You see, the lightning refuses to strike me - that is where the defect is. We have to do our own striking. But nobody ever gets the courage till he goes crazy.
– Mark Twaine.
Lots of people talk about how cowardly suicide is, but really, it takes a certain bravery. I wasn’t that brave. I wanted to die, and I tried to, but I never had the strength to cut deep enough, to swallow enough pills, to jump. I tried walking out into the sea, but at the point my lungs felt like they might explode, my body took over, wrestled the reins from my mind, and reached for the surface.
People also say it’s selfish, taking your own life. But how can we value life if we don’t have the right to choose not to live? To choose how and when we leave... Yes, it is selfish, but only because the pain is so great that it’s impossible to see the impact on others. Anyway, sometimes we have to be selfish, don’t we?
This is were hatred comes from, too many people thinking about themselves and not letting others go, making them live a life they don't want to live anymore. Or maybe, the suicidal people are the selfish ones, only thinking about themselves and trying to escape to a better place.
- Ida Mehrnoush
My friend’s little brother killed himself last week. His death was both dramatic and romantic; the thunder rolling as he walked out into the lake from the mouth of the river he’d played beside from infancy.
After the initial reaction, which was “how can this have happened, he was just a kid,” my next thoughts were about how he did it. Did he use a weight to hold him under the water, or did he somehow have the strength to just float face down, and not turn up for air? How long did it take? Did it hurt? Am I being morbid, thinking this?
My next thought was, “maybe if I’d stayed in touch, maybe I would have realised what he was thinking, maybe I could have talked to him...” But then, I blame myself for almost everything, from the corn seedlings dying to the war on Iraq. Really, it’s all my fault. I should have done more.
In my mind, Sunny is still a little kid, with a wide smile and beautiful eyes. I haven’t known him as a teenager. He was a legend to his mates - when they brought his body home yesterday, the whole long driveway was lined with solemn young men.
Sky (his sister) and I were talking about how he saw 25 as the beginning of the slide to old age and decrepitude, so he never wanted to live that long. He never planned to have a long life. He commanded attention, and he always got what he wanted, even in death.
It’s actually lovely to be back in Rotorua, although it’s a sad time, it’s good to be together with old friends and family, people who have been a part of my life for as long as I remember. I just wish it didn’t take a tragedy to bring us all together in one place.
The house was filled with people, coming and going. There was a marquee outside, and a couple of boys carting another fridge into the garage to accommodate all the food people had brought. Sunny was in his room, his fishing rods hanging on the wall above him, music playing quietly in the background On a dark desert highway / Cool wind in my hair / Warm smell of colitas / Rising up through the air / Up ahead in the distance / I saw a shimmering light / My head grew heavy, and my sight grew dim / I had to stop for the night ...
For a boy who owned guns (he was a hunter all his life) he could have chosen a more violent death. I’m glad he didn’t. I can’t help feeling that it must have been beautiful, the lightning, the dark waters. I think, as I sat with Sunny in his room, I was crying not only because he was in the coffin. Part of me was crying because I wasn’t there instead.
Sunny J
February 1988 – February 2004
He came into the world on the wings of a storm, blew through our lives like a whirlwind, and left as the thunder rolled. God speed, our storm boy.