Jealous of the Dead: Standing Between the Living and the Lost

[Content Warning: Suicide]

For when suicide is both the question and the answer.

It's the anniversary of a friends suicide. All the emotions I spend a lot of time pushing down and avoiding have swum back to the top to resurface, taking deep gulps of air as we become reacquainted. It's painful. I don't want it. I am a person who is deeply sentimental and tightly bound into my familial culture of remembrance of the dead. I have rituals for every occasion, but sometimes, like today, I don't want to remember. All I want is the next few days to pass in a blur, as I stuff it all back down, resenting the mere fact this day exists... And that is different for me. I tried thinking about why, and realised a lot of the feelings I have just don't fit neatly into suicide bereavement spaces. So I don't know what to do with them. Especially not right now, when I am fighting suicidal ideation myself.

I grew up in a household shaped and defined by the grief only a suicide can leave in its wake. Baked into the bricks and mortar. Who I am today, my very being, was molded by the suicide of a family member. It's weird to think about. I wouldn't be me if he wasn't dead. But he is, and I am. And what I learned growing up was that no-one ever wants to talk about suicide.

I decided, instead, a really long time ago, everyone in the world held a vote, drew straws, and the one who drew the shortest now sits eternally in a random-phrase factory, churning out useless platitudes, sayings, clichés, and slogans (most horrible and stigmatising, some awful, some just boring) to ensure no-one ever really has to say anything of substance ..its ok not to be ok; there is no "right way" to react; they were in too much pain to carry on; they chose the easy way out/they were selfish; they are at peace now; they passed their pain on to you; they chose a permanent solution to a temporary problem; just ask for help; its ok to be angry; grieving looks different for everyone; grief is just love with nowhere to go; there was nothing you could have done; they were/weren't weak; they thought they were a burden/they thought you would be better off... blah blah blah... 

So many useless words. And they never really get at the heart of it, do they. They dont capture the mingled guilt and shame of being alive, knowing you didn't stop them. The pain of imagining their final moments, or worse, the horror of remembering those moments.. of having been there yourself, seeing what you can't unsee. Nothing captures the swinging back and forth of your mind as it races to try and remember everything possible about the person you lost, while counting up every single question you know will never be answered. The questions you never dared ask. The questions you thought you had more time to ask. The questions you hadn't even thought of yet. The one big question that you will never really know the answer to, no matter how much you guess. No-one can prepare you for how the weirdest things can floor you. Like hearing a cool song or seeing a new film and your first thought being "I wonder what they think of it?", remembering you can't ever know in that split second you'd plan to text them. The wordlessness of how strange it is to overtake someone's age - becoming older than a person who should have always been older than you. Forgetting what they looked like, and wondering if you ever really loved them. Laughing at a joke and being filled up with hatred for allowing yourself to feel happy. The unrelenting regret of knowing you weren't enough for them to stay. The never-ending "what if"s...  

But even within the bereaved circles who dare give voice to these unsayable things, there are still some thoughts which remain inside.. and its those which are plaguing me right now. 

I'm sad my friend is dead, but if I push past all the shame and self-loathing to the truth, right now I am more sad that I am alive. I wish she was here, I wish I could have fixed everything for her, I wish she had stayed one more day and called me.. but beneath it, I am jealous. Jealous she got to die, while I am forced to live. And yes, I can hear myself. The words "got to die", like its a privilege. Don't worry, I know I'm a piece of shit. Got to die. The words feel like blasphemy, and still, they’re the truest thing I can say. Because as a person who also shares a skin with suicidality; who has survived attempts I wish I hadn't; a person who feels obligated to live, to keep those around me alive and happy, I feel a deep and unrelenting envy that she got to let go, to put it all down, to release all her responsibilities.. and I can't. 

People talk about "protective factors" in suicide. Protective factors are the things in a person's life which stop or make it harder for a person to kill themselves. Mental health services make you list them out as if they are wonderous magical things which keep you alive through joy or happiness. But in my experience, protective factors often work through guilt. Weighing your pain against the pain of knowing what you will do to others if you die. Maybe your family, your spouse, your friends, your animals.. thinking through what you will be taking from them, what you will be carving out of their lives.. wondering, will they even survive this? Will I kill someone else too? I have lived the unexpected consequences of others' suicides. I know how far the ripples travel. It's not a fun thought journey. It might stop you killing yourself, it might be super effective, but it isnt nice. Not at all. But you do it anyway, you sit and weigh: How much longer can I protect them from this pain? What do I need to do to make sure I can keep them safe? Is there a way I can die and they not experience this? 

It goes round and round. And so when someone around me pulls that cord and cuts themselves free of this life, yes I grieve them, yes I feel all the same things everyone else does, but I also wish it could be me. And, honestly, its the shittiest feeling of them all.. because I can see the devastation. I am standing in the wreckage of a bomb blast, witnessing carnage, and sometimes the only thing I can think is "fuck I wish it was me". Knowing only too well the world ended for so many people when that bomb went off. 

I am overwhelmed with grief right now. For her, for me, for everyone I've lost. But how can I explain that I both wish they had stayed, while I want to be allowed to leave? I feel like the worst kind of hypocrite. Denying others the peace I so desperately wish for myself..

So I don't talk about it. I push it down with the rest, feeling ashamed and guilt ridden, like an old piece of furniture, eaten away by woodworm... the anger and jealousy and unfairness of it all, writhing through me, leaving a trail of gnawed pathways in my skeleton.

When I was younger, I remember thinking that people who hadn't experienced a suicide bereavement were lucky, because of the pain of it. Now I feel they are lucky for a whole other reason. Everyone who went before me in my family and friendship groups, its like they all got in on something before I ever had a chance. A suicide pyramid scheme, if you will. I've never been lucky enough to not know what suicide does to those around. Even generations later. The pain doesn't just disappear. It lingers forever, and I have to go through knowing exactly what I would do to those around me, every time I begin to contemplate suicide.. most often choosing to stay, even when I can't go on any more. Even when every fibre of my being is screaming, LET ME DIE. 

So yes, today, in the middle of my own fight between life and death, I didn’t want to remember my friend, because I didn't want to open the door to the sharpness of grief mixed with envy. The pain of the guilt of the heaviness of my feelings for myself, alongside those for her. The burning shame for making her death about me. The sickness of wishing something for myself while holding the exact pain and knowledge of what that wish would do to the people who love me.

But it doesn't help. It doesn't make any of it easier. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't not think of her today. I always will. I miss her. I would give anything for her to still be here. But I'm also bitterly envious that she went where I cannot.

Wren