As morbid as it may sound, I feel as though suicide is haunting me, much like the grim reaper haunts those that he is about to take from this world. While perusing the New York Times web site this evening I found an article on the death of Sylvia Plath’s son-an act of suicide. This is an irony-and a tragedy-that I’m sure is not lost on many, as Plath herself is infamous for her own death-also self-inflicted, having stuck her head into her oven. As the article clarifies, this event took place while her son and daughter slept close by.
Reading this article immediately reminds me of a movie I watched last week-Milk. This film tells the story of Harvey Milk, the first openly gay man elected to a major office. In this film, and indeed throughout Milk’s struggles for gay rights, references were made of the many young gay men who took their lives-depressed by their inability to live a full, open life or were struck by grief when they did come out and found those closest to them unable to accept them for who they truly were. One of Milk’s boyfriends even commits suicide, fully depicted in the film, pushing this reality to the forefront of the viewer’s mind.
While watching this, I couldn’t help but find a personal connection to a close family friend, Eric, who killed himself in January of 2005, soon after coming out to friends and family. While I am unclear as to the exact events that led to his action, I can’t help but believing that part of his decision to take his own life stemmed from reactions to his announcement. I can’t speculate what exactly drove him to suicide, especially because, knowing his parents, I can’t imagine either of them doing anything that would make him doubt their love for him. My younger brother Brian, who grew up with Eric, in the same grade since we were all in preschool together, was one of the first people who Eric came out to. I know that Brian felt a great deal of guilt about this, and I don’t know if he ever got over it. I think one part of suicide is that after it happens people don’t really talk about it. After the immediate emotional response is over it becomes internalized and people deal with it on an individual level. I wish Brian, and all of us, could talk about this more.
This connects so well to another suicide-my uncle’s. Not long before Eric killed himself, my uncle took his life, right before Christmas of 2004. The silence surrounding this suicide has been strongly felt-I don’t know how it happened, our family didn’t go to the memorial service, and we haven’t spoken of it since. At all. I wish we could talk about it more.
Thinking of these two prominent instances of suicide within my life, I consider the fight that Harvey Milk was fighting. As a voice for the gay rights movement he tried to bring into public consciousness the realities of young gay men and women, his “brothers and sisters” as he called them, whose lives he was fighting for, literally. I can only imagine how hard this was, considering the fact that we don’t like to think about suicide, talk about it, deal with it. This makes waging a movement, with suicide as a major part of the problem being addressed, all the more difficult.
Finally, I can bring it back to Sylvia Plath’s and her son’s death. I think of all the famous people who have committed suicide, whose stories have become a part of pop culture, a headline, a piece of gossip. It’s as though we are all yearning to talk about suicide but can’t address the instances that are closest to us. It’s easier to talk about those cases from which we are removed, the people who are merely characters on a movie screen, people who are not real to us. It allows us to talk about suicide from a distance. But really it seems to me that we would all benefit more by dealing more directly with the suicide that we know in our own lives. I at least know that this is true for myself.