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That Lonely, Dark Place
At the risk of nauseating Rob Long, I offer a few words on suicide, about which I have learned more than I would have cared to.
I’ve seen many sorrows in more than 30 years as a cop, but the images that haunt me most are the suicides. My first, when I was just weeks out of the police academy, happened on the beach. A woman called the police to report her husband missing, and it was my partner and I who were assigned the call. The woman greeted us at the door of a beautiful home near the beach, showing us inside to take in the trappings of what was – or had been – a prosperous life. There had been financial setbacks, she told us, and she was worried that her husband would not be able to cope with the sudden change in the family’s fortunes. They kept a gun in the house, and when her husband did not come home as expected she feared the worst. When she found that the gun was not in its customary place, she called the police.
It was wintertime, or what passes for wintertime in Los Angeles: gray skies, a bit of drizzle, and a biting wind coming off the ocean. My partner and I began to trudge across the sand of what appeared to be a deserted beach. But there was someone out there, down near the water. From a distance, he looked to be sleeping. Or perhaps he was just gazing up at the passing clouds. But as we got closer we could see the gun near his hand, and then the blood in the sand, and then the wound in the side of his head.
He had no pulse and he was cold to the touch, but we still had to call paramedics to make the official determination that he was dead. And as we waited for them, we realized we would have to violate a standard crime scene protocol. Detectives are always reminding patrol cops not to disturb anything, to guard the scene until photographs can be taken and evidence collected. But the tide was coming in; if we didn’t move the body and the gun, they would soon be under the waves. So we dragged the body to a place just beyond the high-tide line and put the gun in the sand next to it, trying to approximate the position it had been in. Yes, the scene was ruined, but the alternative would have been worse. I had never touched a dead body before.
The paramedics came and went, leaving the body covered with a white sheet. I was grateful not to see his face anymore. When more cops and a sergeant arrived, it fell to my partner and me to deliver the news to the man’s wife. She had seen the paramedics arrive in a hurry and leave slowly, so of course she knew what the news would be. “I have to tell the kids,” she said. “How do I do that?”
I was 25 at the time, and I don’t have a more satisfactory answer to that question today than I did then. We arranged for a friend of hers to come over, and when she arrived, followed by the detectives, my partner and I walked back out to the beach to relieve the cops watching over the body. It was our radio call; if anyone was going to stand out in the cold and wind waiting for the coroner, it was going to be us.
So there we were, my partner, me, and a dead guy. A more seasoned cop might have been able to make small talk with his partner under the circumstances, but I was anything but seasoned. I just stood there in silence looking out at the ocean. How could it be, I wondered, that a man with what appeared to be so much to live for – a pretty wife, loving kids, a beautiful home near the beach – how could it be that the best option he could think of was to go down to the water’s edge and shoot himself in the head?
It was a starkly beautiful day, with the clouds and the whitecaps and the seagulls and all. Surely, he had been out on this beach many times and, surely, there was a time when he could appreciate the beauty and be glad to be alive. But not today.
I thought of that man when I learned of Robin Williams’s death. Like the man on the beach, Williams had – or seemed to have – so much to live for. And yet he came to that dark place where he thought both he and the world would be better off if he was dead. Most of us can’t imagine it. And if we can, we keep it to ourselves.
My brother took his own life some years ago. Beset by financial and health problems, he came to that same dark place. I delivered the eulogy at his funeral, a challenge in the writing and a bigger one in the delivery. Before the service began, I had to invite the people attending – and there were lots and lots of them – I had to ask them to move closer to the front of the church. My family was seated in the front pew, and everyone else had taken seats as close to the back as they could, as though they were afraid to get too close to us. It left an awkward, empty space between our family and everyone else. “Come on up closer,” I said, “we need you to be near us right now.”
Before he killed himself, I had no idea how desperate my brother’s situation had become. No one else did, either. My brother had many, many friends. There wasn’t a person in the church that day who wouldn’t have helped him if he had but asked. But he never did. He just kept walking toward that dark place, alone.
He had withdrawn from the rest of the family, never returning phone calls or appearing at family gatherings. When my wife and I went through his belongings after he died, we found the invitation to our wedding unopened on his dresser. It haunts us still.
In my eulogy, I told my brother’s friends that there may be someone else in their lives who is nearing that same dark place, perhaps even someone sitting here with us. Don’t ignore it, I implored them. Don’t wait for that awful phone call and wish you had done more. It’s been a long time, but I still bear the guilt that I didn’t make more of an effort to reach out to my brother. I suppose I’ll never get over it completely. I’m not sure I should want to.
As Rob said in his post, we’ll be hearing a lot about depression and suicide in the days to come. My wish for everyone here on Ricochet is that the closest you ever come to suicide is seeing it on television. If there’s any comfort to be found in the news of someone’s suicide, it’s in the knowing that his suffering is at an end.
But for those left behind, it has only begun.
Image Credit: Flickr user Mike Murry.
Published in General
I’ve looked towards that dark direction. Sometimes a man’s life isn’t what he hoped for. I hope I never take any steps.
A fine piece of writing, thanks. As you said, the pain goes on for those left behind. So sad that suffering can become so great for a person, it is all they can think of and not of the pain others endure.
Beautifully written, Mr. Dunphy
Jack, blame neither yourself nor your family. And while the fault is your brother’s, the blame isn’t. The black abyss that we stare into, when depression is at its worst, eats away at your soul. I found the strength not to take that last step into the abyss many years ago. But always at the back of my mind, when I’m cycling through a particularly down time, is the little whisper. It promises relief, and peace and an end to the pain. Most people with depression have learned to let the voice whisper and to pass over us without result, because we have learned it’s a lie. But the voice is never gone.
If it was possible to simply disappear, there would be many more suicides. The inevitable pain of those left behind is one of the strongest deterrents.
The purpose of sadness is to slow us down and help us reflect. It’s a good impulse. But if one doesn’t regain momentum, that reflection turns ever more inward… until the world beyond is forgotten.
Presence is the best remedy. The best thing friends and relatives can do is to butt in.
It’s funny – not ha ha – you used your eulogy to warn of others heading toward that “dark place.” Last night I was talking to a friend and he said that he wished the talking heads would stick to talking about Williams the comedian and not about depression and the root cause of his suicide. I told my friend I disagreed. I was glad they were talking about depression because minds were focused, people were listening, and now was the time to ask folks to look around their own world for that lost soul heading for that dark place. Roughly 24hours from now nobody will be listening.
I’ve never had much regard for those who commit suicide, and I’ve actually known a few. Such a selfish, obscene act, and in order to get to that place, you have to have internalized to such an extent that you’re the only thing that exists. You may pretend that you believe “others are better off,” but I don’t think you can make that conclusion while actually thinking of others. It is the ultimate act of cowardice, and such a shame for a person to go out having revealed the absolute worst in himself.
I will half agree. My wife showed me a post that some lady had put on her facebook wall… it was something about “my friends ask me how I’m such a happy person… here’s why: 1), 2), etc…” Anyway, it was all about how she takes time to focus on herself and she blocks out negative energy coming from others, etc. My only thought was to roll my eyes. It leads to external happiness for a short time, and pretty serious depression underneath. The problem with a secular discussion of depression is that it revolves around medication or self-celebration. The latter, in my opinion, is just a different face of the mindset that leads to suicide. So I’m not sure I much value those discussions about depression.
Ryan, I’m glad you never seem to have reached that point of despair where suicide seems a viable option. But if you ever reach that point, I hope someone with more compassion than you’re showing right now is there to help. Yes, suicide is a selfish, horrible act. But it is hard to realize that when you’re at that point.
I don’t disagree, and if you think I’ve encountered suicide and approached grieving family members with the (truthful) notion of it being a selfish act, you are mistaken to say the least. This, however, is a somewhat abstracted discussion involving a person who not a single person on this website knew personally, so I think the detachment is not so inappropriate. My point is a valid one, even if it seems heartless, especially when it comes to the sort of counseling that you so often see thrown around – you’re depressed, so focus more on yourself and your needs. Seems counterproductive.
(patrick, you might do well to recognize the difference between a counseling session and an abstract discussion before accusing folks of lacking compassion)
No. You may be aware of others or not. Some really are unaware. Others genuinely believe (for whatever reason) that the world really would be a better place without them in it.
No, you can make that conclusion while thinking of others. You would be wrong, most likely. But you’d still be thinking of others.
If I recall correctly, several cultures (Japan perhaps most famously, but others as well) have seen suicide as an acceptable atonement for dishonoring one’s family. Suicide for the sake of family honor by definition has to be done with others in mind.
Similarly, suicide for the sake of preserving family fortunes (say, for example, when grave illness robs you of any expected productivity and the expense of continuing to care for you threatens to bankrupt the ones dear to you) is done with others in mind, wrong as it may be.
True.
The threat of Hell may not be – if you’re sufficiently convinced of your own unworth, you’ll even believe you deserve eternal damnation. But the prospect of causing your family more grief in your death than your continuing to live already causes them will deter some people. Unless they really hate their families, too, I guess.
Some people can successfully be shamed out of attempting suicide. Approaching a grief-stricken person who’s contemplating the act and trying to shame him out of it is not necessarily the wrong thing to do, and may be the best short-term solution, depending on his personality. A person who’s merely been shamed out of suicide still typically lacks something to live for, though.
I guess at that point you sort of get into what is and is not an understanding of others. The notion that they might value money or reputation more than your life. Those cultures are interesting in their religious outlook (JofE, in a recent discussion, described Buddhism as flatly evil for the great cruelty it produces, based in part on the view of self and other that it fosters). I’m not talking about a conscious selfishness, but an internalized one. Drug addiction is similar, I think.
Sorry Midge, I was actually just addressing Patrick’s obnoxious assertion that I lack compassion because I’ve opted for a somewhat clinical discussion of an emotional topic.
But I agree with you, here. It doesn’t seem like the underlying problem is one that can be solved quite so easily… It is interesting to think about depression as a spiritual state (from a Christian perspective, lacking purpose, etc…) vs. a real clinical state (i.e. a chemical imbalance). Seems as if both really do exist, although the one is certainly not politically correct, and the other is difficult to diagnose.
My best friend from college commit suicide December 11th, 1986. On the surface he had everything going for him. Upon receiving his MBA he landed a job in NYC and was on the fast track to a great career. The term ‘golden boy’ was coined for people like him. He was handsome. He had friends. He came from a wealthy family with parents and siblings who adored him. He was the last person one would expect to take their own life. But what he most wanted in life and was never able to achieve was to form a deep, committed relationship with a woman. He really wanted to marry and be a father. We spoke about this and I urged him to seek counseling but he always said people shouldn’t burden others with their problem. I think he was more concerned with the stigma attached to depression. It is less so now but that stigma still exists.
We don’t stigmatize the person with a broken arm. We get them to the hospital where it can be fixed. We need to see depression the same way.
There’s ample ground between completely excusing suicide and depression as helpless afflictions and callously shrugging the challenges away. Depressed people often gravitate toward fatalism. It does not help them to encourage that error. Like any thinking person, they are ultimately responsible for their own decisions.
I agree both perspectives are important, but framing the question as “versus” introduces an unnecessary – often counterproductive – element of antagonism.
Our moral tendencies are extremely important, but there’s no shame in admitting that, for many of us, they remain only tendencies, not wholly immune to opportunity and the vagaries of chance.
Consider the traditional Christian understanding of chastity, iconically embodied by beautiful women who live completely chaste lives. (There’s a reason we don’t picture the Virgin Mary as ugly.) These women illustrate that chastity, despite great temptation, is actually achievable.
But when people fall short of a virtue, even Christians typically take into account the circumstances. It’s not at all clear that an ugly woman who’s never had the opportunity to be unchaste is morally superior to a beautiful woman who, subject to many temptations, succumbed once before marriage, then never again.
Responsible people subject to the temptations of suicide arm themselves with moral weapons against it, but winning with those weapons is not guaranteed.
But does anyone, really? The problem with the above formulation is that there sometimes isn’t any ground between the two at all. While depression may certainly be a physical illness at times, the push to diagnose and medicate (i.e. a helpless affliction) really does amount to a callous shrugging of challenges. But don’t we live in a society where accepting challenges is considered “judging?” Values are derided as judgmental and reality is subjective… How do you adequately address challenges when you deny the existence of an objective right and wrong?
Agreed. I should have used “as well as,” instead of “vs.”
My partner and were dispatched on a “welfare check”. When we arrived at the house we rang the doorbell and there was no answer. We found the back door unlocked and went from room to room shouting police. There was no response. We checked the basement last and we knew something was terribly wrong by the odor coming from the basement as we started down the stairs. A woman in her early twenties was laying half in and half out of a recliner. She had shot herself with a rifle. One shoe and one sock was off and when she pulled the trigger the trigger guard had cut her toe. There were skull fragments embedded in the basement ceiling. My partner was starting to get shaky so I told him go back to the car and call for a supervisor. Don’t say why. (The media followed police calls on scanners and cell phones had not been invented.) Then open up my bag and you’ll find a small jar of Vicks put some under your nose and bring me the jar. I will never forget that call. It wouldn’t be my last suicide call. None have been forgotten.
I’ve fairly recently been in a dark and lonely place, but, never, never for an instant contemplated suicide. Perhaps it is the nature of one’s suffering which makes the difference? Perhaps it is faith in God? I don’t know. I just know there are too many in the world walking around with internal bleeding and brokenhearted. I’m so sorry you’re one of us, Jack.
As to Robin Williams, I heard Joe Piscopo describe him as such a kind person. He immediately reached out to Chris Reeves after his accident and was present for him in his time of suffering. I watched an old segment on Letterman with Williams where he spoke so lovingly of his beautiful, talented daughter (who was then shown in the green room). He had to be in the pit of despair to do that to her. Lord have mercy.
Ryan I re-read my comment, and I don’t see anywhere in it where I accused you of approaching the grieving family of a suicide and berating the deceased. I’ve also re-read your comment. I still do not see in it any compassion for someone who thinks suicide is the answer. This isn’t just a discussion about the suicide of someone none of us knew personally, as you averred. The OP addressed the suicide of his brother, and the effect it had on him and his family. The comments addressed the puzzle that people feel about how a suicide can ever feel that death is the only option. And while you didn’t appreciate it, I was sincere in my wish that if you ever need to reach out because you feel suicidal, then I hope the person you reach out to has more compassion than your post showed. Call it obnoxious if you want. But having been on the receiving end of that compassion I know how necessary it is. I truly hope you never need to know that feeling.
While plying the Interwebs on the subject-du-jour, I ran across this article that I would ask you to consider: There’s Nothing Selfish About Suicide, from the daughter of a suicide. It’s short, but makes a point – from the inside.
(no linkey)
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/katie-hurley/theres-nothing-selfish-about-suicide_b_5672519.html?utm_hp_ref=mostpopular
When my beautiful, talented, loved and amazing friend in Colorado took her own life several years ago I did a lot of thinking about suicide as well. I attended her memorial service in Georgia where most of her family lives (they had another in Colorado with a large crowd of friends) and was blessed that the pastor directly addressed the issue. He described a mental state that was not rational and a sickness that God would understand far more than we ever could.
I think it’s inaccurate to describe suicide as a selfish act because I don’t believe the individual’s intention is selfish. My friend was her “daddy’s girl” and I know she would never have intentionally caused him pain….yet she did in the end. Only a mental illness could have caused her to rationalize that her friends and family that loved her would be better off without her. I still carry mementos of our friendship. I am still sad over the terrible waste of a life. I still wish with all my heart that I had somehow been able to intervene because I would have done anything.
“Come on up closer,” I said, “we need you to be near us right now.”
Jack. In so far as limning the experience of grief and regret can be called ‘beautiful’ . . . your post is beautiful. And the above quote is poignantly applicable to so much of our human experience.
Point taken regarding the OP. Mr. Dumphy can likely relate to the anger that they tend to feel toward someone who takes his own life – I was thinking more abstractly about the comments on the celebrity suicide (and the few I’ve encountered), not intending to imply anything specific to Jack’s experience. As I was discussing w/ MFR, the word “selfishness” is one that needs to be unpacked, and if doing so from the inside, you’d have quite a lot to consider beyond that summary.
As to your obnoxious comment – disagree with me all you like, but don’t presume to know how compassionate I might be, based on my abstractions regarding amateur psychology. An unopened wedding invitation; a complete withdrawal from those who want to help – for whatever dark reason, it is selfishness – not like a toddler wanting a toy, but like an adult unwilling or unable to look beyond himself.
sorry, accidental comment.
Ryan, I’ve read some of your prior pieces, and prior comments. You have a much bigger Ricochet footprint than I do. I guess I was more surprised at your comment than anything. I don’t doubt you have compassion, from what I’ve read in other posts and comments you’ve written. But I don’t see it in the comment we’re discussing. So while I disagreed with your point of view on this subject, I didn’t think I was attacking you personally. I’m sorry that’s the way it read to you.
As I said, I read Jack’s piece and began thinking before commenting, and my thoughts wandered a bit. I did come across as insensitive, but nothing could be further from the truth. I find it easy to empathize with the anger toward a loved one… my phrasing, “not much regard,” was poor.
Ryan, If we ever meet up at a Meet Up we’ll have to discuss how hard it is to forgive a loved one who has hurt you, but isn’t there any longer to receive both your anger and forgiveness. Or, the struggle to find forgiveness to give. And have that discussion over a cold beer. Peace.