Why Bad People Killing Themselves Isn’t Victory
There was a high-profile death recently that resulted in the exposure of a topic that is often times mishandled by those who have enough distance to afford that level of carelessness.
The celebrity in question had taken his own life and in an act of convenience — the media (particularly the abominable Daily Mail) hyped up the facts that may have led to his desperate bid to exit the world by his own hand.
He had been convicted of a criminal offense — so grave — that it would require jail time and the assurance that even after serving his sentence — he would never be able to assimilate into society without the residue of shame and badge of dishonor.
The response to his demise was mostly seeped in approval — as his social media platforms took the bullets of curses and abuse from users — who expressed their joy that this person had realized how insignificant his life had become — and rightfully made the only decision that matched his pathetic disposition. Others were enraged at the realization that he had chosen the easy route by relieving himself of the responsibility of his actions.
His memory weirdly filtered into my morning ritual — hours ago — as I lay in bed — sifting through my pending schedule — and then suddenly a wave of discontent devoured my space and all I wanted to do was hide in submission.
I have battled these tendencies all my life — and they stem from childhood trauma — the kind that you can’t quite articulate in essays without the threat of a permanent breakdown.
The scary thing about these episodes is the way it creeps up — without warning — and with the furious intensity that leaves you battered and bruised. You shut down under the pressure of trying to re-group and re-coup all the progress you thought you were making — before the periodic reminder of an illness with no cure.
The better days are longer due to a health-conscious diet and the death of all the vices that couldn’t adequately numb the weight of consciousness. But the battle for survival is ongoing and the frightening aspect of my status is the fact that it isn’t dependent on how great or shitty everything is. I could feel absolutely fantastic despite the reality of being out of work for months and not knowing when the next paycheck will be issued. I could feel like utter crap right after booking an ambitious project that pays way better than I anticipated.
The point is that bad people killing themselves is no victory because suicide is a response to a mental deficiency.
For those who think that there’s a formula in place that randomly entices victims to choose this option as a way to “make a statement” or erect a permanent escape route from the consequences of bad behavior — your assumptions are woefully misguided.
Killing yourself is a violent way to assuage the demons that tormented you for being vulnerably susceptible to the impact of your humanness — through no fault of your own. The fibers of neglect — constantly demand more than you’re able to provide — and your pursuit to rise to the occasion is what renders you defenseless and almost beyond help.
This is why — you’re forced to live with this burden to the best of your ability and to the point of flawed perfection. You master how to suffer in silence— while your output gives the impression of something vastly different and normal. And of course when shit hits the fan and everyone knows you’re going through hell — it’s easier for them to assume the worst.
When the worst happens — they assign it to the latest battle when it was really the culmination of all the ingredients coming to a boil — and then spilling over to create the everlasting mess.
It’s human nature to want to understand the complex stuff and when impatience steps in — we casually gather the pieces and force them into boxes that can’t quite receive the edges or shapes we didn’t design.
Suicide is brutal — and that means that it needs to be observed with astute consideration for the ones who breathed their last breath with the anticipation that they will finally be released from the bondage of always being tempted with the rapturous opportunity of letting out that last breath.
It’s not a peaceful calling or even remotely dramatic. It’s just deafeningly empty.