Trust me, I do not make light of death. Having lived through it; suicide isn’t big or clever. It isn’t painless either, despite what you hear. It hurt like hell and I am sure it’ll leave a scar. My story is not unique, which is the painful take away from all of this. But it did happen to me, which Is why I have some liberty in talking about it. I can speak from a platform of familiarity, which Is odd because before it happened, I didn’t think I was an expert on anything. Nor would I probably have wanted to talk about anything to anyone. But a lot changes once you’re dead.
I suppose you will want to know the ins and outs of it all, the gory details and how this is even finding its way to you now. Fear not, all shall be revealed in time. For now, it is best that you know my name and that I never really wanted to kill myself. My name is Rupert, and no that was not the reason why. I didn’t feel I had a choice at the end, but I guess they all say that. Rupert, aged 29; gone too soon? Or maybe not soon enough, depending on who you spoke to.
So please do not feel I am taking any of this in jest, for my situation was indeed troubling; and for many, suicide is no laughing matter. But on the other side, it means something quite different; for which I will endeavour to explain. It is also very cold here.
I can’t say I enjoyed the ride; life was pretty up and down mostly; and it left me feeling sick. Striving for some consistent source of happiness reduced me to cosmic tears. Who doesn’t feel that way sometimes, right? It’s a bitch growing up.
I guess everyone else had a better handle on it than I did, but I gotta say; I did try. I stuck it out as long as I could, even falling on dependencies to get me through the tougher times. Life was the reason I drunk and was medicated. Actually, it was more than just life, people too. People were the reason I took to chalky relief over self-determination. People, or ones specific. What wouldn’t a tale be without a lost love, or tragic turn of events. And it is true, I loved and lost. I loved painfully too much; the danger when you put your heart in the hands of another, they never treasure it as the gold it is.
Can that be the same for me also? Probably. I think I dropped there’s a few or more times. But then I did pick it up and dust off the dirt and the bits of cereal that had stuck to it.
If you’re looking for a reason why I killed myself, there are too many to count really. It reached the point where the reasons to go outweighed the reasons to stay. Pretty sad, but that was it. As in life, there never really is one reason that forces a change, but usually a collection of them. Though the heart has its reasons, the mind makes the excuses.
So, what’s it like, I hear no one ask. Is it heaven, hell or somewhere in between? Well, I can confirm that I made it to heaven, no one was surprised more than me. Mostly because I’ve been an agnostic for a while now. Obviously, that was before, but I suppose it would parallel my detachment of faith to the fall into depression. That is not to say faith or religion are the remedy or the answer, most likely they might even be the cause of such woeful pits of despair. But I suppose I could never really say I believed, because I never had any proof.
Well, that’s all out the golden window now. It’s not a cloud filled euphoric Eden, but I have it on good authority that I landed in the better place. Unless it’s all a cruel joke and illusion…No no, that would be my mind up to its old tricks again. Those tapes in my head always push play on their own, causing such ruin.
The funny thing is, as nice as heaven can be there is a part of me that is still restless. It’s like when I used to go into a restaurant when I was back with the living. I would always enjoy the bread basket the most, picking over the different rolls and types of bread, chewing unforgivingly on the bread sticks till the main course arrived which had by then lost its appeal. I would’ve been more than content to feast on the baked bowl of dough than the meal. Once when in France, I was taken to a bread festival of sorts. All manner of loafs and rolls, ciabattas and baguettes lay before me. Yet even in the sea of doughy paradise, I couldn’t help yearning for a fresh salad or slice of fruit.
I guess some people are never satisfied. But still, it is nice here.
You don’t hear it as much anymore, aside from the nut jobs who go and protest funerals or abortion centres. I heard it much more when I was younger, thrown into the mix whenever religion came up. And in those days, it was far more ferocious. Western organised religion that is, filtered through money and self-serving ideologies. Damnation was uttered in regards to lots of things, anything that stepped over the line of tolerable. Suicide, as I was told, led to eternal damnation where your soul is lost forever; and you’d burn in hell. No hope, and don’t expect to be buried with the rest. As if I’d want to.
But who says!
I can attest my soul is very much with me. It’s a bit of a bother sometimes I must confess, doing the right thing. We’re all on our best behaviour you see over here. Having been let into the great cosmic secret, it’s not toeing the line, it’s just the way things are. You’ll see, I won’t ruin it for you. Anyway, my soul is very much with me and there is no eternal damnation, at least not that I’m aware.
There was ‘The Talk’ when I got here though, which was more like going to the doctors then a reprimand from your parents. But it was fine. In life, we’re always made to feel guilty about topping ourselves, even labelled selfish. I think there are even laws against killing yourself, though they seem quite counter productive if you ask me. Maybe it’s one of those laws made up in the medieval era that no longer holds any judicial weight, like thou should not feed turnips to pregnant cats on Mondays or something.
But then I didn’t know there wasn’t consequences either before I did it. Killing myself, not giving turnips to cats. I mean, there very well could’ve been, but again; I’d never had any proof either way. I took a chance; you never really know how things will turn out. Nothing in life is guaranteed I suppose. Except knowing that once you stub your toe on something, you will do so at least three more times that day.
I look through from time to time to see what is happening in the world. Through, not down. We’re not up in the clouds, playing tennis with Shakespeare on fluffy drifts or anything like that. Through the veils, they are what blocks the two places. If you knew how easy it would be to reach across….but I’m not allowed to talk of that. Anyway, when I look through, I can see what goes on after my passing. I was silently saddened. That is not to say that I wasn’t missed, indeed I know I still am. Routing around people’s hearts and minds is something I quite enjoy doing, and I see the golden leaves of sincerity in their memories and loss for me. This of course are those who knew and loved me, not randoms in the street. It’s funny how simple it all is after, recognising what love really is. The best way to describe it is the golden leaf on a grey and green tree of someone’s life. The golden ones, or the one’s with stronger colours, are the more sincere and honest of emotions.
It’s surprising how ragged and bare some trees are.
But I was saddened that the legacy I left was that of what it was. Of course, being swallowed by the waves of depression, angst and disillusionment didn’t help. Not so easy to go and carve a legacy when you can barely get up out of bed. But that is the ironic twist to it all, if I had done that, I probably would still be there. Life, who really has the answers to it all? …. Well, actually I do. One of the annoying little jokes you get let in on once you pass over. I’m trying to start a petition here for God to let people know BEFORE they die, so that they can do something about it while they can. But I’m sure he’ll laugh and shake his head in great amusement like he usually does. The hugs afterwards are always the best though. I say he, but God is really a she if anything, did you really doubt that? I guess I’m just used to the pronoun. Ingrained in me.
I think if I could do it all over again, knowing what I know now, I would try and leave a better legacy of myself behind. Be of service, help more people out. Shake away from my inverted egotism. I read once about how, in ancient Egypt, important your name is once you have died. The longer you are known, the more chances are that you have a role in the afterlife. I know some people think one life is enough, who want’s more right? But it is true in a way, if you are spoken about and talked about, it’s likely because you are missed or did the most good. And in a way, you live on.
Except for Hitler, that logic doesn’t apply to him.
So, how did I do it? I know you’re itching to find out. Suicide is like the reverse of a car accident, we all gawp and rubber neck as we go past them, but never really want to know how it happened. As if it might perhaps befall our own little transporting lives that ferry back and forth. But suicide….how was that done, what was the method? We salivate in the knowing, and of the not knowing of the soul.
If America has taught us nothing, which is quite an arguable case, it is that choice is both a blessing and a sin. There are many many ways in which to snuff out that little candle in one’s self, but no-one wants it to hurt right? I’m not going to advocate any specific ways, or even discuss which methods are deemed scientifically less painful (and yes there is indeed a chart for this). The manner in which I chose was not of the dramatic, and not really of the greatest importance. I didn’t want to cause too much of a bother and didn’t want anyone I knew to discover me. If I could have parceled myself up and dispatched myself off to the morgue with a little note, to save the trouble, I would’ve. But no, I sequestered myself off into a little cabin in the woods and threw together a concoction of pills and powders. I felt like quite the apothecary. Ones to corrode, ones to numb, and especially ones to sleep. The saddest aspect was that it was not a cry for help, it was the real deal…and if I was never found, then that would’ve cheered me.
But you know how it is in these sorts of tales, there’s always a dog walker. Whenever a body is found it is always a dog walker who discovers the corpse. Ramblers and dog lovers beware of thy love for nature, for the murky side of the natural balance is but a stones throw away on that bridle path. In my case it was a lovely lady called Sharon, who’s dog ‘Biscuit’, nudged its chocolate-coloured nose through the back door of the cabin. No doubt lured by my expensive aftershave and cologne of rotting flesh. Actually, it wasn’t that rotten as it had only been a few days. Good thing really, I don’t think Sharon had the stomach for seeing a body in such a degraded state. I looked like I was asleep really. I know this because I lingered there a few days to see what would happen. It was a bit boring waiting I must say.
So there you have it. But please do not be fooled, despite the folk-esq beatnik calls of the 70’s; suicide isn’t painless, it hurt like hell (I got a papercut from the pill leaflet, those buggers hurt the worst).