61. Suicide-Eric




• It was one of those Midwest winters. The kind that never seems to end. I went for a walk around our little retention lake in the field next to our house. I had a gun in my back pocket.
  
  The field was pure white, thick, white blankets that suffocated everything. It looked too white to be as ugly as it did, or maybe its brightness prooved to be the only redeeming quality it had and it was simply screaming to be expressed. But it didn't scream at me. Neither did the half-slush lake. Nothing screamed. Nothing was quiet. I would have been bothered by that, except bothered is an emotion.
  
  A little black bird flew down out of a tree and landed at my feet. It was trying to peck in the frozen ground. Silly bird. Or maybe we're all silly.
  
  I was praying to God that someone would come up and shoot me in the back of the head. There's a common misperception about suicide, in my opinion. People say it's the grand finale of all cop outs. It the hugest pity party a gas stove can get you. But once they have that hand gun pressed against their head or in their mouth, the stakes become real. Too high for most people. It takes nerves of steel to pull that trigger. It's perhaps the most cowardly yet brave thing you could ever do. It's a permanent vacation without a forwarding address. No receptionist. No letters.
  
  Again, those are emotions. At that point someone could have shot me in the back of the head or I could have won a million-dollar lottery, and neither one would have moved me. But if I put that gun against my head I knew it would wake me up. It would take me out of the depths of Apathy.
  
  Maybe that's why people attempt suicide. Maybe they'll stand on that ten-story balcony, just to make sure they still want to live. Maybe the attempt on life itself, or at least the curious gesture towards attempting it is what we need to appreciate it. Sometimes you have to go to the South Pole to remember you live in the tropics.
  
  I pressed the gun against my head.
  
  Click
  
  Everything stopped. I didn't put any bullets in it. Silly bird, silly me.
  
  But after that silent click the hair stood up on the back of my head. My head was numb. A warmth flooded my toes and traveled up my leg. Heroin couldn't be that good, I thought.
  
  And after that something screamed at me. It might have been that suffocating, white snow. Or maybe it was God. Who knows? What I do know is that friendship, that feeling of being connected is worth staying alive for.
  
  If I had loaded the gun, I wouldn't be telling myself to piss off; I would have been telling all of my friends and family. I would be saying, "You're not important enough to stay connected to."
  
  It's a slap in the face, telling someone they're not worth staying alive for. And the sad truth is, maybe most people aren't worth it. But if you can find those few people, that you can feel a genuine bond with, that you can help, that you can work with, then you have a reason. When you get involved with others, you move with them through life like an organic beast. You're not alone.
  
  I think the definition of despair is standing out in that field not caring if you win the lottery or get shot. It's the pure absence of feeling distilled by nothingness. Despair is when you make yourself turn invisible, and fade out of the world. It's hate. Checking out is hate, and not the kind of hate I want to live with. I don't have to stare death in the face anymore to appreciate life. I just have to open my eyes and answer that door, because my friends are knocking.