness of those traditions – as opposed to the fundamentalist version of those traditions – you don’t hit back. For me as a Christian, the two main things are you’re supposed to “let go and let God,” and you’re supposed to turn the other cheek. Those two things are like my two worst realms. People are always saying, “Let go and let God …” and I just want to stab them. People say, “We just need to forgive and forget.” As if they had.

...The other night I did a big event, and someone asked what I hope people there left with. And I said, I hope people realize that we’re infinitely more similar, more alike, than we are different — that we’re all angry, no matter how sweet or Buddhist or Christian or tender-hearted we appear. We’re all angry. And we’ve got to deal with it at some point. And dealing with the grief and the anger and the lack of forgiveness is the way home.

A tradition of that is something I’ve been able to pass on to my son. He’s grown up with a mother who’s willing to be contrite, to get to the bottom of things – and to see that sometime it’s me who I’ve been mad at. The tradition of letting your children watch you ask for forgiveness is beautiful."