Suicide brings with it guilt, an array of social branding, and many questions, including the questioning of social mores. The monumental cultural stigma attached to suicide can, for survivors, stifle the process of healing, extend, or even prevent it entirely. It is awkward to talk openly about an option that is so socially ostracized. Tell someone that your child has died as a result of a long-term illness, and you will likely receive an abundance of sympathy and support. Mention suicide and it is apparent that the uncomfortable reaction is laced with suspicion, fear of contagion, and just plain abandonment. Most people in their ignorance and fright simply don't know how to deal with the choice. It is as if by acknowledging suicide, like a plague it may inflict them personally. Challenging these social schools of thought, challenging religious dogma, I sought personal answers by escaping into books. Ridding myself of the orthodox beliefs that had attached themselves to my opinion, I began as a clean slate. I read, meditated, prayed to the Gods and Goddesses, and to Nature Herself. I hid in books. In thousands of engulfing tunnels of words and waves of thoughts, I swirled. I drown there. Bombarding my brain cells with an informational holocaust, I read anything that could possibly help me to find my own answers, anything that might be useful in assisting me with interpreting the pain and loss, and perhaps help me in finding a peace within (and undeniably, an escape from without). Books written by professed channelers and clairvoyants, written about life after death, about spirituality, thanatology, universal beliefs, about unexplained phenomena, or about healing occupied my every moment. I studied physics and metaphysics, western and eastern religions, and the path of the pendulum in between. In the depths of the writings of those authors who were able to peak my interest with experiences, facts and philosophies, I sifted, sorted, discarded, and embraced. Emerging like a torpedo, I exited the surface of the inner journey. Wisdom in the form of opinion was now my trophy. A core belief I now espouse is that we all do absolutely choose how and when we die. Whether by accident, sudden trauma, age-related incident, or suicide, at some level of intelligence we have made a pact to let go of the vehicle that houses our soul. Pre-birth, an agreement was formed that we would be born into an environment that is conducive to the experiences we desire to explore (“What was I thinking?” you may ask!). We agreed to examine in its entirety the human condition, that which is of emotion connected with physical, sensual, and perceptive. Thus, we made a compact to face the totality of all aspects of the escapades we stumble into, that which we set up for ourselves. And, as humans we do set ourselves up on occasion! We incessantly create our subjective realities to support all of our notions about everything, as well as to create opportunities for investigating the specific life position we have chosen. However often we pretend it is otherwise, pretending, perhaps, to be victimized through no fault or choice of our own, we are absolutely the ones making the choices of how we experience this life. Whether we decide to look at life as lacking, with limitations placed on our every situation, or as a life of grand and infinite resources is our choice alone. We are not puppets. We are all responsible for creating our subjective realities, of internalizing thoughts that either fertilize our successes or our shortcomings, in short, we are all making choices, constantly, that define our lives. This includes the exercise of our own demise. The way that we die makes a statement about how we lived, not solely when death is by suicide. My son did not shoot himself in the heart as if to stop the searing pain from a broken relationship. He shot himself in the head as if to quiet the chatter of his intellect. A clear message is told when one hangs oneself. One must feel a lack of control over their life, with nowhere to turn, much as when a “hung jury” must give up in frustration. It is no accident that people die daily from heart “attacks,” or more succinctly put, from broken hearts, or from a heart that turns on them like a once favored pet. It is no accident that people have brain eruptions, explosions in their heads, or that they manifest crippling diseases of their central nervous systems. Simple meditation, slowing down and getting in touch with one’s inner guidance, and seeking inner peace can quell the chatter, clear the head, and lower the blood “pressure,” yet people succumb often to stroke and other tension related diseases. It is quite explainable that one’s immune system would turn in and attack the very body that houses the soul if one is out of touch, is alienated from the self, if one sees their self as separate, as a stranger to either avoid or conquer. Space is not “the last frontier” as popular theory holds. The majority of humans fear seeing their self more than they fear any other frontier. Insight, looking into one’s own self is so intimidating that few humans ever dare to cross the threshold, to risk entry into their personal odyssey. Try it. Look directly at yourself in a mirror and continue to look into your own eyes. What do you see? Do you see at all? Do you have trouble making eye contact with yourself? How often do we really see what’s in the mirror looking back? If we peer too long surely that reflection will see us, reveal us for who we really are.... Glance quickly, and then only at small clips, otherwise exposure like a candid black and white glossy photograph will catch us as we are. Just as a candid shot may catch us in an unflattering pose, we may not like what we see. Better to pretend, avoid details and hide behind disguises and households of kitsch than to let down the facades, the barriers that offer the illusion of defense. People fear meditation and introspection as if they will be devoured in their respective quicksand. Rather, they run outward to the streets for noise and idle chatter to mask them, to shield their true selves from others, but more so, to hide their individual selves from the harshest judge of all, themselves. As if they will get lost among their own minds’ mazes and like Hansel and Gretel struggle or perhaps not find their way back, like being on a bad drug “trip,” or in a coma, they refuse to take the journey inward. The pass key to all of life’s locked cubbies may be found peacefully, and without drugs, without strife or disaster, inside of ourselves, yet most look elsewhere, anywhere else but inside! The possibilities are simply too intimidating. Clearly, this is a learned behavioral response. Death is symptomatic of each individual’s interpretation of life. It is a directly correlated example of our respective lives. And how are you responding to this message? What are your guts telling you at this very moment about you? What will how you die say about how you lived? And if you knew your days were numbered, what would you do? What priorities would surface? Your days are numbered. And you cannot remember what that number is so you have no idea of where in line you are. Now which priorities surface? |
| Blessings In The Mire ~ Excerpt |
| BAPTISM in BOOKS |
Blessings In The Mire, Copyright 2008. All Rights Reserved.
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