Watching Right of Way recently, with Bette Davis and James Stewart as elderly spouses conspiring to end their lives together, I couldn’t help but think of other films with suicidal characters. Two were mentioned unfavorably in my review: Hal Ashby’s Harold and Maude and Tom Moore’s g’night, Mother, adapted by Marsha Norman from her play.
It’s rare that I’m impressed by cinematic depictions of suicide — too often it’s trivialized or romanticized — but it happens occasionally, as in The Best of Youth, which beautifully captures the startling suddenness, and immediate finality, of the act. Mickey’s almost-suicide in Hannah and Her Sisters, and the joy he finds in Duck Soup and an unexpected relationship afterward, also struck a chord; I thought of it often almost a decade ago, when I strongly wanted to die.
Thoughts of suicide weren’t entirely new to me: I first wanted to die at the age of nine, mostly due to my temporary ileostomy. But I’d never been in any danger of actually harming myself as a kid. For one thing, I couldn’t imagine doing that to my mom, who’d worked so hard to keep me alive throughout years of illness. Additionally, I’d been told that suicides weren’t buried at my family’s Jewish cemetery*, and the thought of being buried among strangers was unpalatable to a sentimental child.
By my early thirties, burial concerns were no longer a problem — and not only because the cemetery had loosened old restrictions. After Vivian Alamain buried Carly Manning alive on Days of Our Lives when I was 10, I wrote a list of final wishes instructing my parents to have me cremated, which remains my preference today. On the other hand, worries about my mother persisted. As much as I wished to exit the planet, I struggled with whether I could do that to her.
My cat, Bob, was another problem. Skittish and generally uninterested in my company when my ex still lived with us — aside from one uncharacteristic cuddlefest during an episode of Evening Shade — he became a Velcro cat in her absence, planting himself on my chest or lap or in the crook of my arm for as long as he could each day (and overnight) for the rest of his life.
Willing Bob to a friend or relative wasn’t practical; he had minor special needs as a result of injuries sustained as a kitten and the effects of a subsequent surgery. He’d been up for adoption for the better part of a year without attracting interest by the time we brought him home. I couldn’t see my parents or siblings providing the sort of care he required and my most tenderhearted friends were already maxed out on pets.
As much as I loved my mom and Bob, I didn’t want to be here anymore. And, in a strange way, knowing that suicide was an option was what enabled me to live. I kept the possibility of it in my back pocket as I sold, donated or disposed of my belongings and prepared to sell my house. To make settling my estate easier, I created documents outlining my assets and obligations and how to retire those accounts, and specified which of my remaining possessions should be given to whom. Anything heading to far-flung recipients, I’d package and ship myself.
If I decided to go through with it I knew where I’d do it, how I’d do it, and that I’d have to carefully arrange things so first responders found my body before anyone else. I wasn’t as sure about explaining myself — my reasoning could be summarized in three words that would’ve only made things harder on the people left behind, so I never wrote it down. Timing was something else I hadn’t figured out, but I knew it was critical not to act in haste. In January or February of 2014, I made myself a deal: Wait until October.
Why October? That was when David Fincher’s Gone Girl was slated for release. Having borrowed the book from the library the previous year, I was curious how it would be adapted for the screen. Was it a genuinely compelling reason to stick around? No, of course not, I don’t like David Fincher that much. But you have to start somewhere. I’d been miserable for extended periods before and knew I could do it again. The point was to buy myself time, something I’d lose forever if I behaved impulsively. If the quality of my suffering was unchanged in the fall, I could continue with my plan.
Life went on in the meantime and, as it often does, gradually improved. In late summer, Crankenstein and I were reintroduced — our paths had uneventfully crossed months earlier — and our friendship deepened in September. On our first date in early October, neither of us mentioned that we’d spent the better part of the year not wanting to be alive. But we soon learned it was one of many things we had in common, which is why I referenced extinction in a recent post about our early movie dates. Inside the birthday card she gave me a few months later, she wrote “I’m so glad that you’re here.” So was I.
*By “my family’s cemetery,” I don’t just mean the place where they’re buried; one of my relatives founded it and another worked there for many years.