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Suicide
Suicide among men is a recognized epidemic
throughout the world. Most of us, at one time or
another, consider it, however intensely or
fleetingly, for a multitude of reasons from just
plain hopelessness to ending unbearable physical
pain. Fortunately, relatively few act on it.
Generally, women are more likely than men to make
suicide attempts, as over 50% of suicide attempts
are made by women. However, men are much more
likely to be successful at killing themselves as
they choose more lethal methods of suicide. What is
of interest here is the fact that Men account for
80% of all suicide deaths in the United States.
Although the suicide rate has remained relatively
level over the past seventy years, it is still the
8th leading cause of death among Americans.
Why do men claim this distinction so
exclusively? Obviously it is largely tied to an
inability to deal with the stresses of life in a
positive manner. This is a very complex area of
inquiry and much writing is available for the
seeking. My purpose is to bring the question into
focus for whatever good it might do.
The story you are about to read gives one man's
viewpoint on it and I offer it in the hopes that it
may create some thought provoking discussion.
WARNING: There are a couple of parts in this story
that may effect your lunch in one way or
another.
Highway 94
The bumper sticker ahead said "PRAY FOR ME, I
DRIVE HWY 94". 94 floats along now under my beat up
'80 Suzuki 650 as I pray for myself, for the bald
rear tire, the chain stretched to the max and ready
to disintegrate, taking me with it...and then
there's the California drivers--all of them talking
on their cell phones oblivious to the road.. A
smile comes to the corner of my lips. Suddenly I
find myself laughing like hell, forcing the
endorphins out of my brain and into my body,
releasing, releasing, releasing--laughing so loud
under my helmet that tears tickle down my face
causing me to laugh harder yet, fogging my visor in
the cold morning air so I can't see a thing. Then
suddenly I think, "what the hell does this puppy
have to laugh about?"...47 years old, unemployed,
over-qualified, 20 grand in debt, divorced with two
kids to take care of. One down with the flu, the
other following the Grateful Dead around the world
selling tie-dyed tee shirts.
It is April, my youngest, the one with the flu,
is a non-smoking musician. He's living with a
friend who smokes 80 packs of cigarettes a day,
taken in by the boy's neurotic mother. He's in the
eleventh grade. I'm on the streets of San Diego
today having just been evicted from the apartment
with no where to go. I would have declared
bankruptcy but I can't afford it. I don't know
where I'm going, but there is just enough gas in
the tank to get a little lonelier. Dad, the role
model, to Grandmother's house a-going.
It's raining now on Hwy 94...in southern
California, where it never rains, but has been for
two solid weeks. I pissed away a small fortune,
learning to know myself. I feel healed but I'm not
sure of what. I've found spiritual rebirth in the
discovery of my own "power"...but I'm scared as
hell. I feel the rain finding those openings into
my body that only rain and wind can find. My boots
are soaked. It's as cold as a New Hampshire winter
night. Now, even the tears are cold. Life holds no
warmth, no gentle touch, nothing soft.
The newspaper picture will show the twisted mass
of flesh and metal pancaked against the bridge
abutment. The pretty young paramedic, the one with
the tight jeans and great tits, on her way to her
first call out of training school, will throw up
when she sees my pecker hanging from the spokes of
what once was the front wheel. What kind of
experience must it be to hit a bazillion tons of
concrete on a bike at 140 miles per hour? The bike
swings south onto the interstate toward Mexico, no
one I know driving. The traffic gets lighter. I
twist the throttle and open it up to 75...80...85.
It only takes a second or two. Ah, there's the
bridge up ahead. 90...95...the adrenaline is
pumping its last hurrah. Man, this is going to be
somethin'. Splat! Scrunch! Yukk!
I guess it was the thrill, the pure soul level
choice of coming so close that made me realize I
was having too much fun in the process to actually
kill myself. Or perhaps it was running out of gas
at 97 miles an hour that did it. It really didn't
matter. I stood alone along the edge of the
highway, staring down at the easy rain as it hit
the pipes and steamed upward with a gentle hiss. My
body felt lighter than it had ever
been...safe...thrilled to be alive, to feel the
cold air in my lungs. Knowing that my life had
changed in an instant and that I had nothing to do
with it changing, I suddenly understood what
surrender was. I felt my masculinity in a way that
I had never known it before; in a way, I felt sure,
that only another man would understand. It hurt
deeply that I had no other man to share it with, to
explore it with. I wondered at that moment if there
been a woman to hear my story, could she have
understood the loneliness, the emptiness, the
desperation I felt. I think not.
Nothing had changed and everything had changed.
I was very happy to be alive.
© 2008, Kenneth F.
Byers
Other Transition Issues,
Books
* * *
A permanent state of transition is man's most
noble condition. - Juan Ramon Jimenez
Ken Byers
holds a Ph.D. in psychology with an emphasis in
Men's Studies, one of the few ever awarded in the
U.S. Ken is a full time Certified Professional Life
Coach specializing in working with men in any form
of transition and an instructor of design at San
Francisco State University.
His books, "Man
In Transition" and
"Who
Was That Masked man
Anyway" are widely
acknowledged as primers for men seeking deeper
knowledge of creating awareness and understanding
of the masculine way. More information on Ken, his
work and/or subscription information to the weekly
"Spirit Coach" newsletter which deals with elements
of the human spirit in short commentary, check the
box at www.etropolis.com/coachken/
or www.etropolis.com/coachken/what.htm
or www.etropolis.com/coachken/speak.htm
or E-Mail
You are welcome to share any of Ken's columns with
anyone without fee from or to him but please credit
to the author. Ken can be reached at:
415.239.6929.
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