DECODING DESPAIR

“Why did she do it? Nobody dared to ask. Because—what courage! Who had the courage to burn herself ? Twenty aspirin, a little slit alongside the veins of the arm, maybe even a bad half hour standing on a roof: We've all had those. And somewhat more dangerous things, like putting a gun in your mouth. But you put it there, you taste it, it's cold and greasy, your finger is on the trigger, and you find that a whole world lies between this moment and the moment you've been planning, when you'll pull the trigger. That world defeats you. You put the gun back in the drawer. You'll have to find another way.  What was that moment like for her? The moment she lit the match. Had she already tried roofs and guns and aspirins? Or was it just an inspiration?” — Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen, published in 1993.

- Chinki Sinha

In 2019, as I waited in the immigration line at the San Francisco airport, a message beeped.

“Do you have a few minutes to listen?”

“Regarding?”

“I am feeling suicidal.”

“Stay wherever you are. It will pass.” 

The world defeated him then. He didn’t go ahead. He decided to live.

He was a stranger, someone you know on social media, a projected persona. He said he had felt betrayed. He was in love. A love that made him feel helpless. He said there was nobody he could talk to. His best friend had said he was busy. We spoke for a long time until the urge passed. He said thank you. I checked on him a few times later and he said he was fine.

But I remember the language. Stark, despairing and honest. A cry for help.

Another time, a friend said she had seen the green dot against my name and in the nocturnal hours, she had decided to send a message about her feeling like she should end all agony herself. As she had waded through what she called the dark tunnel, the green dot made her pause.

That pause was everything.

“Thanks for understanding,” she said as she hung up.

I don’t know if I did or if I do. Or if anyone really understands what brings someone close to the edge. In 1942, Albert Camus, in his