On Suicide

Apparently, this is Suicide Prevention Week. I learned this from reading the op-ed in my local newspaper. I was informed that of the top 10 leading causes of death in America, suicide is the only one trending upward. I was given warning signs to look for in my friends and family members and a number to call in case I myself begin to consider checking out of Life's hotel before I'm forcibly removed. And then I read, "If you're thinking about taking your own life, know that it doesn't solve or end your problems. It takes you away from solving them yourself." Au contraire.

Whatever else you can say of suicide, it actually does end your problems. By taking action and ending your own miserable existence, you have solved those problems yourself. I'm not so sure why we spend so much effort trying to discourage suicides. The end is coming whether we court it or not. I admire those courageous enough to take matters into their own hands and brave the darkness before the bell tolls for them. Of course, it isn't merely an expression of bravery. There is a much more important variable; pain. Usually severe emotional pain. And whenever the pain of being alive becomes more prominent than the fear of death, you get a suicide. I could probably make a chart that would better illustrate this grisly point. But that seems like it would be a pain in the ass.

I'm not attempting to encourage suicides. But neither do I think they should be discouraged. The only "point" of existing is to enjoy yourself. If it isn't enjoyable, then why do it? You don't have a duty to exist. You don't have to face the prospect of another painful and degrading day just to make someone else marginally happier. There is nothing immoral or untoward about walking away from the table before the dealer takes all of your money. A few more years in the grave won't mean anything in the proverbial grand scheme of things.

Personally, I plan to enjoy life as much as possible until the Grim Reaper arrives uninvited. I will greet him with a drink in my hand and a smirk on my face. He will try to explain that he is only doing his job. And I will say, "fuck you". He will remain unperturbed. He will look into my soul and immediately know the truth of the matter. He will not be confused as to which was too small; my pain or my courage.

The Bare Chested Preacher

I am a man who loves his bourbon. To me it is right up there with baseball and the Fuzzbuster as the greatest things to ever come out of America. But as summer approaches in Indiana and the weather becomes more hospitable to insects than to men, I begin to thirst for gin & tonic. I had already finished one glass of the salubrious elixir and mixed a second when I noticed an elderly gentleman walking briskly by. The purpose of his walk seemed to be fitness. He had abandoned his shirt in his quest to reduce his disproportionately rotund midsection. But exercise was not his only mission, as I was soon to find out. He did not walk alone. He walked with God.

My two youngest children were there playing on the second story balcony as I attempted to concentrate on the Cubs game playing on the little pink radio nearby. They are very social, my children. They enjoy meeting new people. They have not yet learned that the vast majority of humanity is obnoxious and should be avoided in the same manner in which they attempt to avoid picking up the toys that they've strewn across my apartment. My darling Emerson, the irresistible six year old girl with ridiculously curly hair, was the first to shout out salutations to the bare chested stranger. After he responded in kind, she moved swiftly to the next part of her routine and asked the stranger's name. He said his name was Bill. (Actually, I don't remember what he said. His name very well may have been Bill, but I didn't bother to retain that information. This is a defect that is inherent in my brain and should in no way be attributed to the gin.) "Bill" then exchanged pleasantries with my son Towbin who, as Emerson excitedly explained to the man, would be turning three years old the next day. I was quite happy to let them have their little chat as I pondered both my role in the universe as a cynical optimist (or is it optimistic cynic?) and Joe Maddon's strategy of batting Addison Russell behind the pitcher. But Bill saw this as an opening. He would insert the crowbar of genuine friendliness into that opening and pry until he had enough space in which to enter and proselytize more comfortably.

"Are you on the phone?" he asked me.
"No, I'm just texting."
"Pardon?"
"I'm just texting", I reiterated as I lifted the phone to show him.
"What's your name?"

The conversation had begun. He went on to tell me that he was a preacher at a church near Peru (Pee-ru), Indiana. He explained how he had not become a pastor until he turned 60. He revealed that he had been abused by a teacher and/or coach when he was a child. Towbin interrupted to inquire as to what had happened to his shirt. "I left it back there on the sidewalk. I got tired of carrying it", explained Bill. This answer seemed to satisfy my son. Bill then asked if I attended a church. I told him that I did not, but that I had grown up in a little church on Adams Street. He wanted to know what had happened. Was I no longer a believer? I suggested that God might be dead. Bill did not hesitate to go right to work trying to persuade me that I was wrong. You see, Bill had personally heard the One True God speak audibly to him on multiple occasions. The Great I Am had directed him to become a preacher, to join the military, and to marry the girl he went on a blind date with...before the blind date was even set! Truly astounding. As I looked over his sun bronzed belly, I began to wish that the good Lord was indeed alive so that he might instruct Bill to put his shirt back on. I took another sip from my gin & tonic and asked Bill if God was omnipotent. "Of course He is." Is he omnipresent? "Of course He is." Then God has the power to make me believe in him. And if I don't, it's because he has chosen not to convince me. "But you have free will!"

Ah! Free will! The liberty to choose between conflicting ideas and then to act or not act accordingly. I must admit that it warms my libertarian heart to think of the Supreme Being contentedly observing his creation and only lending a hand when asked in the proper spirit. A benevolent, yet unobtrusive, father who will always be there to gently guide you through the confusing and seemingly malevolent universe which he has constructed for you. But what if you should choose unwisely? What if you should shun the holy advice of The Most High God? That's when the avuncular facade of the All Mighty vanishes to reveal a vengeful maniac who seethes with anger at the audacity of such a pathetic and inferior creature that would  choose to exercise his free will in a manner in which the Good Lord disagrees. You shall be banished to an eternity of ruthless torture. Amen.

Bill and I continued our conversation until the sun slumped beneath the horizon and the gin glass begged to be refilled. The children retreated to the indoors with their older sister, safe from the vexatious proboscides of the thirsting mosquitoes. He did most of the talking and I enjoyed hearing his point of view. You or I might think that the idea of gay marriage unleashing demons on the land, for example,  is absurd. But you can't say it isn't at least interesting or entertaining. Well, maybe you can. But you'd be wrong. We parted ways amicably, he inviting me to attend his church and I politely declining his cordial invitation. I went back inside to retrieve the most powerful evidence that there is indeed a god and that he loves us, and poured the contents over some ice.