a diatribe against suicide

Sometimes, I wonder who’s actually reading this silly blog. I’m frequently amused by my blog’s search engine results. I’ve had at least a hundred unique hits from people searching out info about monkeys riding on pigs. Even more have stumbled across my self-absorbed gibberish while looking for racy pictures of Alison Kosik.

There’s an ever-so-remote possibility that she’ll notice me if I keep waxing ecstatic about her in this blog. Of course, the only attention she’d probably bestow is a restraining order. Alas.

But it’s not all nonsense. My posts about my grandfather’s Alzheimer’s got me a fair number of readers. I hope I helped someone who was in a similar predicament, or at least made them laugh at some of the absurdity that came with the illness.

So I’m aware that there a fair number of random folks who were tooling around on Google. Somehow a bizarre search term led them to this silly place. Or maybe you’re violently depressed and you just typed in “how to commit suicide” or “suicide methods.” I put those words in quotes in hopes that an exact word match sent you here. Because I really don’t want you to hurt yourself.

Why am I on this soapbox? Well, I just returned from my cousin’s wake. He committed suicide in front of his wife and his son. They will be traumatized for the rest of their lives.  Watching my aunt and my cousins when the body was first presented was truly gut-wrenching, because I noticed three distinct realizations sweep through the room in a matter of seconds. The first one was “yeah, he’s really gone.” The second one was “oh my god, that doesn’t even look like him.” And the third one was “there’s no solace or comfort that we can derive from this. None.”  After the family made their initial viewing, no one objected to a closed casket. And I have no idea what type of religious service will be offered tomorrow. I’ve met both of the pastors before, and I really like both of them. But they’ve been playing a game of theological hot potato. Good luck trying to suss this one out, fellas.

Those are some of the things you need to think about if you’re contemplating suicide. Maybe you don’t intend such a dramatic or violent end, but someone will discover your remains. And chances are good that it will be someone who loves you. And that loved one is going to be heartbroken and disturbed for a very long time. So think about that. Do you really want your parent/spouse/sibling/child to endure that? That’s pretty selfish, isn’t it?

So don’t do it. Talk to someone. Anyone. Maybe you have a chemical imbalance and you need medication and/or therapy. That’s not shameful. That’s just your physical makeup. Or maybe you need to talk to a relationship or financial counselor, if those concerns are applicable. Or seek out a family member, friend, teacher, or clergyman. Or what the heck, if you’re really paranoid about confidentiality, find one of those maniacs shuffling around lower Florida St. in Baton Rouge or a gutter punk in the French Quarter. You can vent about anything to those derelicts. Who’s going to believe what comes out of their mouths anyway? One guy outside the bus station tried to tell me that his string of bad luck all stemmed from a backgammon game against Spiro T. Agnew that went horribly awry. He also told me that the best gumbo file came from crumbled moss and ground Xanax. So they’re a mixed bag at best. But if you need a carbon-based lifeform to hear you out, they’ll work in a pinch. Then again, you could always get a cat. Or try some new hobbies. Even backgammon.

But whatever you do, don’t hurt yourself. Not only will you devastate your family and friends, but you’ll never again enjoy the great pleasures that are out there, like family, friends, football, ice cream, Alison Kosik, and monkeys riding on pigs. Because isn’t that what life’s all about?