Suicide Scrapbook

I’m seventy-three, coming up on seventy-four, but can recall only a few friends who have died: plenty of acquaintances, plenty of public figures, but few friends: and only two acquaintances (and no friends) who committed suicide.

We hear about “suicide” all the time: I use the word frequently when admonishing society to pay attention to its behavior. Here I’ll tell of my one adult acquaintance with suicide and scatter comments on the subject:

Tony

Tony lived behind my friend Catherine in Sebring Gardens. (Catherine is my friend who died: she gave me her house, so now I’m back to back with the late Tony’s place, other people having come and gone there since: Florida is real musical houses, everyone old, everyone dying: but they’re not my friends!)

Tony was a sad case. No pals, no one visited him, not even family: maybe especially not family.
I once asked him, the only live body around, if he’d help me move my boat. He said yes, came with me down to Red Beach Lake where I had it under the Fitch’s dock, full of rain water. But he proved helpless, couldn’t even hold a rope: I did everything myself while he apologized. After that I avoided him. Still, when I heard he was in the hospital and Catherine begged me to visit him, I did.

Tony told me that his balls were all swollen and the doctors were going to castrate him. He told me that he was going to blow his brains out as soon as they’d cut his balls off.
Tony had shown me a hand gun once. He happened to be talking to someone who’d long ceased pretending to believe that people were good, entitled to the pursuit of happiness, should hold onto existence in this kleptocracy no matter what.
I said to Tony, “Why don’t you check out, go home, and blow your brains out before they cut your balls off?”

A couple of days later the cops were called. Tony had come home, blown his brains out, after the hospital had castrated him!
Self-loathing?

Honey, in your case low self-esteem is just good common sense!
Spanglish

Christianity admonishes us not to commit suicide. America tells us we’re free.
America tells us we’re free: but makes us go to school, makes us pay taxes, makes us go to war, pay to drop bombs on people … and puts us in jail if we attempt suicide.
You wanna suffocate? Talk about suicide outloud: and be smothered under anti-suicide experts: lead-weight bureaucrats, authorities.
My jail didn’t care that it denied me freedom, froze me near death, communicated staph infections; but boy did it offer suicide watches! supervised of course by the same morons who supervised everything else: nitwits checking on how Einstein is taught, Jesus, Darwin …
Maybe Tony had thought that I’d suffocate him with advice! No: I just steered him, in vain, away from letting the doctors complete the dis-manning of Tony.

Anyway, nice detail: the cops found Tony, dead, gun in hand, curld up against his front door. He’d put down newspapers so he wouldn’t get blood on the linoleum! Imagine the mouse wrapping itself and the trap in a baggie before taking the cheese: for easy disposal!

My buddy in college, one summer at the beach, told me I’d never commit suicide: I’m “much too sane.”

The society pretends that it’s for life, that’s why it’s against suicide. No, no, it should mind its own business, about almost everything; but: the real reason: stems from Napoleon. Napoleon took a census, counted forty million Frenchmen. The emperor of Austria heard about it! he had no idea, not within a dozen million, not within twenty million, how many Austrians he had! So Napoleon’s Frenchmen scared the hell out of the emperor, and of the king of England, and every European monarch! That’s why we can’t commit suicide, that’s why the state minds our business: so it can hope to be scaring the shit out of hostile neighbors: with numbers!
Today’s “forty-million Frenchmen” can be on life-support, couldn’t climb a fence or pull a trigger; but they’re still a number!

My buddy who once said I was sane; would he say so today? (should we care? is he half as smart now as he was then? are any of us?)
What does pk say about the likelihood of pk’s suicide? I won’t rule it out: but I’d be far more likely to start killing my enemies: and expect to die the sooner in the process.
That’s sort of what happened when the FBI arrested me: I wrote a revenge fantasy and emailed it to some of the specific people associated with institutional evils done to me: like Jesus trying to hold the Temple accountable. Of course it was a joke, every phrase screamed irony, sarcasm, symbolism … But, not accidentally, the fed goons are stone deaf, illiterate, stuck in a rut.

Anyway I’ll quote something my wife used to joke that relates: Hilary said, more than once,

Paul doesn’t get ulcers;
he gives them.

I think that’s wonderful. I don’t get ulcers: neither do I believe I’ve ever given any; but I know I give people a pain. That part’s deliberate.

Walter Reed told doctors to wash their hands. Mothers mis-repeated it to make their children wash their hands, obsessed with sin, having no clue about cleanliness and infection, impervious to learning: doctors and mothers. The doctors didn’t want to wash their hands, they didn’t; until they did: now it’s enforced! (and the doctors, who’d resisted it, take credit for the perception!)
A good habit is better than no such habit; but intelligence would be better. (If only.)

No Friends
2013 09 21 I put up a memory of a young adult suicide: George had been my friend in grade school, then he was my enemy in high school, was always sifting through my old girlfriends. He killed himself, very young.

2013 11 18 Ah, I now see I’d told my Tony story among my stories about Others. I read in that older version here, will edit, reduce another time:

2006 02 03 Neighboring Suicide
Here in Sebring Gardens, where residents come and go, some are veterans of a few decades, the bulk are visitors over-night, or for a few months, or a few years … Fourteen, fifteen years ago, a guy moved in, put a park model trailer on an empty site: ugly old thing, stripped down utilitarian, had probably been somebody’s construction site office.
Tony was in sad shape. He was a bachelor, not young, not handsome, riddled with this disease, that injury, and the other handicap. I learned that when I asked him to help me move my boat. He said yes, but then was no help: and explained why: he couldn’t lift, or carry, or push, or pull. His trailer was right behind my Catherine’s place, so I saw him as a neighbor on other occasions. I learned he had a sister who wouldn’t talk to him: and she still paid no attention after his death.

Tony got even sicker. After he had been in the hospital for more than a month I promised Catherine that I’d visit him. Catherine didn’t know him. I doubt that Catherine wanted many details. I know Catherine didn’t want to know as much as the little I knew: what I’ve just told above. But people, not just Catherine, want to feel as though they care: so they nod in passing, say hello at the rec hall dinners, and pay no further attention: which doesn’t stop them from gossiping. The bulk of the community’s information about neighbors is probably false: speculation, gossip … From what I understand they say about me, corrected information would be unlikely to help: they prefer their foundationless gossip. (I judge it has to do with class: if you’re one of them, a retired barber, or garbage collector, then accuracy counts; if you’re a writer, a teacher, a failed revolutionary, then accuracy has no importance.)

In the hospital Tony was miserable. I saw no reason for him not to be. I saw no reason to offer him false cheer. I said hello, told him Catherine asked to be remembered, asked him how he was.
Tony told me that he had water on the balls, the doctor recommended castration. He’d be released soon after the procedure. He’d have the operation, get released, go home, then blow his brains out. He had a gun. It was all planned.

Tony, I said. For Christ sake, go home now and blow your brains out. Why let them cut your balls off first?
No. He’d do it their way.
Tony comes home. A few days later somebody smelled something and the landlord found his body.
Tony had cleaned the house, covered the floor by the door with newspapers, so there’d be less mess, be easier to clean up after, huddled himself and gun against the door, and pulled the trigger.
Why in the world did he submit to the castration first? Did he hate himself? Did he feel he owed the government’s money to the doctor? give the hospital its maximum bill? Was he just trying to push Medicare closer to bankruptcy?
Maybe he wanted to be rid of his useless balls before he got rid of his useless life.

2013 11 20 Hey, Tony. Maybe you can hear me. Your old park model trailer remained empty for a long time. Then a schiz rented it from the landlord, always being carted off to the hospital, poor sweet bastard. But then the trailer got bought by a woman, her motorcycle boyfriend moved in, place remained an ugly dump for years: but now they’re redoing it! And very nicely. Installed a new entrance, painted the trim, razed your rusty old shed … It actually looks cute!

Stories by Age by Theme by Others

About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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