—
He just walked out of his skin. When his wife was away for the evening and his 11 year old son was at camp, he left a quick note, swallowed enough stashed prescription morphine to take out a herd of wild horses, and laid down on the bed in his son’s room. So patiently did he wait for death that when his wife checked in on him that night, she let him snooze. But when she saw him in the exact same position the following morning, on his back with his hands still folded over his belly, she knew something was not right. And when she touched him, he was cold.
Ten years later, the chill remains.
Dexter. We became fast friends the day we met in our fifth grade classroom. I had three sisters, but Dexter was essentially my brother. Crazy, impetuous Dexter. We went roaring through adolescence together. Through the endless cycle of new girlfriends, deep romances and broken hearts, the one tie that never broke was the brotherhood we shared. It never even frayed.
He was the crazy man that drove 80 miles west to my dorm in a snow storm, knocked on the door and suggested we drive 200 miles east to see a Grateful Dead concert. Somehow, his little Fiat plowed its way through across a snowy New York State from Buffalo to Utica. Spinning out into a ditch off the Thruway on the way back home only added to our adventure.
He was a big, hairy guy with a big hairy smile, so full of exuberance that he needed little reason to literally jump with joy, and the only reality that tethered him was Earth’s gravity. He never managed to launch himself more than a few inches before returning on his feet with a thud. But his soul went stratospheric, and mine couldn’t help but join every chance it got.
He was my magic man, luminescent, colorful and completely unpredictable. But a bad back working as a stock boy at 17 lead him down a fateful road of doctors and prescriptions and narcotic pain relief. Then the recreational drugs came in. He’d go from doctor to doctor, piling up prescriptions. And the darkness just crept in so insidiously over the years neither of us really noticed. Until one day when he casually talked to me about suicide.
“Gee, I don’t want to die,” he said. I remember how strange it sounded—as if he didn’t have a choice in the matter. But I talked to him as if he did. I told him to think about his wife and son, his mom, his siblings, his friends. Me. I told him to think about the heartbreak he would leave in the wake of such departure, as if that would be enough to sway his decision.
But I knew nothing of suicide. I told him why he should not, but never really believed he would. Two weeks after we spoke, he did exactly what he told me he didn’t want to do, with stunning intent. He took no half measures.
To say that my own journey after he died was tough would be an understatement. He uprooted himself from my world, like a huge oak tree whose roots you never see until it is gone, roots that traveled so deeply into my soul that his loss was more an amputation than a departure. A huge, aching void was left and begged to be filled. I cried so hard I actually wondered how the human head could hold so many tears. I even contemplated following him before he got too far ahead of me on his journey, as if my decision was under a time constraint beyond which I’d never catch up with him.
One night I came close. I was driving and my partner once again was dealing with my tears, which always poured out at the hint of anything that reminded me of Dexter. We argued. I got irate and stopped the car on a quiet country road, stormed out onto the pavement and started screaming and stomping like a madman. I’m an even-tempered person—I just never lose it. But I suddenly felt I was watching myself from a disembodied perspective, and wondering who that guy was.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, we were surrounded by police. There must have been six or seven squad cars, cops with ready hands on black leather holsters, telling me to freeze. And that was my ticket. I didn’t freeze. I just started walking directly toward the most threatening officer, the one with his hand on his gun. But I didn’t rush him—I just walked deliberately, knowing every step was a step toward joining Dexter in what I hoped would be a quick and painless journey.
But while Dexter’s suicide was a decision, mine was just a wish. I did not die on the road that night. The officer whom I unfairly put into the position of executing my suicide did not stop me with a bullet, but with a gentle hand. He pulled me aside. He listened to my anguish, and told me his own best friend killed himself, too. We talked. Finally someone was able to connect with me and put into words what I was feeling.
I never thanked that officer, and never apologized for putting him in such a position. But if he reads this and recognizes himself, I hope he can smile knowing that I am still here ten years later. That night, I took a turn off the sad road I was on, and headed back towards life. Dexter chose his own path. And I followed him right to the threshold. But I just couldn’t step through it. And I think that was the night I realized I would truly never see him again.
♦◊♦
In the months that followed, I have come to understand that suicide is not a wish to die, but an inability to continue living. It may sound like semantics, but distinction is significant. “I don’t want to die,” he said to me—like he was pleading for his life. Because he didn’t want to die. And he was pleading. But of the two choices in front of him—life and death—it was the expanse of endless despair that was worse. He saw no light at the end of the dark tunnel he was in. And I learned all too late that I should have been helping him find reasons to live, instead of reasons not to die.
I learned all too late that I should have been helping him find reasons to live, instead of reasons not to die.
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Making peace with him was tough. There is death, and then there is suicide. The physiological results may be equal. But the emotional dynamics left behind for the survivors don’t even come close. The mixture of grief, shock, anger and guilt are incredibly powerful emotional toxins. Dexter was a victim, but he was also the man who murdered my best friend. He was the man who took his son’s father away at a time he needed a father the most. He was the man who left behind a grieving widow. And he was the friend who traveled to a place I could not follow him to—even though I tried that one dark night. As much as I grieved for my best friend Dexter, I was furious at Dexter the murderer. Many who knew and loved Dexter carried even more anger than I did. Some I suspect have still not forgiven him. But I eventually came to terms with it by accepting the fact that he made the best choice he could make at the time. It was his to make—no one else lived in his darkness. I learned to at least respect that. And in that respect, I was able to find the grace to accept the decision he embraced.
And a decade later, as I write this, I think about how lucky I am to be alive. How lucky I am to have the memories of a friendship so deep and so sweet that my tears can still flow. But when they finally dry, I am left with a smile in my heart.
Are you dealing with thoughts of suicide? Help is available. The National Suicide Prevention Hotline is available anytime: 800-273-TALK [8255].
Photo: Flickr/vestman
Eirik,
We are also lucky you are still alive. Thank you for sharing the lessons you learned through to much pain.
If the author had been black, the cops would have shot him.
I am said to say that I have yet to be convinced that your words do not carry such a sad truth.
It is my life to connect the dots for someone in Suicide Ideation and the journey is an amazing one. Eirik’s journey is not a new one although his is one of recovery and ‘moving on’ to the part of who he is.
Thank you for allowing me to walk with you for awhile and perhaps we can talk more about what happens to friends and family after…
Thank you, Terry. I am always open to the conversation.
Here is my email terry @ evolutionaryhealer dot com
mr eirik i’m sorry for your loss i’m happy you are still alive i have this friend who has said he wants to die he stopped talking to me i miss him so much i don’t know what do
he is one of the reasons i am still alive
Hugs.
Thank you, Carol
Four year old post, and what I’m thinking as I read it, or hoping actually, is that Eirik is still with us, because there are millions of us out there that feel him, still asking that question, “why”, knowing the answer will never come.
This f-ing wall of silence needs to come crashing down.
I am still here. And I fully agree about that wall of silence.
Eirik..I saw this on my page feed in FB this morning…coming up on my best friends anniversary of his death, I still reel in the loss of him. Your article was well written and I could totally relate to it. Your story was similar to his story of his journey to self destruction on Prescription Meds, which escalated to heroin. Me and his wife tried to find a way to save him from his addiction, but because he wasn’t suicidal at the time, help was just a long waiting list away… My pain has truly never went away, but your… Read more »
TEARS. This is an absolutely stunning piece.
Hi Eirik. Thank you for sharing this beautifully written article with me. Your insight and your clarity regarding the loss of your dear friend Dexter has given me some solace in my time of sadness over the loss of my friend, Bryan. Suicide is such a dark and painful topic that many people won’t even discuss it. When it is discussed, it’s often anecdotally dismissed as being “the cowards way out” or a “permanent solution to a temporary problem.” To me, those two schools of thought on the topic are short sighted and normally held by people who don’t want… Read more »
beautifully written piece. i am so sorry for your loss.i am a suicide survivor(i tried after my son passed)
Eirik,
You write w/ brilliance and courage in your reflections on this tragedy. YOu articulated things I have failed to myself. I have shared your essay as widely as I can on social media. Check out my book. For that matter, email me and I’ll send you a copy.
Respect,
eli
Eirik, thank you so much for this article, it was so helpful to me. Ann, Clark, and Sharon, I agree with both of you and thank you for adding your words and insights to this article. We have such an uphill climb (with the weight of loved ones too often dragging us backward) just to struggle to hang on, still suffering, to live another day. We don’t “want” to die, we want the suffering to stop. I’ve written on this myself before, here on GMP: https://goodmenproject.com/health/suicide-we-want-the-pain-to-stop/ I don’t want to be told how loved ones would miss me or how… Read more »
Thank you for sharing this experience, very empowering.. suffering develops in so many forms and can literally suck the life out of you. Losing a loved one through an unexpected tragedy is a pain so difficult to describe. Your story resonated with me in a way that touched my heart.. my only brother was murdered and my life will never be the same..I learned to live with the pain and allow myself to feel my feelings and then move on rather than fight it. Grief affects people differently and no one can tell you how to grieve and when or… Read more »
There is so much truth to what you have written. “Grief affects people differently and no one can tell you how to grieve and when or how to move on.” I wonder if because of that very fact, it makes it an even lonelier place to be. In my story, when I went into this rage and started stomping around on the road, I think it was the incredible frustration of being alone, wanting to scream out, “Does nobody understand?” That alone creates a hopelessness. I hope you find others who understand the special grief you are experiencing. That is… Read more »
My 1st suicidal thoughts started when I was 7 yrs old. It’s rejection and also hopelessness that cause this. I’m in my 40’s now. The most recent episode was less than a week ago. I’ve told many people/family/friends and yet get no response other than guilt trips about how much pain it would put THEM thru! Wow! How incredibly selfish and cruel of a thing for my Mother to say. Help line?! Please! Holding my hand so that I can suffer another day is just insulting. Community/gov’t orgs are worse than useless b/c they hold out false hope and ruin… Read more »
Clark, As someone who has a loved one who goes through major depressive cycles, I’m really curious what it means to offer help. I ask this because I don’t think this person in my life feels like she can explain it to me, and maybe I need someone else to do it so I can understand. For the person in my life, she says, “I need HELP not judgement!” but she won’t go to treatment or try meds. We spent years telling her how great she is, why she needs to stick around and make a better life for herself… Read more »
I spent 10 yrs trying a long laundry list of meds. Not only did none of them help, they have so many unacceptable side-effects (not really ‘side’ effect. They are part of the drugs’ affects) and were dangerous to my health and were difficult to keep acquiring that I stopped using all prescribed meds. Never has a Dr. bothered to give me a EEG nor f-MRI to see what my brain looks like in action. I have had 4 concussions covering various parts of my brain. My last concussion as about 2 years ago when I passed out from hypoglycemia.… Read more »
Oh yeah…my sister finally fished out some valium that she was prescribed b/c her dog is dying and gave me about a dozen of them. I took half of one and the screaming in my head stopped and for the first time in a month I could smile and relax again. I had a nice time with my family and felt like a normal person. Why do I have to scream and hollar for someone to stop long enough to give me a pill. Can’t she tell how different I have become over the last 5 years?! I really don’t… Read more »
Clark, it sounds a really dark place for you and I am so sorry to hear this – I can hear the anger in your postings. I guess that you have never received the ‘right’ support for you. It seems that the valium is something that works for you and I guess you need to let your doctor know that this helps. I attended a seminar once which addressed suicide and the question was asked about how we help somebody who is suicidal. For me, the most poignant message was when the therapist said – ‘the thing is, how do… Read more »
What honesty for you to speak of the murderer. That word is horrible and painful for me to write, even though I am writing it about a complete stranger. It makes my stomach hurt to use it to describe a human being who suffered terribly and could not find his way. That you can acknowledge both aspects of your treasured friend is powerful, real, and healing.
Thank you so much for sharing your story. We have had 5 suicides in our community in the past year. I am currently raising funds for the Walk Out of The Darkness and hoping to raise awareness at the same time. I understand not wanting to die but not feeling like you can live another day. I have been there and I have returned. I have also been in fear for a person I love more than life itself and watching her suffer is killing me. Depression sucks. But maybe, one day, if we keep sharing and stop hiding the… Read more »
“Life and death…it was the expanse of endless despair that was worse…”
Great writing…and more strength to you! So hard to love a suicidal person…”I learned all too late that I should have been trying to find reasons for him to live…” (and this is hard to do, too!)…sometimes the people we love the most are the most toxic to us (they stir up so many dangerous feelings and impulses)…
Prayers for you and your friend…and others who suffer like this…
Eirik, reading this changed me in many ways. I have to say that this story represents the very best of Tom Matlack’s original vision for The Good Men Project. First, that this story is so honestly, lovingly, brutally told. You have put words to a truth so many have felt, and never knew how to explain. And just in hearing your story, we can say, “I’m not alone.” We don’t have enough stories about how important friendship is to men, and how something like this could crush your heart. And yet we know that friendship IS important to men, and… Read more »
I appreciate your kind comments, Joanna. Writing this piece brought back all the emotions of ten years ago, as if the intervening time did nothing to mollify them. Losing someone to suicide is a devastatingly lonely place to be. My salvation from that despondency was simply connecting with another poor soul who could honestly say to me, “I know.” You said that we can say “I’m not alone.” That simple statement is remarkably perceptive. And it is true for anyone reading this and going through similar grief. For me, it was as if Dexter’s death had given me x-ray vision.… Read more »
A gorgeous, poignant, thought-proviking piece of writing.
Thank you so much for your generous comment, Michael.