Into The Blank

My friend, Beth, hanged herself last Thursday night. I hate that word. Hanged. Why can’t it be hung? Why can’t it be a word I am familiar with? A word I have used one thousand times before... we hung the pictures, we hung the diapers, we hung up our coats. Why does the past tense of this word ONLY when relating to people have to be hanged? I hate that word. A word that whenever I really was thinking about the word “hung” and would see typo-s to the past tense (oh in the past hang becomes hanged-wait no, hang doesn’t follow that regular past tense formula, well it does but never that we need to worry about. People don’t get hanged anymore. That was lynching. That word is irrelevant. No it’s not.) My 8th grade language arts teacher Ms. Wood is forever looming in my brain with her one blurb grammar lessons “pictures are hung, people are hanged.” Hanged. You’re right, she was hanged. The emotions that go along with suicide are so much more vastly complex than I ever could imagine. And now back to 7th grade health class, Brenna saying “suicide is the most selfish action you can take”. I thought about it then and just felt guilty for being a person who had ever wished for death. Wished for the strength to kill. I never would have hanged myself though. People who hang themselves are serious. That was my thinking back then, 12 years old, an outcast in my family, at my school, socially, everywhere. I’d never have the courage to go out that way though. Walking out of the ICU at Brigham and Women’s hospital this past weekend, I felt selfish. I wanted Beth to live. In my mind, this would be the death of her depression, not her death in general. Sure, it would be a tough road, but false future memories cloudied up my mind. Beth sitting with me and Kevin and her adorably devious grin, “you bitches wouldn’t let me die,” gently shaking her fist as we all laughed. Beth was back. She was her old self again. She was the Zephanie I once knew, years ago, when we first met. She was still making music, still a young and free spirit, still diagnosed with lupus and trying to stay positive. Maybe it was the death sentence of Lupus that kept her going. They thought it was so progressed. The doctors told her the next step was chemo and the only thing after constant chemo was to die of leukemia eventually. Maybe Beth saw that as a promise. A promise that it all would end. And once she was stripped of her Lupus diagnosis and told “hey you actually have Fibromyalgia. you aren’t going to die!” she thought that now she had a diagnosis of suffering for another 50+ years. That’s how she spoke of life. That is was pain and suffering. When Frank died, she didn’t kill herself. In my mind, looking back, I subconsciously took that as “Beth will never kill herself,” since the level of guilt, heartache and anger she had then didn’t push her to the edge. I always knew she wanted to. I never thought she’d actually do it. Two years and almost 6 months later, she did. It was seemingly impulsive. No note. No plan. Hurry Kevin away and just do it. How long was she gone? How long was she hanged? No one knows. Did she cry? Was she just so focused and enraged that she didn’t show any emotion while getting herself attached to the door knob? What would it mean if she did cry? Or didn’t? Did she have a fleeting moment of regret as she couldn’t breathe but was still alive for a split second? Did she try to scream? Did she try to cry out for Kevin with her last breath? I want answers! I want her to have wanted to live! I want her to be here and be happy and be better! I want her to know we all love her and for that to be enough. So, who is selfish in suicide? This is what she wanted. She said it a million times. She hoped and prayed for the strength to die. I fear that I am selfish. I am selfish for wanting her to survive. I am selfish for looking at the EEG monitor, and with everything in me, wanting it to start reacting. If I say the right thing, if I say it loud enough, funny enough, cheerful enough, caring enough... she’d be there. She never came back. It was selfish of us to try. Looking back at my stays in mental hospitals, the suicide savees were always still dead on the inside. Maybe they would heal and be thankful that they survived. Truly thankful, not just for a moment here and there. But then you see the repeat customers. The people who think “Why the fuck can I not even do this right? I can’t even take myself out properly, what the fuck is wrong with me?” Now they have to sit there and “get better” or forever wait in the purgatory of safety provided by those blank walls and gated windows, guarded stairs, and watchful medics. They watch you harder when it’s your second stay. Or do they watch you less? They already know you’re hopeless, that you’ll just do it again. You’re not to be trusted. They’ll just look in your notes and give you the meds and forget about you because there is nothing they can do. Is that what we were doing? Watching your machines? Thinking saving your body would somehow rebirth your spirit? You’d be happy we saved you? That was my biggest BIGGEST fear. Not that you’d die. But that you’d hate us for saving you.