Suicide By Death

by Mark Anthony Waters

  Clair took a quick glance at Suerenia, paused, then lowered the mirror and placed it on her lap.

  She let out another deep sigh, then in a soft tone said, “Me, I'm the demon.”

  The room again went silent except for a collective exhale. You could hear a pin drop because the group knew this was a crossroad for Clair. She finally met her demon face to face and prepared to challenge it.

  “Clair, what you see in the mirror is the face of torment. You are not the demon. The past that haunts you is, and I want you to know the difference. What you saw was an image of its representative, and that's all. It's not real —only a reflection. But when you put into your head harmful thinking, you give it a reason to live. Your actions, like trying to kill yourself, are nourishment for the demon, and you must starve it. Now, you call the shots —” then Glenn emphasized — “because you are now in control, not an image in a mirror. Pick it up again.”

  Clair raised the mirror, looked into it, but this time with a hint of a smile.

  “Now what do you see?”

  She paused for a moment, then let out a comforting sigh and said, “I see hope.”

  “Me too. Good work. I'm very proud of you.”

  Her response was short and somber.

  “Thank you, Glenn,” and she meant it.

  Chapter XI

  The rest of the group departed and went for coffee; Larry had to report to his parole officer. Glenn and Clair were left alone.

  “You did an excellent job today.”

  Somewhat sniffly, nodded and said, “Yeah, it was a blast. When can we do that again?”

  Glenn could tell that she was still upset. He reached into another drawer and pulled out a bottled water.

  “You want one?”

  “Sure.”

  He got another one and twisted the cap enough to break the seal and handed it to her.

  “Thanks. I need a stiff H2O.”

  Clair lifted the bottle and gave a toast.

  “Cheers,” then took a long drink of the water.

  A few minutes went by, and he gave Clair enough time to relax and settle down.

  “Have you ever heard the saying, 'I complained I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet?' ”

  “That's a hell of a way to begin a conversation. Yes, I have. Haven't we all?”

  “But did you ever think about it and what the meaning might be?”

  “I guess to be grateful for what you have.”

  “That's what they want you to think.”

  “Huh?”

  “If you ponder on it for a moment, it goes much deeper.”

  Rolling her eyes, she said, “Sure it does.”

  Glenn continued.

  “On the surface, we look around and see that some lives are better… some worse; then we compare the two. It boils down to this. I'm sorry you don't have feet, and it's not my fault, but mine are cold, and I need a pair of shoes.”

  “That sounds harsh.”

  “No, it isn't, and I'll tell you why. You must take care of yourself first before you can take care of anyone else.”

  “It sounds selfish.”

  “You're right. In my line of work, we have to teach selfishness. Many people suffer many things, and it's easy to empathize. But your pain is personal, you own it. No one can fix it except you. Put yourself above everyone else and protect what is inside you.”

  “I think I understand.”

  “Good. Because it can save your life.”

  Then out of the blue, he asked, “Clair, why do you want to kill yourself?”

  “Wow! Where did that come from?”

  Clair was no stranger to suicide. She had so many friends and family members who killed themselves, amused herself and said that it must be contagious.

  She thought about his question for several minutes, and he waited for her answer never saying a word, then said, “It is so difficult to say why. Sometimes it just seems right, like the short way out. I had a friend who was one of the happiest women I ever knew; always smiling and joking around. Everyone loved and respected her, I suppose everyone except herself. One day I got a call from her husband asking if I knew where she was; I didn't.”

  Clair teared up, and Glenn noticed.

  “You all right?”

  She ignored the question.

  “The next day her husband called and said they found her body.”

  Clair was weeping and said, “She killed herself! I couldn't think and said nothing. It was though time froze and all I could do was fall to the floor and cry. She had two little kids for God's sake! How could anyone do that?”

  “Clair, she did it to herself, not them. Are you getting it? I'll lay odds she never knew anyone cared for her, but you did, and I'm sure many others did too.”

  “Yes, she had many friends.”

  “My guess is no one knew why she killed herself, did they?”

  “Some have speculated.”

  Glenn seemed to get angry and irritated.

  “Speculation is not enough. We must sort this out and learn better how to treat it. There is always an epicenter leading to suicide, and depression and other things lead to it, and I prefer that you not be one of them.”

  He warned Clair that she would never be forever rid of what haunts her. Destructive behavior and suicidal thoughts would always be trouble signs to watch for. Self-doubt, anxiety and depression go on vacation, sometimes for a day, a few weeks and perhaps years, but rarely take a permanent time out. You learn to cope with it and keep things in perspective. He also cautioned her that many times family members, and a few others, helped get her where she was in life.

  “The past and whoever harmed you is not your definition. Recognizing and reconciling with it can give you the strength to be who you really are, and for way too many, they are lost and get overshadowed because of it.”

  “That sounds very nice, but what in the hell are you saying?”

  “Throw all the shit out of your life that got you here. Be the first in line to come and realize you have worth and meaning.”

  “Why didn't you say that in the first place?”

  “Because I'm a therapist. That's not how we're supposed to say it. So, Clair, what do you think?”

  “I'm paying you. What do you think?”

  “I can't tell you what I think, only what I know. All of those people who ever hurt you— that was their fault —” then pointing at her — “and not yours.”

  Clair lowered her head and said, “I know.”

  “Do you? You think for one second that a little kid can defend herself from an overpowering brother or parents who humiliated her?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Suppose not! For crying out loud, Clair, you were a child for Christ's sake! You have been carting around so much guilt and shame your whole life. I'm amazed you've made it this far. You are a good person and deserve to be happy. You need to invite people into your life that are uplifting and honest, not the ones who hurt and belittle. I had a client a few years back; I still remember her name. It was Courtney. I swear to God, you two could have been sisters in a parallel universe. You even look alike.”

  She took in every word he spoke, more than almost anything else he ever said.

  “But how do I handle those who are already around me?”

  “That's easy. You have new rules to live by and rule number one is they must obey your rules or have nothing to do with them — and I don't care who. Most of the clients I have met are usually the wrong ones in therapy.”

  Curious, she asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Don't get me wrong, they need help to get a handle on things and try to make sense out of everything, but sometimes it's the people in and around their lives that got them here in the first place. Most of the time, it's their nut-job family. Hell, I've met your mother, and she's a few cards short of a full deck.”

  Clair laughed, but Glenn felt an angry rant coming on — instead, he laughed too.

  “All I'
m saying, is you and many others in this place are here because of some bullshit along the way. Over time, their emotions have been trampled so hard and heavy they have little left to stomp.”

  Throughout this conversation, the roles seemed to have swapped.

  “Sometimes I have to turn off my emotions when I hear some of the stuff they tell me, and so much of it hurts my heart. I am amazed what people can do to each other.”

  “How does it make you feel?”

  “Like shit! Wait a minute…”

  In a rare comedic moment, he said, “I'm the therapist, you can't ask me that.”

  Clair busted out laughing.

  “Yeah, I know. I can't believe they pay you people for asking a few dumb questions.”

  “You know what? You're probably right.”

  Her laughter stopped and held back a grin.

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Oh, you know….”

  He looked at her, and Clair couldn't hold a straight face any longer, and in his best Jack Benny impersonation, Glenn said, “Now, cut that out!”

  That set off more laughter between them. They chatted a little more, looked at each other, and she left.

  On her way out, she thought, “I really like him.”

  Though he was paid, Glenn was only one of a handful that stayed by Clair's side; others cut and ran. It takes a special someone to go for the ride with folks suffering from mental illness.

  * * *

  Glenn had a lecture later in the afternoon and explained to everyone in attendance what mental illness was and what it wasn't. Clair sat on the front row.

  In his lecture, he said, “You wouldn't take off and pluck someone out of your life you care for who has cancer. Why should it be any different with someone who suffers mental disease? It takes strength and perseverance to give comfort and support to someone who wants to sabotage their efforts to heal and move on.”

  He continued.

  “But sometimes you watch from the outside and see a friend or a loved one staying stuck where they are and never seem to try or even care about moving forward. Then worry, fear and concern kick in when they reverse the course and go in the other direction. Those are the ones to watch.”

  Hunter was as screwed up as Clair; sometimes worse, but most times only by a fraction of an inch either way, but it was still hard for him to watch her fall. He was not a role model for recovery, but he was one of the few that stuck around.

  Chapter XII

  Glenn helped Clair to get on the right track, but trains never go on a straight path, and he knew it. There are hills to climb and curves to maneuver, and sometimes the train derails, and when it does, he hoped Clair had enough knowledge and information to find the track and get back on. In his line of work, he knew the majority would fall off and seldom return. Clair was not an exception; for her, more demons lay ahead.

  * * *

  Clair continued to stay away from pills, alcohol, and suicidal ideas and put a permanent end to her relationship with Hunter. They still chatted on the phone occasionally, but had enough sense to keep her distance, and tried to put her life back together; she wanted no interference from him. It was hard on her at first, but learned to manage.

  She had an occasional fling with some of her art pals, and in her words, “To get my tires rotated now and then.”

  One of her romances almost got serious, but cut it off before it went anywhere.

  After a few months of solitude, Clair settled back into some of the things that got her into trouble. She started her earlier routine of going to McDonald's and the bar, but decided no whiskey and only one bottle of beer. Clair stuck with her decision of the one beer policy for several weeks, proving to herself she could handle it. Each time she went during those few weeks, Clair spent two, sometimes three hours sipping each drop of beer like nectar from the gods. Toward the end of each evening, the beer went from an ice-cold beverage to a lukewarm slurry. At the bottom of the bottle, was a stale, undesirable lather, then slammed the last gulp.

  “Arrrggg! That was terrible!” she said every time and after every last gulp.

  She kept her word and remained committed to the “just one” policy.

  One evening, Charlie asked, “Clair, you have been coming in here a lot, and I know some of what you went through.”

  As usual, Charlie wiped the bar.

  Then he asked, “Do you think this is a wise idea?”

  “I'll be all right. I know what I'm doing.”

  She laughed and continued.

  “How much trouble can one little ole' beer get me into?”

  Clair kept this going for several weeks and then it happened. As they say in the drug and alcohol self-help groups, “one too many, a thousand never enough.” Clair tested it to its limit and had a monolithic setback. Though she felt the demon had been dealt with, it returned, but this time, it brought along a few pals. On this evening, she fell off the wagon… again, but instead of falling, she jumped, the wagon ran over her, backed up, and rolled over her again, but for this event, it was whiskey and pills and plenty of both. Whether Clair believed it or not, she almost accomplished her suicidal wish.

  For whatever reason, something had been bugging Hunter, almost like a premonition. He hadn't talked to Clair for a few days and called. He punched in her number, and it rang a dozen times with no answer. Hunter knew she was home, so after several phone attempts, he went to her apartment. He arrived at her front door and rang the doorbell. Nothing. This time, he pounded the hell out of it with so much force he heard the door frame crack.

  “Clair, open the door! I mean it! Open the damn door!”

  Still nothing. He went around to the back of the apartment to her studio, broke out a window, unlatched it, and crawled in. He ran to the front part and found her in the bedroom; laying spread out on the floor, unconscious and her breathing was shallow and sporadic.

  “Oh my God, Clair!” Then exclaimed, “What have you done this time?”

  Pills were all over the place, and tight in her hand was a bottle of booze. Hunter dialed 911 and reported a possible overdose. The operator asked if he knew what kind of pills they were.

  “Xanax. She was being treated for anxiety and depression.”

  “Do you know how many she took?”

  He was in a panic and tried to assess the number of pills as quick as he could. It was a recent prescription with a thirty count on the label. He guesstimated there was about ten, maybe fifteen on the floor; meaning Clair had taken almost half of them or more.

  “Anything else? I mean, did she take them with anything?”

  “Yes —booze, and it looks like a lot!”

  “The EMTs are on the way.”

  Hunter hung up the phone, picked her up, and placed her on the bed. He cradled her in his lap and stroked her hair. Tears were rolling down his face with the realization she may not be part of his life anymore.

  Sobbing, he said, “Please don't do this to me. I'm begging you. Stay with me, Clair! Please!”

  Through his sobs, he heard a siren getting louder and louder, then stop. A few seconds later, the EMTs were knocking at the door. He ran down the hallway, swung it open, and they rushed to her bedside. They checked her vital signs.

  “It's a good thing you called when you did because there is not much time. You may have saved this woman's life.”

  They loaded her on a gurney and started an IV drip.

  “The police will meet you at the hospital.”

  “The police? Why?”

  “Anytime we suspect someone tried to commit suicide, they have to be notified. A homicide detective will need to get a statement from you.”

  “Why a homicide detective?”

  “Yeah, I know. Funny, isn't it? They do double duty.”

  “And what makes you think this was a suicide attempt?”

  “Look around, sir, then ask me again.”

  Hunter took a quick glance around the room.

  “I see your point.�
�

  “We have to hurry. The medical staff will probably do a gastric lavage at the ER, I'm almost certain.”

  “What's that?”

  “Pump her stomach… if she makes it.”

  They wheeled her out of the apartment and loaded her into the back of the ambulance. They let Hunter go along for the trip. One of the EMTs noticed a make-shift bandage that hid a large cut on Hunter's arm from the broken glass he busted.

  “You are going to need a few stitches. Let me look at it.”

  “Just tend to her. I'll deal with this later.”

  The ambulance arrived at the hospital and screeched to a halt, leaving skid marks in its wake. The back door of the ambulance swung open, she was unloaded, and the ER team took over, but if it hadn't been for Hunter, this would have ended right here. She's dead —The End.

  After a few hours of working on her, they got Clair stabilized, and Hunter came to see her. The hospital staff moved her to a regular patient room, and she laid flat on her back gazing out the window.

  “Clair?”

  She ignored him and continued to stare.

  “Are you okay?”

  She turned and glared at him.

  “No, I'm not okay,” then turned back toward the window and muttered, “Why don't you leave me alone.”

  “You, ungrateful little bitch! Maybe I should have left you alone.”

  Pointing toward her apartment, he said, “I wish I'd never gone there. I should have let someone else deal with your crap!”

  “Maybe you should have.”

  She let out a big sigh and said, “I would have been better off dead.”

  “Is that what you want? Do you think you will win a toaster for having the shittiest life ever? You think you're it?”

  Clair continued to ignore him.

  “You don't know how many times I wanted to blow my fucking brains out. You think you have an exclusive with misery in your life… I've had plenty. But I want to figure it out and live. You kill yourself, then that's, that, but for us who care would like for you to stick around.”

  She turned away from the window and looked at Hunter.

  “I do want to live; I don't know how.”