Thinking the unthinkable, part 4

(Eyes come open at 3 AM. Again.)

I believe I am afraid of dying in exact inverse proportion to my longing for certainty. Death is the only way to preserve certainty. If I remain uncertain, I remain alive. The more certainty I desire, the more attractive death becomes.

That pursuit of death — that’s narcissism perfected. I alone own myself, own my life; my need for comfort and certainty is all-encompassing. Taking my life away from all other people is the ultimate act of selfishness.

This is the standard response to the fact or the suggestion of suicide. I think, however, that it does not work this way for many of us. There is a form of suicide that is unconcerned with the rationale for it — it’s more of a reflex for some of us. Given a stimulus, it comes to mind automatically.

For instance: personal rejection, a stymied love affair, a financial debt, a wrong turn in traffic on a bad day even — any of these things may make the suicidal person suddenly split in two, and soon one rational half is watching the other half prepare razors, contemplate guns, research the dosages of sleeping pills needed for lethality. Half of your consciousness sits in powerless judgment of the irrational acts of the other half.

Sometimes it stops short, sometimes it does not, and it often seems a matter of chance as to whether you come forth from the trance.

Don’t judge the suicide too harshly, for I suspect that frequently he or she is as surprised as you that it happened at last.

And when the cat died in Schroedinger’s box, what do you suppose he was thinking? That was a suicide, of course; if you’ve ever watched a cat, you know they love to get into boxes all by themselves.