Shortly after graduating high school I moved out of my parents place and got an apartment with a friend of mine. The place was small but seemed to fit us fine. We were quite the duo. We’d spend our weeks working and then light the town up on the weekends. We had a lot of fun.

Few months passed and he went through a rough patch. His lady had broke up with him and he didn’t take it well. I wasn’t opposed to the break up truthfully. She never liked me. Called me “trouble”. But when I came home that day and found him in his room with a bottle of “Everclear” and a .45 on his lap I wasn’t quite sure what to do.

Asked him what he was doing and his answer involved broken statements of her name in between sobs. I honestly couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I remember being in shock. It didn’t seem real. Never encountered something like this before. I wasn’t sure how to help him. Tried to tell him she wasn’t worth it. Told him to think of his son.

Nothing I said mattered. I became angry. Told him if he was going to do it, to get it over with and I’d be downstairs.

I remember sitting downstairs, totally nervous, waiting to hear the sound of that gun go off at any moment. But it never came. About twenty minutes later he came down telling me I was right and then we hit some strip clubs.

He remained my friend for a long time after that. Our lives took us in different directions but I still heard from him occasionally. Years later, I heard he had been killed in an automobile accident. The last conversation I had with him prior to that accident hadn’t been good. His demons had followed him throughout his life and my tolerance for them hadn’t improved with age. Sometimes I wonder if my words had any impact on that accident. I know he could drive. We spent many times together red lining a corner for me to think any different. But the details of that accident are not known to me. So I’m left to wonder.

Round midnight a few years back, I got a call from a friend of mine telling me that his dad had attempted to commit suicide at his place of business.

He said he was on the way to the hospital but needed the place he had his attempt in cleaned up. Apparently, he chose to cut his wrists. But didn’t get enough blood to come for his liking, so he began to slash at his throat.

I picked up the key and got all the gear I thought I needed, with no real idea what to expect. Then opened that door and saw a sight that resembled a scene in a horror movie. There was no way someone could lose that much blood and not die, I thought. There was blood everywhere. I’ve never seen so much blood. It was sprayed on the walls. On the vehicles. All over the floor. Puddles and puddles of blood. Hand smears on the walls where he had attempted to right himself after falling. Places where his feet had slipped and he fell. I could see it all. I could smell it. The blood had an odor to it. Some of it had dried. Most of it hadn’t. After a brief moment of pause, I began to get to work.

I cleaned everything and was meticulous.

Paid attention to every detail. Wiped every smear, mopped up every puddle. Took everything out of his wallet, cleaned every card, his watch, his belt, his shoes. Everything. Bagged up the clothes they cut off him and put them in the trash. Then I set to cleaning all the equipment I had used. It took me hours. I had been there all night. Shortly after daylight came I sent him a text asking him how his dad was doing and that I was finished. I woke up later that day with a text from him saying that his dad had lived and was in recovery. That was truly a miracle.

So when the blog suggestion was posed for me to write about suicide, my mind wandered a bit at the prospect of it.

I’ve had my own personal experiences with it and I’ve had friends who have had the unfortunate experiences with it in their own lives. It’s not a simple subject. People who claim otherwise or attempt to simplify it are fools. Nothing about it is simple. Google search all you want and you’ll be no closer to having a definitive answer on how someone gets to “that place” or how to definitively “prevent” it. And I am under no illusions, nor am I so arrogant, to think that you’ll find those answers here.

But I will say, that painting with a broad brush on this subject is a fools errand. Not all suicides are an act of cowardice. Some are committed out of benevolence. Are some people more prone to commit suicide out of some undiscovered link in biology? I’m sure I don’t know. How much does nurture play a role in suicidal tendencies? Where does a persons faith come in? Is there a spiritual influence to it? What about suicides committed for “noble” means, such as self sacrifice?

What I would say if you asked me, “How to save a life” is:

Notice. Pay attention. Ask. Take an interest. Quit dismissing real emotion and real angst with stupid little quips from the bible as if by questioning a persons lack of faith is any way to bring them closer to God. BE REAL. 

Don’t respond the way I did with my roommate. Be wiser of it. Have compassion. Have empathy. Attempt to understand. Hang in with them.

Sometimes all that’s needed is that one small voice to talk to. That one text. One message. That prevents them from responding to that one question posed by the feeling of hopelessness. When standing at the edge of the abyss, when the weight of the past is heavy on your shoulders, and the prospect of a future seems non-existent. Then. During those times. When it matters.

Be. There.

 

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