Suicide taboo
narration
During Junior High I had many absolutely dire problems that were constantly on my mind. My out-of-date wardrobe continuously embarrassed me. My hair would not acquiesce to any attempted hairstyle. My parents didn't understand me, my teachers were all picking on me, and nobody really liked me for me. These beliefs were all false, of course. At the time, it never occurred to me that all my concerns and volatile emotions were "normal". I never considered that while I was going through the transition from elementary school to high school, from kid to teen, that I was creating my own world-view and that I was emotionally vulnerable to every imagined slight. There was one event, though, that made me aware of the fragile structure of my self-esteem and how much I craved the acceptance of my peers. One of my friends committed suicide.
His name was Kenny. I have long since forgotten his last name. The only class we had together was P.E. I was in the advanced classes and he wasn't. I got wonderful grades and he didn't. In fact, we didn't have much in common at all. Still, we had great fun playing tag together with some of our other friends before P.E. started and sometimes we had lunch together. He thought it was great that I was a "brain" and I thought it was cool to hang out with a "tough guy". I guess we both got a little bit of social status from our relationship.
It took about one week, but the news finally reached me and my friends that Kenny had killed himself over Easter break. I was surprised. Just before Easter break, Kenny had told me that his parents were sending him to Arizona to live with his aunt and cousins in hopes of "straightening him up". He said he was looking forward to having two big brothers and a little sister. He promised to write and I wished him the best of luck. Over the next few days I found out that Kenny didn't have an aunt or cousins in Arizona. In fact, he didn't have any aunts at all. I realized that my friend had, as much as he was able, told me goodbye.
The next week came the counselors. They came to every class Kenny had been in. They stood in front of the class with sad expressions frozen on their faces and told us that if we were "feeling down" that we should talk to our parents. I idly wondered if the counselors knew that Kenny's mom often told him that if he wasn't around, costing her money, she could buy a new car. They told us with fake sincerity that we could talk to them if we felt we couldn't talk to our parents. I disgustedly retorted in my mind that no kid would ever go to a school counselor because every student knew the counselors would just tell the parents. The counselors told us that if we were having problems with our schoolwork (Kenny had been failing a couple of classes) that we should talk to our teachers and they would help us. I wanted to scream at them then. Didn't they know, didn't they even care that Kenny had gotten an A- on a test once? He had studied really hard, hoping to please his parents, but when he took the test home to show his dad, his father has slapped him and said "You think you're smart? We don't have no use for any smart ass kids here!" I sat silently at my desk and seethed.
Then they told us that we should feel sorry for Kenny and that suicide was wrong. I was 13 - only 13 - and I believed them. And because I believed them I knew I was a bad person. I was glad for Kenny that he was dead. I wondered what kind of karmic punishment was planned for me because I was happy for him. I felt utterly miserable and completely alone for the rest of the day.
The following day as my friends and I ate lunch, we tried to talk and joke like normal. Ted was doing his best to fill up every possible silent space with words. We all tried to ignore him because it was Kenny this and Kenny that. Finally, Ted burst out with "I think he's better off where he is!" His next words were choked off and his eyes opened wide as we all stared at him in amazement. I'm sure Ted was certain that we were going to ostracize him forever. Someone whispered, "I think that, too." The next moments were filled with the whoosh of expelled breaths and the clamor of everyone trying to admit, at the same time, that they felt the same way.
In relief, we all shared our fear about being discovered for bad and perverted for having such thoughts. We spoke of our feelings that Kenny's action shouldn't be considered wrong and that none of the teachers/counselors/parents truly understood his situation. And, finally, we all agreed that we couldn't share this shameful secret with anyone. We couldn't even share it with our classmates lest it get back to a teacher and then a parent and we would get in trouble. The bell rang for afternoon classes. For fifteen minutes we had shared our feelings. For fifteen minutes we had comforted each other. Fifteen minutes - and we never spoke of Kenny again.
Fifteen minutes wasn't enough for me. I wanted to talk to someone. I wanted to talk about Kenny, about my feelings and I couldn't because I "knew," just as my friends "knew," that to say anything would only cause me endless hassles. Kenny was on my mind for the rest of the school year. And beyond.
As I look back, I realize that I probably could have talked to my parents without getting in trouble. But then? Then, I was certain that I would end up in a psychologist's office and my parents would never leave me alone at home or let me go out by myself. I often wonder what would have happened if suicide hadn't been so socially taboo, if it had been simply viewed as a choice.
I'm certain now that I wasn't the only one who wanted desperately to talk to someone and not the only one who felt doing so was impossible. I wanted to talk with someone, to have a conversation. I did not want sit and listen to someone tell me what I should feel, or tell me that my feelings were wrong. Had suicide been seen as a choice, I probably would have told my parent about my feelings. I was so close to it anyway. Had I told my parents, I am certain that my friends and I would have received appropriate grief counseling. I am certain the weeks of internal agonizing over our "wrong" feeling would have been reduced or even eliminated.
I don't advocate the elimination of crisis intervention and I'm not saying suicide should be encouraged. But sending the message that this action is "wrong" only causes extended grief, confusion, and isolation in the age group with the highest suicide rates.
Should suicide be accepted by society as a choice - even a sad one - I feel the rate would drop. Why? Because I've been there. When I was in high school, I came very close to taking my life. I did want to talk to someone, but the last people on my list, who in fact were not even on my list, were those I knew would be solidly on only one side of the issue, those with only one answer. I wanted someone with an open mind.
I found that someone in a classmate. I didn't know her well, but I had overheard her comment in the hallway one day: "I think suicide is OK if that's what they want". She and her companions had been discussing her cousin who had killed himself the year before. It seems she was the only one in her family that had taken the view that his action was an acceptable choice. I took a risk and asked her if we could talk. She agreed. We talked. We talked about Yes and we talked about No. Before we parted, she said she liked me no matter what I decided and would support my decision to my schoolmates if necessary. I'm still here because of her, because she accepted me and my thoughts on suicide with no judgments, because of her belief that suicide was OK.
I wonder if Kenny would still be here.