so right now i’m about to finish up with #3 of my perzine. i need it to be done by next weekend for a zinefest in brooklyn. for #4, i want to write about the history of mental illnesses in my family. below i’ll be writing a whole jumbled mess of ideas for it. if you are sensitive to topics relating to suicide, mental health, or self harm, please read with caution.
a lot of the time people don’t believe it when i’m upset by something. at school, when classmates approach me in the library to ask if i’ve gotten started on a paper due the next week, i almost always give a nonchalant answer similar to, “no, but it’ll get done”. in return, they almost always give a frantic response similar to, “what? i’ve been freaking out about this for weeks!” it really seems to bother people that i’m so…unbothered by what they think i should be stressing out about. i have always been able to separate myself from chaotic situations, and it frustrates the people around me. if i would fight with a partner in private then be with a group of mutual friends, i would always be pleasant and interested in conversation. meanwhile, my partner would be festering with unrest over our disagreement and be a huge asshole to our friends – and therefore, would be even more upset with me that i seemed so calm and collected. i create a disconnect between my inner and outer monologues in stressful situations because i don’t think its an appropriate place to air out my dirty laundry or impose such negativity on those who don’t deserve it.
my 27-year-old cousin recently committed suicide. i wasn’t very close to him and only met him a handful of times in my life. i learned the most about him through secondhand tales told my my grandmother, who described him as “a troubled young man”. he was an alcoholic, had crashed cars in the double digits, and probably had to be bailed out of jail more times than you could count on two hands. one of my fondest memories of such stories included his brother describing the time they got into a fight with racist skinheads who gave them shit for the colors of the boot laces they had in. i was 17 at the time, and thought that their handling of the situation was a pretty good way to treat such boneheads. i looked past the way that alcohol fueled these, and many other, fights that he had, a lot of which landed him in jail. despite his bad behavior, he had very supportive parents who bailed him out and encouraged him in his endeavors to get back onto his feet. i’m sure there were conflicts and issues that i never heard about, but i do know that he had a pretty good support system with his immediate family.
i also know that in the last weeks of his life, he was struggling with the looming issue of being taken back to jail and visited several doctors for various ailments. unbeknownst to me and the rest of my family, he was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic a little over a week before he killed himself. he didn’t want his extended family to be informed, for fear that they would treat him poorly or be judgmental of his illness.
reflecting upon his death and the complications he suffered from has lead me to take a more critical look at the veins of depression, alcoholism, bipolar disorder, and the legacy of suicide that run in my family. when my maternal grandmother was 15, her mother committed suicide. she drank a fifth of vodka every day to cope with her depression and eventually grew tired of living. my whole life i’ve been told that i’m so much like her – in looks and attitude and mannerisms – and my maternal grandmother always gave a sour look at the suggestion. while i thought i was being given a compliment, my grandmother thought i was being given a death sentence.
there are various other instances of abuse and mental illnesses that have popped up in my extended family that are too intense and lengthy to mention. my family has never been one to talk very openly about such issues but have always been advised to come forward with thoughts of self-harm if i had them. when my maternal grandmother told me about my cousin’s death, she looked me squarely in the eye, saying, “you better not do the same, you hear me? i can’t stand to lose any more members of this family like this!” as she grasped my hands and choked back tears. i was slightly offended at the notion and initially wanted to retort that to do so would be ridiculous, but i have to admit that it has become a legitimate and very real concern in this family. shortly afterwards, my grandmother looked to the ceiling, crying in anger, “aren’t there pills you could have taken?!”
suicide is seen as dualistic. its the ultimate cry for help yet a serious expression of self-control. what happens if you’re tired of asking for help? if you feel you’ve taken enough already? if you feel like you’ll never be able to make it on your own? if you feel that you can’t be a productive member of society like you’re expected to because you work at a different pace than everyone else? i’ve heard arguments for the legalization of euthanasia for those who are suffering, that you have the right to take your own life if you so desire.
