I’ve long promised that I would eventually post here on the issue of suicide, and this seems to be the moment, as much as I dread doing so: it is a difficult challenge, one that must be approached with great care and compassion.
What impelled me to do so at this time is the death of Robin Williams, and my feelings with regards to a post about Williams’ suicide by Matt Walsh – another screed of his that I once again (almost) agree with.
Walsh emphasizes in his recent post – “Robin Williams didn’t die from a disease, he died from his choice” – that suicide is a choice, and there is always an alternative, you can choose life. I [almost] agree – he is right, to some extent.
In his post, Walsh discusses at length how painful suicide is, in so many ways, for those we leave behind: whether we realize it or not. As he and I both know all too well, there are always those who love you dearly, and who will always be haunted and who will always carry a deep, hidden hurt from the suicide of someone they love. He calls suicide a “selfish choice” and again – he is right, to some extent.
Frankly, there are far more survivors than you can possibly suspect of their own suicide attempt(s) or the suicide of someone close to them. I am certain that there are many people you know who carry this hidden pain, and who will move heaven and earth to keep another from experiencing what they’ve gone through – which means they will do everything they can to help you, once they know that you see your own death as the only way out of the deep pain and darkness that you feel you cannot escape.
But, Walsh is also wrong – suicide seems like a choice to those looking on from outside, but for those mired in making that choice, it is not a choice: it is an escape when one becomes convinced there are no other choices. It is a disease that deludes one into thinking that the only way out is to choose oblivion. It leads you to believe that no one else cares, or that no one else can help you.