Why We Don't Commit Suicide In This Family

Hey Kid,

I realize that the only acceptable follow-up to my last letter is to explain exactly how life ISN'T miserable and pointless, but I'll tell you what--it's tricky. I can tell you that, so far, I haven't offed myself because I don't want to make other people's lives even more miserable and pointless than they already are. And since that seems to be the most convincing argument for me, I'll try to explain it to you.

Suicide makes other people's lives, (not to mention your own life), more miserable and pointless because:

I) If they love you, your suicide points out in no uncertain terms that their love wasn't interesting, useful, or beautiful enough to keep you around, which is another way of saying you never really loved them back. And while life may be pointless and frequently miserable, it has not extended the courtesy of rendering us heartless.
II) If they don't love you, your suicide points out:

A) They weren't important enough to you for you to try to acquire their love. Of course, why should they be? The heartless bastards.
B) Life, at least to you, was miserable and pointless enough to end. Suicide, in my opinion, is a fairly convincing argument for your own perspective. However, don't let the cheerful prospect of finally driving your point home lead you to believe suicide is The Answer, because even if your suicide were to hit the morning papers:

1) Most people don't read the papers anymore.
2) If they do, suicide has long since become the most boring headline in section B, page 13. The fact that this is absolutely true ought to validate your point that life is miserable and pointless but:
3) Even if they do read about your boring suicide in section B, page 13, most people have the all the perspective, compassion, and capacity for reason of a dense cloud of gnats. And that brings us, finally, to:
4) If they do have a whit of feeling or thought for your little act, if it does occur to them what a convincing argument you've just penned, if for a second they feel the morose weight of their empty lives, they will assume the smug, sorrowful expression of news readers everywhere, turn to their families who wait around the breakfast table and either:

a) Say, "Let's go to Disneyland, everybody! Disneyland!" That's because they think they can halt the niggling sense of meaninglessness with an abnormally Good Time. What a legacy for you!
b) Mix a Paxil and vodka tonic. Or,
c) Go, "Tsk tsk, isn't this sad?" And everyone will agree that it's sad and say aren't they lucky to be so happy and healthy and religious?, and then they will forget all about you and study the Family Circus, possibly for minutes.

All of which to say, there probably isn't a reason for being here, and your life probably won't mean much in the end, since 150,000 people die every single day and what do you care? But suicide is easily the whiniest way to die, as well as the most self-pitying, and the most snivelling, especially if you live in Western Civilization, and so we don't kill ourselves if we respect two things:

1) Our intelligence. And if you're smart enough to figure out that life is meaningless, surely you're smart enough to figure out how thoroughly you insult yourself by ending it.

2) The people we love and who love us. Because they'd care if we were gone. And we'd care if they were gone. So we stick it out and think about them until we stop thinking about ourselves. And when you stop thinking about yourself, for some reason, life gets a hell of a lot better. I guess, to be honest, that's the main reason I keep writing you.

The only trick there is to making meaning in your life, as far as I can see, is figuring out what you love and focusing on that. It may only be meaningful to you, but that's all you need to know. Never lose sight of what you love. Religious people, for example, are often more purposeful because they've decided to brainwash themselves into perpetual focus on what they're told they love. Now, I'm not saying I know what love is, as I've mentioned earlier, but I am saying that you can know WHAT you love, because it's whatever's worth staying alive for. If you're smart, you'll sit down right now and start a list.

Every other good thing that happens to you after that is just gravy. Delicious creamy gravy.

And by the way, kid, I'm saying these things to you, in this calculating manner, because I don't want to guilt you into living life. Mothers are very good at the emotional appeal, the whole "you'd rip out my heart?" business. But for now, while you don't sit in either my uterus or on my couch, I can still occasionally think rationally about you and about life. This is the rational appeal for life, to life, for you and for me, because unfortunately if you're anything like me you'll probably be a moody son of a bitch (ha ha! true on so many levels!). At any rate, if you're anything like most of Western Civilization, adolescence will be hell, so I imagine these thoughts might come in handy. Although I'll grant you, Dav, if he becomes your father, is one of those lucky few who sailed through adolescence like a prince on a shining schooner of light, so maybe you'll get lucky.

I love you.



C.