We never approached each other ever again.
Last I’d heard, she was dating a wealthy ski bum up in Crested Butte, and they had a good thing going. Then she was gone.
suicide n.
1 The act or an instance of intentionally killing oneself.
2 The destruction or ruin of one’s own interests: It is professional suicide to involve oneself in illegal practices.
3 One who commits suicide.
In imperial Rome, taking your own life was considered honorable.
In ancient Greece, convicted criminals were permitted to off themselves.
In France, suicide was illegal up until the Revolution.
In England, failed suicides were hanged right up until the nineteenth century.
Greenland has the highest per capita suicide rate in the world, with 127 out of every 100,000 people choosing to check out voluntarily. China is home to 21 percent of the world’s women. More than half of all female suicides take place there.
In the United States of America, suicide is the third-leading cause of all teenage deaths. A teenager commits suicide in the USA about once every two hours or so.
In 1997, a former music teacher named Marshall Applewhite convinced thirty-nine people to kill themselves in Southern California. Applewhite was the leader of a doomsday cult called Heaven’s Gate. He and his followers believed that a UFO was trailing the Hale-Bopp comet. They thought this UFO was four times the size of the earth and that it was on its way to pick them up; so instead of waiting around for it, they drank apple juice and vodka laced with pentobarbital and died.
The sheriff who arrived on the scene discovered all thirty-nine bodies. Resting beside each one was an overnight bag and five dollars cash.
Suicide was naturally the consistent course dictated by the logical intellect. (Is suicide the ultimate sincerity? There seems to be no way to refute the logic of suicide but by the logic of instinct.)
—William James
Back in 1993, a book called Kanzen Jisatsu Manyuaru was published in Japan. I happened to read about it in the news one day. Kanzen Jisatsu Manyuaru means “The Complete Suicide Manual.” The book offers detailed instructions on ten methods of suicide, including hanging, overdosing on drugs, electrocution, and self-immolation. It compares and contrasts the different methods in terms of pain, speed of completion, and level of disfigurement. In addition, the book offers readers tips on the best places to kill themselves, naming Aokigahara, a thick wood at the base of Mt. Fuji, as “the perfect place” to die.
In 1998, seventy-four corpses were found in the woods of Aokigahara.
The suicide rate in Japan rose by 35 percent that year alone.
Suicide prevention groups in Japan were convinced that The Complete Suicide Manual was a big part of the problem. The book’s author, Wataru Tsurumi, saw things differently. “No one ever killed themselves just because of my book,” he said. “The authorities are blaming me because they are unwilling to take responsibility for the economic, political, and social problems that are the real cause of suicides.”
In a span of roughly seven years following its publication, the book had sold about 1.2 million copies. With very little advertising or promotion, it was already in its eighty-third printing.
“This goes to show that there is a demand in society,” said a spokeswoman from the book’s publishing company.
I went to the funeral alone and sat in a back pew, terrified that someone I knew was going to see me. It was miserable being there. I wanted to disappear.
There was no coffin, just a table full of framed pictures of Amanda and some potted plants and some baskets of flowers. The church was packed. A capacity crowd. A fat man was playing a piano. A skinny woman was singing “Ave Maria.” Amanda’s parents were up ahead in the front row, leaning against each other, defeated.
“Ave Maria” ended, and the priest stepped up to the microphone. His face was red, and his hair was shockingly white. He talked about God, life, death, grief, friendship, love, and heaven. He spoke eloquently, with convincing sympathy and erudition, but I failed to find any real comfort in what he was saying.
From there, the priest called M.J. and Nancy up to the altar. M.J. and Nancy were Amanda’s best friends from college. They looked like twins. Blond, petite, and attractive. I hadn’t seen either of them in a long time. They seemed to have changed a little bit. Neither of them looked as bohemian as they used to. Both were dressed in formal attire, and each was holding one side of a prepared speech on a piece of wrinkled notebook paper. Their hands were shaking, the piece of paper was shaking. They were trying to keep it together, but keeping it together was pretty much impossible. M.J. started reading and lost it immediately. And when she lost it, everyone lost it. The whole church went with her. Everyone started sniffling and sobbing.
The woman seated next to me was kind enough to hand me a tissue. I glanced at her as I blew my nose. She was holding Tibetan prayer beads in one hand, and her hair was openly gray. She was an aging hippie, a real one, a Marin County authentic.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she whispered.
I made a snorting sound.
I glanced up at M.J. Her jaw was trembling. She was trying to read into the microphone, but it was a lost cause. She couldn’t get the words out. Nancy stepped in to help her, and together they were able to stammer through the rest of the page before stepping down. The text of the speech was hard to decipher. I was having a hard time concentrating. Didn’t have a clue what it was about. The only part of it that I caught was the part about how lucky they felt to have known Amanda. The rest of it was lost on me.
Then the priest stepped up to the microphone again, said a few final words in closing, and the ceremony ended. Sting’s “Fields of Gold” came on the church P.A. system, the recessional hymn. One of Amanda’s favorites.
As soon as that happened, I was up and out the door in a flash, one of the very first to leave. I wanted some fresh air. I wanted a cigarette. I walked out of the church and down the concrete steps and moved away, over to the left, over toward the road. I pulled a cigarette from my jacket pocket and lit up. It was overcast outside, a Bay Area winter day, cool and crisp and pleasant. The cloud cover was thinning out, and the sun was trying to break through. Cars were going by, and a light wind was blowing through the trees. There was nothing too unusual about it.
Fortunately, there was no burial, just a reception back at Amanda’s parents’ house. Amanda’s remains had already been cremated. No corpse with makeup, no lowering of the coffin into the muddy brown hole. I was thankful for that. The worst of it was over.
At some point along the way, I’d decided not to go to the reception. I’d convinced myself that there was no need to go to the reception. I knew it would be polite to stop in and offer my condolences to Amanda’s family, but I didn’t think I could deal with seeing her parents, didn’t think I could deal with offering my sympathies at a reception. I was sure her parents knew all about me, sure they knew about the breakup, my behavior, the fact that I’d broken Amanda’s heart. I figured I’d write them a letter later and skip the reception altogether. I