On Monday Night
(The contents of this post may be triggering for some readers - discussion of suicide. Please take care of yourselves!)
On Monday night I witnessed a man try to take his own life,
and it was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. Now I’m grieving for a nameless,
faceless man that is still alive, and I am feeling a bit helpless.
I am not going preach ‘mental health’ because I hope we're
already making strides towards a world with little ‘stigma’ left to ‘break.’ Bearing in mind that comes from a place of enormous privilege, I’ve got a lot of intense feelings I’m not very good at talking about, so I
wanted to try and write them down to get a bit of clarity. I have no idea where
this will end up, I am enjoying some ‘automatic writing (typing)' so please
bear with!
I've lost two friends to suicide over the past few years,
and I don’t think my brain has ever let me compute the ‘how’ of their passings.
It's like I’ve built a barrier against all these unanswered questions to crack
on with the acceptance bit of grief. But the blue lights on Monday night lit up
the black hole ‘how’ I’ve avoided for years, that is the echo and empty left in
their wake. And now I sit and wonder how I could make a stranger’s attempt all
about me and my own connection to loss. It’s so selfish. I hate myself for
thinking it, like I hate myself for thinking that the jump might not have been
high enough, or that we prolonged someone’s suffering when they made it clear
they don’t want to be here anymore.
I’ve always struggled to seek comfort in faith, but when I
got home, I knelt like Nanna taught me and prayed to a God that may or may not
exist, thanking Him for saving someone’s life in “His mysterious way” yet
grappling with the thought that if He really was up there, and had decided not
to save this man’s life, He would consign his soul to the fiery depths of hell
for committing the gravest sin of all – all this in desperate pursuit of my own
peace and selfish solace, crying for a man whose face I’ve never seen and whose
name I’ll never know.
I haven’t prayed – like properly ‘Our Father’d’ – like that
in years. I abandoned it when I remembered I believe in people more than I
believe in God. That was something else the blue lights lit up on Monday: in the talking and listening I found a spirit of community that I want to carry with me for the rest of my life; an
air of validation and care that I want to continue to honour, where simply
being a person is enough of a reason not to let someone die. I don’t want pious
teachings about kindness from the Gospel of John, or my peers on Instagram, or some
celebrity who has based their entire personal brand on 'be kind'. I want to
feel the warmth of genuine empathy. I want to see people committed to fostering
a world where no one feels so burdened they see no way out. I want to be part
of a society where compassion and understanding are the pillars of everyday
interaction. Humans are mint. It’s just a pity we only seem to see that in
moments of utter tragedy.
So, be kind, obviously. Kindness is nice; those pillars of
everyday interaction are nothing without it. But I think little reminders
to "always be kind" fall short. I want
our actions to speak for us: to be loud against the indifference that allows
isolation to persist; to be brave and confront the barriers against genuine
understanding; to listen to those who go unseen and
unheard, and shout in solidarity. Because I think the strength of community lies not only in the
kindness we show but in our boldness to strive for better, for best, for a world where no one feels
forgotten, isolated, or alone.
To my friends, I am so sorry we couldn’t help you. I am so
sorry you felt like you couldn’t let us try. I will love you forever.
To the man on Monday night, I am so sorry you don’t want to be here. I will spend the rest of my life thinking about you. I hope you find peace.
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