i priced out my suicide this morning, after a sleepless night, following a stupid fight born of my overreaction to something small. i’d grabbed my keys and had already marched down the hallway, pushed the elevator button to get to my car, before i realized (again, and again, daily it seems these days) that i had nowhere to go. i know no one here well enough to show up on their doorstep at midnight. i know no one anywhere well enough that i feel comfortable crying in front of them.
so instead, i lay there, stomach churning from only having eaten leftover mac and cheese, and i wondered what the hell was wrong with me and why i hadn’t seen before that these escalations were so clearly my own. i despaired of ever being well enough to have a real relationship with anybody, or even a real friendship, for that matter. i understood that i was making the people around me tired of being around me.
well, i didn’t want to be around me, either. so i started figuring out the money. i knew my debts, which were manageable. my student loans are all public and would be discharged upon my death. cremation and associated costs would probably run around six grand. my car is paid off. i don’t own a home. so far, so good. there should be enough money to pay off everything and still cover rent and utilities and my cats for some time.
but then i came to medical bills. i knew whatever i did, i wanted it to be nonviolent. but that meant there was a good chance someone would try to resuscitate me, and that meant ambulance and hospital and doctors and nurses and then we’re getting into tens of thousands of dollars, maybe hundreds of thousands. a lot of insurance policies don’t cover suicide or attempted suicide, so there’s a good chance the bills could wipe out any remaining money that would otherwise go to family. not ideal.
then there were those words: attempted suicide. i shiver just thinking about that. i have known several people close to me who have attempted and survived. mercifully, some only had to have their stomachs pumped. one suffered a gunshot wound and lived. i considered that if i didn’t feel i had the financial or emotional support to keep living as i do today, surely i didn’t have it to rehabilitate myself from a failure to die.
so there’s my option: live. that’s what i’ve got. it’s not satisfactory, but what is?
you may wonder how i can write about this subject with any clarity. simple: i still don’t feel much. knowing that suicide doesn’t make any sense, even knowing intellectually that i would do irreparable damage to the people around me, doesn’t make me feel it. my cat sam was bumping his forehead against mine, trying to cheer me up, and i was thinking about who would be willing to take him in. i love him; the two things just seemed disconnected. like, who doubts that i love them? and what does that have to do with anything? people don’t stop being in pain because they love. people don’t start magically feeling again because they love.
i am not writing this as a plea for help. i do not want help. if you call me, i will not answer. if you write me, i probably will not write back. i am writing this because i wanted to acknowledge the reality that even death literally comes at a price. i believe it is unjust to the families, but i also understand people do work and must be paid for their work. it’s honest; the injustice is at a cosmic level, not an individual one.