SUICIDE ISN'T PAINLESS
OR IS IT?
No Postcards From The Edge
Hard to find good information on this subject. Obviously, no one has ever come back with success stories. On the Internet, you have the "ethical suicide" or "death with dignity crowd," basically ministering to the terminally ill. Then you have the professional Satanists offering a variety of final home remedies, in grisly detail. There are also bogus sites, trying to suck you in and then help you out. Can't imagine how that works. I guess some people might really just be looking for help.
If you're just looking for a non-prescription, easy-to-swallow, perfectly legal, easy to get pill that gently puts you to sleep, forever, you're out of luck. Even if did exist, and you could get it, you'd still be leaving more than a hundred pounds of rotting meat behind. Not to mention the blood, vomit, urine and/ or feces you let loose with during or after death. And somebody will have to clean that all up. Kind of a drag.
Then there's the embarrassment. A friend, neighbour or family member, maybe a co-worker or a schoolmate will have to find your horrid, stone-cold, stinking corpse, and deal with it. A bunch of cops, firemen, paramedics, coroners, undertakers, dogfood butchers, whoever, will troop in and out of your final resting place, cursing and mocking you, manhandling you into a dirty old van like roadkill. And some obsequies will be necessary. Even for a suicide. No chance of simply slipping off nice and quietly, into the void.
If you have anybody who actually loves you, they'll hate you. If not, well, it'll be a short funeral. If you have kids, they'll be marked for life. A lot of suiciders are children of suicides. It is a bit of a curse, that keeps on giving. I wonder if fathers think of all this, as they drive their cars out in front of a big truck, which drives the steering wheel through their chest, destroying their heart. And others'. Selfish. Thoughtless. No?
Still, there is some attraction to the notion of drawing a line, making a clean break, cutting everything neatly off. A final solution. Some resolution, at last. If it is an illusion, you'll never know it, right? At least the bullshit comes to a screeching halt.
Or does it? Maybe it just gets worse. Maybe only your body dies, but your consciousness lives on, trapped in a rotting shell, forever. Certainly, you won't be going to Heaven, or any sort of a better life. There are rules. Even in death, you can't escape the goddamned rules. Even in death, the indignities go on, perhaps. Is it worth the risk? Or should one simply suffer on, swallowing more horseshit every day until death occurs naturally, by choking on all the shit? A bright prospect. It makes that rotting alive thing seem cozy. At least you'd be alone, in your dark, cold, damp hole in the ground. Except for the insects. Wonder if you can feel them, eating you?
Maybe drugs or drink are a better solution: Self-medication, they call it. If a permanent, insensate fog, devoid of all thoughts and feelings could be entered into, that might do just as well. A slower kind of suicide. It doesn't work all that well for mothers. One has these unfortunate moments of lucidity, not to mention the hangovers. And the kids, staring at you. Well, I wouldn't worry about that. Not here. Not now.
So, all in all, I'd say that old man Sartre had it right; Huis Clos. Sans issue. Pas de sortie. C'est la vie, non? Alors, garcon, un bock!
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