I’ve heard it stated frequently in the aftermath of Junior Seau’s suicide on May 2nd that he took the so-called “easy way out”. I’m not so much interested in adding to the redundant rhetoric regarding the sad particulars of Seau’s case, but rather wish to examine this “easy way out” sentiment that inevitably crops up whenever anybody, famous or not, takes their own life.
When people have terminal cancer, we don’t accuse them, as they near death, of taking the easy way out, because that would be absurd, not to mention ignorant and just plain cruel to say about someone suffering terrible pain. But those who’ve suffered long with what amounts to a cancer of the mind, aren’t given the same grace or compassion as those whose diseases are physical and observable. Those who commit suicide chose to die, right? And nobody chooses to die of cancer. This apparent choosing to die, rejecting life, can create a curious resentment even among those not personally involved. Within hours of the news of Junior Seau’s suicide, people not connected to him in any way other than having watched him play college and professional football from their televisions, were flooding sports talk radio programs with their subdued tirades. Their guilty verdicts were in (even before any evidence pro or con could have possibly been collected): “Junior Seau took the easy way out.” As if suicide were as easy as opening the door to an exit.
The first time I contemplated suicide, I was seventeen. Over the next three years, my life and relationships eroded, leaving me isolated (even though people who had no clue how I felt were around) on the ruined soil of dread, depression and despair. I found myself alone one night at the age of twenty with my father’s .20 gauge shotgun. My intent that night wasn’t suicide, but to test and see if I could really do it, if and when the time came to end it all. The three preceding years had been anything but easy. Easier even less was holding that cocked and loaded shotgun in my hands, or sticking the black barrel in my mouth, and tasting metal as my front teeth inadvertently scraped steel. I remember my right hand trembling uncontrollably as my thumb found the trigger. All I had to do was squeeze. I knew then that I could probably do it, but that it would not be easy. Over the ensuing three years I would attempt suicide two times, and each time it was exhausting. Not to mention the internal turmoil of those horrific years in between. After my second hospitalization, that deeply wounded young man I once was finally got some help that lasted. More than twenty years have come and gone since those terrible times. I’ve discovered since then that choosing life is not an easy way out either. But it’s an easier way out than suicide.
introspectivesputnik 