My brother committed suicide 6 months ago. When my mother told me, the first thing I thought was, “Oh! What a relief!”
I was on the metro in Paris heading to a coffee date with a friend. My phone had bad service, and as the call dropped I realised that “what a relief” probably seemed like a strange response. The world began to crawl by in slow motion, as if nothing was real, like I was swimming through bitter quicksand in my mind. Suddenly everything around me went blurry, and I was no longer in Paris.
My memories flickered to a time with my brother; I was 11 years old and was perched on my plastic snow sled. He was about to push me down a snow-covered hill in the Appalachian Mountains. During the long mountain winters, the lush green forests are blanketed with gentle drifts of snow. If you mindfully walk through them, you will feel an absolute peace that weaves through the silent beauty of the quiet woods. The frigid fingers of winter hold your heart gently, like a frosty yet fragile winter vine, leaving it’s cold traces in your memory forever. No matter where you go in the world, if you grew up with an Appalachian winter, then you will never forget it, and you will never have that same sensation of peace in nature again. In addition to the majesty of winter in the forest, these snow-capped hills, once covered in snow, make sledding slopes for ramps where we could catch “ultimate air”.
“Hang on, ok?” Adam commanded as he wound up and pivoted on one foot to launch me down our favourite hill.
“Yea, Yea, fine. GO!” I shouted. I was a brave kid, I feared nothing and took every risk I could when adventuring. He pushed with all the strength his 14-year-old arms could muster up. It was more than I expected. In seconds I was soaring through the air, my stomach still firmly planted on the ground at the top of the slope. I felt as though I was flying through the universe at a thousand miles per hour, the snow whizzing past me at lightning speed like a million tiny shooting stars. I don’t think I even had time to blink before I landed, crashing back into reality and completely losing my breath as the air was effectively knocked out of me. I lied on the ground paralysed, eyes wide, desperately trying to fill my lungs with air. Adam raced down the slope, kneeling at my side.
“Oh my god, are you ok? Come on! You’re fine! I’m sorry! Take a big deep breath! Please don’t tell mom!” He pleaded with me as he shook me and patted me on the back. I stared up at the sky and, with all the strength that I had, took a deep breath. I felt the cold air rush into my lungs as the physical panic of my crash landing began to subside. I chuckled and gave him a thumbs-up, “I’m ok. I’m ok.” I wheezed.
Adam was always there to tell me I’m ok, that everything will be ok. After my divorce, after the war, after my mom’s cancer. Everything would be fine.
“Prochain arrêt, Châtelet.” I had to get out of the metro. I had to think. I told myself, “I’m ok. I’m ok.” I had to call the whole family. The day was a blur of everyone crying, sharing memories, and of course, asking “why?” This was the question that was repeated continuously in every phone call, and the inevitable, “What could we have done?” Strangely enough, I only cried when I saw my family crying. I felt the pain in their eyes and heard the sorrow in their shaking voices. My response when I was by myself was just to look at something, usually, the floor, shake my head and say, “goddamnit” or just stare at the ceiling and wonder about the spirit that he had in his human body. I don’t know why I did that, but that’s what I did.
I became a student of Stoicism about 2 years ago, during a philosophy class at my university. I always practised certain aspects of Stoicism, like accepting that death is inevitable, (attempting) living each day like was my last, and doing negative visualisations. I hadn’t thought much about the non-judgement of suicide, though. I knew quite well Seneca’s and Marcus Aurelius’ thoughts about seeing each day as a beautiful gift, a chance to rejoice in being alive, being able to love, and simply being grateful for the health and wealth (however great or small) that you have. And I knew that sometimes living was a great act of courage, and I wholeheartedly agree with this. I never learned much about the fact that suicide was once viewed as an acceptable last resort though until 2018, when I studied more in-depth the Stoic views on death and suicide. This acceptance of death and suicide is most-likely horrifying to many people as it is, in modern society, a great struggle to keep people here, many times, whether they like it or not. Why else is it such a profound battle to decide whether Euthanasia is an ethical practice?
At the same time as we question the ethics of suicide, when it happens, we must reflect on our personal values regarding ending our precious life to escape unbearable suffering. I, for one, never thought I would be confronted with the question, “Do I respect his decision to end his life or do I live in anger that he didn’t endure this suffering longer?” Do I let him go or do I wish that he would have reached out one more time?
During this time of suffering, it’s interesting to see the “modes of mourning”, as I refer to them. People suddenly withdraw into themselves, or they explode like a firework of emotions, burning others with their grief and demanding that the world mourn as they do. Perhaps the most challenging part of the grieving process is that, according to society, there is a prescribed way to do it. We are expected to be sad, to be destroyed and, especially with suicide, to be angry at the person who seemingly left us behind to grieve them.
But how could I be angry at him for having ended his suffering after he tried tirelessly to fight it for 13 years?
I remember the look in his eyes when he returned from Iraq, an eternal sadness, two deep seas of sorrow, not for himself though, sorrow for the cruelty of humanity and that he was a part of this society that destroyed the lives of so many innocent people. And he was part of this miserable game at the tender age of 18. He was one of many young people who participated in the birth of the Iraq invasion and then was expected to return to society and engage as a normal human being after a year in a war zone.
Stoics are well known for having believed in the idea of that death is an open door, and you can always choose to go through this portal if you think that life is unbearable. Before I became a student of Stoicism I found that, more often than not, life was pain but I just kind of trudged through because, I guess, I was too cowardly to end it myself. I knew that I did not have the courage to take my own life, to simply remove myself from the equation. My brother, on the other hand, had decided he’d suffered long enough.
I think, as mere humans, we rarely think of how we will process grieving if it ever comes knocking on the proverbial door of life (and death). We consider the loss, of course, but in many cases we also are torn apart by the thoughts of how they died. In the case of my brother, it was violent suicide. This tragedy and grieving became a discovery of the value my Stoic beliefs had for me.
After I got the news of his death, I could think of nothing better to do than walk. I had just gotten through the worst of the wretched flu that was sweeping through France, and I should have been at home resting, but I couldn’t sit and do nothing. The moment my mom called me, and I left the metro, I started walking. I walked for a few hours, stopped for wine to numb my breaking heart, and then walked home and lied in bed thinking. I felt incredibly grateful in this moment… that I was alive, healthy enough to go walking and able to keep waking up in the morning and persist, despite the challenges that each day brought. The next day I woke up, did some work and started walking again, trekking 15 kilometres around the city before I collapsed into a bus seat and returned home. As I continued walking each day, I felt an increasing feeling of lightness for him. He wasn’t suffering anymore, and all my love for him told me that he was at peace now. That his pain was over.
I could not forget him telling me everything will be ok though. And through Stoicism, I was able to remind myself that everything was, indeed, going to be ok.
Stoic teachings helped me to have a bit more control over my grief. I realised how much of a gift life is and how precious each day is. This, in turn, helped me to feel at peace with my brother’s choice to end his punishment of misery.
How is this possible? It’s easy to dismiss this method of thinking as “good vibes only” and get caught up in the positive thinking movement of refusing to believe that anything bad can happen as long as we think positively. Stoicism is not this, though. Unfortunately, bad things do happen, and we can only understand that, more often than not, we have no control over them. Therefore I am not suggesting to subscribe to the idea of “good vibes only” but, instead to try gratitude exercises and negative visualisations to prepare yourself for when life goes wrong.
To practice gratitude is easy if you are thankful for the small things you take for granted. Start with the idea that each day is a gift and be grateful to open your eyes and see the world around you. For me, this is to feel the warmth of the first sip of coffee or the drag of an early cigarette while watching the sun rising over the darkness of the night.
Gratitude is much easier when we think of what we could lose.
I could be without food, without a home, without friends. I could be in a country suffering war, famine or state-sanctioned violence against women. The fact of the matter is though, that I am not suffering these things. All people are all suffering in one way or another and I am very fortunate to not suffer more than others. I understand how the everyday inconveniences in life can cause people to be overwhelmed, how the suffering can become too much. This is why it’s ok to reach out, to find a therapist, to learn how to deal with these struggles.
Stoic practice can help us to have a reality check each day, to evaluate our situation, and to understand our own reactions through learning that while we do not control other’s responses to life, we can control our own.
Stoicism has so much to offer in everyday life, and it is also a beneficial philosophy for dealing with grief and loss. No one wants to think one day they might receive a phone call that a loved one is gone. Before you do, it’s best to think of the questions you could ask yourself if it happened. Could you have helped them? Where you kind and empathetic to them? And also, how do you live your life without them? Do you live as if each day and relationship is a gift or are you always waiting for something or someone better? These are questions that can be quickly answered if you imagine that person is no longer here today, i.e. negative visualisation.
And after you’ve asked yourself these questions, reach out and contact those you love. Make sure everyone that you care about knows that they are a gift to your life, tell them that you appreciate them and that you are there for them. It’s as easy as sending a heart emoji. Send a message to tell someone you’re here for them. You don’t have to block hours out of your day to show you care. Instead of doing a 5-minute scroll through Instagram, tell someone you’re there. Here’s a perfect message that you can even copy and paste if you’re really that lazy: “Hey! How are you doing? :)” It’s as easy as that.
Since my brother died, I have heard many “what-ifs” So instead of waiting until the phone call, think today, right now, of how you would miss someone. And then tell them you love them and remember that your life and theirs is a gift. Live well.
PS. If you or someone you know are considering suicide please reach out. Your life is a precious gift and you are worth it. Here is a link to the international suicide hotline, because your life matters. http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html
