The Tiny, Exquisite Details That Go Into a Death

I sometimes wonder how Sylvia Plath and Maningning Miclat did it. Did they just wake up one day and decided that life is much too heavy a burden? Or, did they spend days, weeks, or even years weighing arguments, gazing at the things, people, and moments they will miss, thinking of the matters that make it oh so tempting to snuff out their tender, young lives? I don't think I'll ever be a suicide. Suicide requires much planning, and I suck at making plans. The only time I'm ever good at planning is when I plan how a million dollars would mysteriously wind up inside my bag and how I'll spend it.

But I digress. My point is that suicides are planners because a lot of thought goes into self-murder. Plenty of calculations go into it, too. After all, its tricky getting the oven to be just the right temperature, the rope to be just the exact length, and the tablets to be just the right dose. A suicide has plenty of floors to choose from, too. A fall from the third floor wouldn't be as lethal as a fall from, say, the ninth floor. Additionally, if one intends to wrestle with a truck, one has to consider the perfect angle that would ensure maximum fender damage. A suicide also has to consider the element of time. How much time does he/ she have to finish himself/ herself off? Would it be possible to suffer irreversible blood loss or oxygen deprivation before a family member or a meddling friend comes to your rescue? Finally, we come to the letter. Most suicides leave a letter behind. The message could be as trite as "I'm sorry" and "Could you ever forgive me?". Or, it could be the unusual type. "I want my nails done in pink." I would imagine that a suicide who has the luxury of time, who could plan the means of his or her death right down to the last nanosecond would also take the time to formulate a memorable suicide note.

I'll never stop wondering why people kill themselves. What pushes them to say goodbye with such finality? Could it be love, hate, misfortune, an emptiness that gnaws at you from the inside. Could it be a single tragic loss or a lifetime of buried hurts? It confounds me. True, life is short and difficult. But for all its shortness, its difficulty, its sadness, life is all we have. So, how could one simply give up on life?