When somebody commits suicide, those amongst the living begin to recount their own lives. One tries to recall dark memories in their own lives of being incapable of connection, of feeling the whole weight of the world tearing at their chest. A rose growing among weeds. They try to imagine emotionally isolating moments in life that can only be solved by poisonous pills or by activating the simple mechanics of a gun.
After somebody commits suicide “the living” begin debating. Why didn’t they ask for help? How could they do something so selfish? “The living” do anything they can to reassure themselves that they had nothing to do with the suiciders’ abrupt end. No amount of emotional pain felt by the living can ever amount to the constant anguish that the suicider must have dealt with every day. I don’t believe suicide is selfish. I think that the living have to say that suicide is selfish because they are too scared, or unable to commit to something that is so permanent, like death. They view the life of the suicider through the prism of their own brain chemistry and cannot comprehend “why somebody would do such a thing”.
I can sympathize with the suicider. In some weird way I think that I actually envy her. I spend days upon days wondering if she discovered something about this world that I will never stumble upon. I begin to believe that she somehow peeked behind the curtain and the overwhelming reality of what she observed somehow tormented her to an end. I wonder if she found some kind of edge on humanity, a horrifying symbol or some type of beautiful literary device hidden between all of our monotonous daily motions. I feel jealous right now, like somebody who will never understand the literary allusions of a Joyce novel. I feel like I will never witness a sunset, even though I have perfect vision.
We miss you Alicia Mize. RIP
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