Suicide

I was watching an old Dr. Phil re-run today (because daytime programming is awful!!) and saw a program about a documentary filmed at the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, which is apparently the suicide capital of the world.  It seems that 25-35 people every year decide to end their lives by jumping from the bridge...and it's not a pretty sight.

I've been under that bridge three times in my life.  The first time, at age 10, (1957) on board a Navy ship taking my family out to sea on the way to Japan.  The second and third on the same day, as my daughter and grandchildren and I were visiting San Francisco (2010), taking a boat tour of the harbor.  We went under the bridge, then turned around and went under it again on our way back to shore.  Thank God, no one jumped from it on any of those occasions!

Since I'm pretty much all snowed in here, I rely a lot on TV and have only myself to talk to...and Facebook...and my blog.  The best part about that is no one is here to argue with me, so everything I think or say seems profound to me.  I have long judged suicide as a coward's way out of tough situations.  September 11, 2001, changed that idea for  me.  The jumpers....oh, yes, the jumpers...raised the question of "no other choice" with me.  In researching some of that, I came upon the story of a photographer who was trying to identify one 9/11 jumper whose family (or supposed family) became totally incensed with him for suggesting that their dead loved one could have been one of the jumpers.  Why?  I would have thought they'd be satisfied to know what had transpired, but they were not.  Because they were Catholic.  According to Catholic belief, those who kill themselves cannot be buried in consecrated cemeteries, nor can their souls go to Heaven to be reunited with their loved ones after death.  I was blown away by the mentality that the family could not see beyond this to the reality of what their loved one had to endure in order to make the split-second decision to jump to an instant death rather than die in agony.  Try as I might, I don't understand it.

I guess I am lucky.  I've been depressed from time to time.  Even horribly depressed.  Only twice in my life, however, did I consider that it had no meaning and would be better were I not here.  I could never commit suicide, but I did (suddenly) understand the thinking.  The first time was in 1998--which I will not talk about here--at a time when I was so utterly ashamed at my behavior and what I faced that I didn't even want to get up in the mornings.  The next time lasted much longer, caused by a family situation that had me searching deperately for a way out of the hole.  I'm not sure I will ever completely get over that one, but I have forgiven and tried to move on. 

I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, but one of them has NOT been lack of caring.  I can't fix the past, and I don't have resources to fix the future, but no one can accuse me of giving up.  Thank God for that!