Suicide. A word that has now been equated with other words like ‘incest’ or ‘bestiality’, words that carry a particularly unpleasant stench where morality nose it all.
Not many a man would admit to having have contemplated or entertained the idea of ‘self homicide’. More people would probably admit to having had sexual desires or intentions towards close relatives or household pets.
Sylvia Plath, a famous 20th century poet wrote about her incomprehensibly intimate relationship with suicide. How that relationship had grown with her from adolescence to her 30-odd years of living. The growth in complexity and the development of her maturing reasoning behind her 4 or five attempted suicides in her life and how she wished so much she would, one day, succeed. In some of her poetry she expressed her sadness upon realization that yet another attempt had failed and the hate she felt towards those people who, she felt, were responsible for her ‘coming back’ like the doctors, the paramedics, those people who prayed for her survival and such.
Eric Miyeni in his book, “O’Mandingo: The Only Black at a Dinner Party”, writes of how, in apartheid South Africa, there were just so many reasons for a black man to commit suicide – well, more reasons to than in Mr Mbeki’s South Africa, at least. Yet he speaks of his contemplations and dissatisfied curiosity on suicide; the euphoria he’d feel when he thought about it, the “warm glow” all over his body. He would be encountering these feelings and thoughts at good times in his life, when everything is going well. Maybe on his way to a book launch, sitting in a plane seat and looking out the window. But for some like Plath, though, suicide came as a result of clinical depression. One of my favourite authors - K Sello Duiker - killed himself during a time when he was just about to become a household name and his career was on an upward spiral.
Not many a man would admit to having have contemplated or entertained the idea of ‘self homicide’. More people would probably admit to having had sexual desires or intentions towards close relatives or household pets.
Sylvia Plath, a famous 20th century poet wrote about her incomprehensibly intimate relationship with suicide. How that relationship had grown with her from adolescence to her 30-odd years of living. The growth in complexity and the development of her maturing reasoning behind her 4 or five attempted suicides in her life and how she wished so much she would, one day, succeed. In some of her poetry she expressed her sadness upon realization that yet another attempt had failed and the hate she felt towards those people who, she felt, were responsible for her ‘coming back’ like the doctors, the paramedics, those people who prayed for her survival and such.
Eric Miyeni in his book, “O’Mandingo: The Only Black at a Dinner Party”, writes of how, in apartheid South Africa, there were just so many reasons for a black man to commit suicide – well, more reasons to than in Mr Mbeki’s South Africa, at least. Yet he speaks of his contemplations and dissatisfied curiosity on suicide; the euphoria he’d feel when he thought about it, the “warm glow” all over his body. He would be encountering these feelings and thoughts at good times in his life, when everything is going well. Maybe on his way to a book launch, sitting in a plane seat and looking out the window. But for some like Plath, though, suicide came as a result of clinical depression. One of my favourite authors - K Sello Duiker - killed himself during a time when he was just about to become a household name and his career was on an upward spiral.
I will not be going to into the intricacies of clinical depression, polar disorders and anxiety right now but suffice it to say that I know enough about it.
I used to wonder, when I still interpreted Bible school teachings literally, if God could create such unholy people well aware that they would one day commit murder on themselves. Would he create someone and then lead his life to hell? We were all taught that a person who takes his own life goes straight to hell, with no trial. All major religions see suicide as something weak people do and deserving of punishment.
Maybe one would have to make his peace with God first. Maybe he’d have to be a firm believer in reincarnation. Perhaps only atheists could kill themselves with a clear conscience, so to speak.
I suppose the real question who’s fat I should chew is this: Am I in that minority that has had the gall to entertain such vile and abominable thoughts?
The answer is yes. Many times, in fact. Even though I must point out that I still adhere to the principles of Stoicism when I can – but these two elements of my personality are totally unrelated.
I’ve sometimes wondered what it would be like to be dead. What a bullet entering the cranium feels like. What would go through my mind whilst my body accelerates towards the earth from the 54th storey of a building. Is the transition from life to death a sensual experience; is it painful; is it aphrodisia?
Whatever the answer might be, it doesn’t do much to quell my curiosity.
There are a couple of things that stop me from going all the way.
Firstly, I have an insatiable desire to leave an immortal legacy on this planet. So maybe I’d have to wait until that’s been accomplished. When I know that the next ten generations of scholars, wannabe intellectuals and academics will be reading about Mjambaism as a school of metaphysical thought in textbooks, or knowing my descendants are attending school in a building named after me.
Secondly, I believe that living and dying can be interpreted by a mathematical equation: 1 + (-1) = 0, where 1 = living and -1 = dying. Add 1 here and its 1 less elsewhere. 1 there is 1 less here. So what I’m trying to say is that I believe that from the very moment a person is born, he starts dying. So, in fact, we’re all dying right now. Of course some are dying at a slower pace than others. I don’t feel I will accomplish anything by taking a shortcut toward the inevitable.
The very same idealism that Shakespeare’s Brutus represented and eventually betrayed in Julius Caesar is also residing in my psyche; the best kind of sufferer is the silent one. Grit your teeth and bear the pain is the way towards enlightenment. There is no louder statement of the experience of intolerable suffering than suicide. The Japanese call it Seppuku or Harakiri - from when one of the samurai had suffered some sort of shame and dishonor, he would disembowel himself as a method of preserving that honour, subtle references to Brutus's reasons. So culturally, suicide has an honourable but somehow dramatic appeal to it. That's maybe why it is so common amongst those of the creative fraternities: it's so expressive.
I used to wonder, when I still interpreted Bible school teachings literally, if God could create such unholy people well aware that they would one day commit murder on themselves. Would he create someone and then lead his life to hell? We were all taught that a person who takes his own life goes straight to hell, with no trial. All major religions see suicide as something weak people do and deserving of punishment.
Maybe one would have to make his peace with God first. Maybe he’d have to be a firm believer in reincarnation. Perhaps only atheists could kill themselves with a clear conscience, so to speak.
I suppose the real question who’s fat I should chew is this: Am I in that minority that has had the gall to entertain such vile and abominable thoughts?
The answer is yes. Many times, in fact. Even though I must point out that I still adhere to the principles of Stoicism when I can – but these two elements of my personality are totally unrelated.
I’ve sometimes wondered what it would be like to be dead. What a bullet entering the cranium feels like. What would go through my mind whilst my body accelerates towards the earth from the 54th storey of a building. Is the transition from life to death a sensual experience; is it painful; is it aphrodisia?
Whatever the answer might be, it doesn’t do much to quell my curiosity.
There are a couple of things that stop me from going all the way.
Firstly, I have an insatiable desire to leave an immortal legacy on this planet. So maybe I’d have to wait until that’s been accomplished. When I know that the next ten generations of scholars, wannabe intellectuals and academics will be reading about Mjambaism as a school of metaphysical thought in textbooks, or knowing my descendants are attending school in a building named after me.
Secondly, I believe that living and dying can be interpreted by a mathematical equation: 1 + (-1) = 0, where 1 = living and -1 = dying. Add 1 here and its 1 less elsewhere. 1 there is 1 less here. So what I’m trying to say is that I believe that from the very moment a person is born, he starts dying. So, in fact, we’re all dying right now. Of course some are dying at a slower pace than others. I don’t feel I will accomplish anything by taking a shortcut toward the inevitable.
The very same idealism that Shakespeare’s Brutus represented and eventually betrayed in Julius Caesar is also residing in my psyche; the best kind of sufferer is the silent one. Grit your teeth and bear the pain is the way towards enlightenment. There is no louder statement of the experience of intolerable suffering than suicide. The Japanese call it Seppuku or Harakiri - from when one of the samurai had suffered some sort of shame and dishonor, he would disembowel himself as a method of preserving that honour, subtle references to Brutus's reasons. So culturally, suicide has an honourable but somehow dramatic appeal to it. That's maybe why it is so common amongst those of the creative fraternities: it's so expressive.
Well, I guess some of us are being chased by demons or by the past. I don't judge the suicidal. I'm pretty certain there's always a good enough reason to take one's own life but I just don't understand why a person would take a shortcut to the inevitable. It just reeks of cowardice.
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