Post from Jeremy P Beasley.com
“I’ve crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I’ve come to a place I never thought I’d have to come to. And I don’t know how I got here. It’s a strange place. It’s a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation.” ― Raymond Carver
I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately.
Real death. Not the figurative “we’re all dying slowly” kind of death. Dead death. Blue blood death. No more breathing, eyes rolled back in your head death. Six feet under death.
Once you’re suicidal, you’re always suicidal. I’m a little cocky about it. I’ve reserved the corner market on all the jokes. Bridges, nooses, and slit wrists. I’ll keep going. Knowing I’ll piss off someone else at the bar might make me go for one more line. I tell myself if I can joke about it then I’m further from it than I was yesterday.
No one close to me died this year. I didn’t lose any friends or family to a casket. I didn’t stare into any glass eyes or feel any lukewarm skin. I’m not crying as I write this. It’s sunny in Seattle today.
I did, however, lose a few that though they weren’t at all, felt quite close to me. They helped me understand death, even avoid it a few times, yet they were suddenly taken by it. You might say they took it upon themselves. An Icelandic composer, a brilliant instrumentalist and producer, and the singer of a Scottish band that, though far away, spoke volumes to my American cynicism and internal dread.
The day the singer went missing, Twitter was awry. Scrolling, keep scrolling. Likes. Retweets. Emojis. That one where I never know if it’s sweating or crying. I suppose both were appropriate. That one last ominous tweet. The statement from the band, it had a lot of people in rock music pacing around their living rooms. Where was he? I wished I could open my closet door and find him there penning another anthem. Don’t tell anyone, but I might have opened it just to be sure. I’d feel better that way.
When it came to Scott’s death, it was easy to spot someone who’d given a shit about Frightened Rabbit the day before the infamous tweet by their tone. They acted surprised. His body was found in the Forth, exactly where he’d written about killing himself ten years ago in their smash hit record Midnight Organ Fight. If you knew anything about his music or his person, you knew it was always a possibility, even likely that this news would find it’s way to our feeds at some point. To know his music was, to some extent, to be content with this.
I followed his disappearance and death closely and I didn’t hear a single suggestion of something particularly circumstantial that drove him dramatically toward those final moments. A ridiculous assumption about suicide, yet so often implied is that one’s last moments aren’t sober. That somehow, truth, sobriety, or some other magical force could find it’s way into that one person’s life and cure them of what’s only a momentary and fleeting urge. Suicide is a little bug. Swat it off like a mosquito and you’ll save yourself a bite.
Most of us can only tell ourselves stories. What exactly was going through Scott’s head? I’d like to think it was just his time. I’d like to think he was fully aware, sober, and conscious of where he was headed. He’d lived a good life and accomplished more than most of us ever will. He’d performed on the biggest stages in the world and sold more albums than he’d ever imagined. He’d worked hard to be open about his struggles and connect with people who felt the same. He’d done quite well.
We’ve all heard some well meaning person say that suicide is selfish. When they say selfish they mean malicious. They mean —wrong. These are the same people that publicly lament a talent’s death, wishing they were still alive and suffering, as if the his life was owed to them.
So, who’s the selfish one?
I don’t pity Scott. I might even be a little jealous. There’s no shame in death.
For all the drama and fake tears that pour when a celebrity dies, I think a lot of us experience the same thing if we’re willing to admit it. To live well, drop the mic, and become internet famous for one more day sounds a hell of a lot more compelling than spending decades fighting hopelessness only to watch your physical body rot away until one day it takes you against your will.
To die on one’s own terms is a worthwhile aspiration.
I have no immediate intentions of killing myself and I’d like to think you don’t either. It’s my right though (and always will be) to choose when and how I want to go. When I think about that enough, I start to think a little harder about how I want to spend my time here with all of you.
Here’s to a little more of that.
—
Flight from the City – Jóhann Jóhannsson
Nitrous Gas – Frightened Rabbit
R.I.P. – Richard Swift
Photo by Vivian Wang @Lithophyte