I’ve been wanting to make a post for a long time, but I never knew what to write about. Long-distance relationships, feminism, maybe a DOMA repeal celebration, but the words never came.
Two events happened this week that led me to what I’m about to write about today.
1) I was at the mall with my 10 year old little cousin. We were looking at movies on my iPhone and passed by the movie Bully, about a kid that gets harassed constantly. She looks to me and says, “That’s so stupid. A person shouldn’t kill himself just because he gets bullied, that’s so selfish. Didn’t he realize that he can just ignore them?” I tried, with great difficulty, to contain myself. I told her not to talk about subjects she’s not yet old enough to understand, and bought her ice cream so she wouldn’t speak.
2) Today I watched episode 1 of Six Feet Under with my friend. *SPOILER ALERT* In it, the elder brother of the family complains about how stupid formal funerals are, and about how fake they are. He ranted about how stupid it is that it’s improper to cry in public, and about how it’s not healthy and it’s all a charade.
I’ve written several posts about my friend B before. For those that don’t know, B was one of my best friends that killed himself Valentine’s Day of this year, because he was bullied for being gay by his peers and family.
Not a single day goes by that I don’t think about him. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss him. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could call him and hear about his day, or tell him about mine, or ask him to come over and hang out and just sit next to me. I want to hear him breathing, and laughing, and talking, and singing. Not a day goes by that I don’t shed a tear for him.
His picture is hanging in my room. His face is the background on my phone. A piece of him is in every song I listen to and every dance I learn (being the musical and creative person he was).
Suicide is a horrible concept. It can be thought of as selfish, I can understand why. A person is in pain, and takes themselves away from the world and all their friends and loved ones to escape the pain. I hear it all the time. “Suicide is selfish.”
Every time I hear that phrase, I think, “Who the fuck are you to say that?” [Trigger warning: opinion] As someone who has dreamed of committing suicide since she was 7 years old, as someone who has tried to commit suicide, and as someone who knows someone that has committed suicide, I can say that it is selfish to call people that kill themselves selfish. In my experience, only a person who has wanted to end their life can understand my point of view.
B was in pain. He was tortured everyday by peers and family. He was taken out of school, away from the few people he trusted in the world, to be home-schooled by his super religious and super abusive family. Every waking moment was a living hell. Who wouldn’t want to escape?
After my beautiful friend ended his life, that was the line I heard a lot going around. “How selfish.” And I wanted to punch all of them in the face. How the fuck would you handle the situation? Would you have been strong enough to go through what he did? When you see a dying animal on the street after it gets hit by a car, people think, “Put the poor thing out of its misery.” That’s what B did. He took himself out of hell, and in my opinion, he’s in a better place.
I have one friend that is in a similar situation to B’s. (If you read this, pardon me for mentioning you.) He’s strong. He looks to the future. B always wanted to meet you, and I wish with all my heart that it happened, and I always think that if you had met maybe some of your strength could have rubbed off on him? But that’s wishful thinking, and too little too late at that. In my English class we read The Stranger and learned that there are different kinds of people in this world. There are those strong enough to cope, because they have faith in a better tomorrow. B was not one of those people. He believed that the only way to end his suffering was to end it all. He did not think the future had wonderful things in store for him. Not everyone has enough strength for today and tomorrow.
B belonged to a baptist family. From what I understand, instead of Wakes like in the Catholic religion, they have what are called “Celebrations of Life.” From what I was told, you are not allowed to cry. Death should be celebrated, because the soul is joining Jesus and Mary and God and who the fuck ever in heaven. It was the most painful 3 hours of my life. Watching people walk up one by one talking about how close they were with B and how great he was and how he’s with Our Lord and Savior and he’s so close to God now whoop-de-fucking-doo. It was a celebration, tears were not allowed. I thought I was going to die. So much pressure and tension in my chest. There were pictures and videos of him everywhere, all these stories about how wonderful he was. It was a fucking nightmare; like my own personal Holocaust museum or something. All I wanted to do was scream and hit stuff and fuck shit up and cry and let it all out, but I wasn’t allowed to. It was 3 hours of sitting in silence while my emotions were slowly setting my heart and soul on fire.
At my funeral, I don’t want anyone holding anything back. I don’t want anyone that didn’t know me there. I want everyone to bawl and scream and cry and break shit. I want them to let everything out, and I’ll be watching from wherever the fuck I am nodding and saying, “Hey, I miss you too babe, just let it all out.”
4 months and 13 days. That’s how long my B has been six feet under. It feels like it’s been years though. They say the wounds heal, but they never do. Not really. They scar, or scab over, but the slightest brush makes them fresh again. 4 months and 13 days and I’m still sitting here crying. I’m still sitting here sobbing and cursing and wishing for him to come back.
Maybe one day I’ll be able to talk about suicide openly. Maybe one day I’ll be able to think about him and feel no pain. Maybe one day the scars will begin to heal.
But that day is not today.