The problem with suicide is that it’s not funny.
Not even remotely. In fact, I’ve yet to meet a single person who had died by suicide and thought it was comical (Let alone a good idea).
I’ve entertained (ideational) suicide all my life. And, being Bipolar Type II, my moods-states can pendulum from depression to mania, wherein, I’m jet fuel–burning hard and hot until I gutter out. When that happens, I become the most pathetic thing you’ll ever lay eyes on.
Which is why I’m grateful to have a sense of humor. Because humor, I’ve found, is one of the few things capable of petting the Black Dog into tongue-wagging submission.
Suicide isn’t funny . . . but our lives, in a gallows humor sort of way, can and usually are. And maybe that’s what we all need, not only when we’re feeling depressed, but all around.
We deserve a sense of humor
Maybe—in a time of hyperpolarization, stratospheric disparities in opportunity, and the metastasizing list of discontinued Netflix series—what we need a suicidal sense of humor. Something to sand the edges off a topic jagged enough to “cross the road.”
So allow me to tell you a story.
[Ahem] The last time I shit my pants was when I was twelve.
As of this article’s publishing, I am aged thirty–nine. This means that twenty–seven years ago (1994), I shit my pants. For context, twenty–seven years ago, the only good Jurassic Park film was out, everyone had a GeoCities page, and Nancy Kerrigan had a life changing encounter with a crowbar.
Oh, and I should preface by letting you know that I’ve never told anyone this story, so let’s keep this in confidence, yes?
Excellent! Back to me shitting my pants.
It was raining frigid and I’d somehow managed to lock myself out. Banging on the door, crying, I realized I really had to go. But it was too late. Nature found her exit before my dad found me. He asked what was wrong. Me, being a journeyman depressant, said everything was fine.
Because everything’s fine all the time.
That’s what you’re supposed to tell everyone, right? Family and friends crave fine. Fine means things are okay, and if things are okay, that’s fine. Fine means not worrying if every conversation with you is going to be the last.
So I said I was fine and followed my father into the living room where he and my brother were watching a movie. I sat down, and it didn’t take long for my dad to wonder why I smelled like shit.
An aside: Have you ever wanted to hide your shame so much that you were willing to wallow in your own (emotional) bullshit? Me neither. Everything’s fine.
A shower and a ruined pair of pants later, I was watching the movie once more. It was a shameful moment in my life. I think about it pretty often.
But I don’t mind shame. After all, it worked. I haven’t shit my pants in twenty–seven years. And as a writer, shame’s in my corner flogging me past my limitations. Shame’s the Catholic cattle prod that keeps me, butt in the chair, writing until blood drips out of my forehead.
Shame mortified me into finishing this article, numerous short stories and novellas, and a thousand page Historical Fantasy novel.
And I know, I‘m supposed to tell you that shame is bad and that no one should shame you, or that you should ever feel ashamed. And in certain contexts, this is absolutely true, but a drop of shame is damned potent stuff. It’s the iodine in your still waters, the salt in your coffee you thought was sugar.
Shame is the muscle-tensing memory keeping you awake at night.
I don’t think it a coincidence that Neal Brennan, a deliciously depressed comedian, found an outlet for his melancholy via self-deprecation; that is, the observation and defanging of shame.
But why feel shame at all? For that matter, why feel depression if it can be so debilitating? What’s the point?
Evolutionary biologists and psychologists such as Jonathan Rottenberg, in his book, The Depths: The Evolutionary Origins of the Depression Epidemic, have examined and attempted to explain why depression is around, why it has utility.
Rottenberg, et al. concluded that—and really stop to think about this—if depression wasn’t useful in our evolutionary past, we wouldn’t feel it. They hypothesize, among other things, that depression provides a time for introspection. To contemplate one’s place in the tribe. One’s purpose in life.
Why am I never invited on the hunt?
Why do sabretooth tigers hate me?
Why can’t I find a mate?
What’s wrong with me?
These moments of depressive introspection can facilitate a “Dark Night of the Soul.” The kind of night that provides the monomythical hero a chance to divine their struggles and outpace them. The hero traverses the threshold and never looks back. Their spiritual death is complete and only the fully realized Self remains.
Depression can provide the opportunity for spiritual/emotional death and rebirth.
Remember, we wouldn’t experience depression if it wasn’t useful. That’s why we gave it a name.
And names are important.
The Germans have a word for when they desperately crave bacon. The word is “kummerspeck,” or “grief bacon.” That’s also worth contemplating. There’s a German engineered word to express one’s existential longing for bacon.
Kummerspeck is around because people feel it. It serves a purpose. And, like a dog’s anal glands, it demands expressing.
It’s my belief that shame has utility in regards to depression and suicide.
For example, shame’s useful for keeping some from committing self-annihilation. You’ve heard the carbon copy appeals: What would your family/friends think? Consider all those you’d be leaving behind! You have so much to live for.
But maybe you think you don’t.
Maybe your life is rough. The kind of rough that convinces you to stay in that abusive relationship. The kind of rough that makes you cry as you force yourself to eat. The kind of rough that suggests bathing rather than requiring it.
If you’re reading this, you probably know rough. Jagged edges. Tough to sand down. That kind of rough.
But what to do when you feel rough—the shame, the guilt, that leaden blanket keeping you in bed twelve hours straight?
Once, after a manic collapse into the most ruthless depressive episode I’ve yet to experience, I ended up in an intensive outpatient program. My counselor at the time said something I’ll never forget: “When times are good, prepare for when they’re bad.”
So I did. I have an entire folder on my laptop dedicated to cute cats, Japanese game shows, and Ricky Gervais laughing for twenty minutes straight.
That folder has done more to affect my mood than a Tony Robbins enema.
It also contains inspiring observations from authors such as Anne Lamott and Steven Pressfield (both, connoisseurs of suffering) and how best to approach adversity.
From the aforementioned authors, might I (strongly) recommend reading Bird by Bird and The War ofArt, regardless of your creative pursuits and struggles.
But let’s not act as though laughter alone can exercise the Black Dog.
That whole sad clown trope? Yeah, that’s not just a trope. Robin Williams was an acutely depressed individual who found respite in humor. Comedy was, I suspect, his only option and he knew it, as indicated by this quote from the late Williams:
“I think the saddest people always try the hardest to make people happy because they know what it’s like to feel absolutely worthless, and they don’t want anyone else to feel that way.”
Nailed it.
“But Sam,” you might say, “Williams still committed suicide. How useful was laughter in the end?” True, Williams still took his own life, but you and your grandmother know who he was. We all do.
And what if Williams hadn’t possessed such a robust sense of humor? Would the whole world have had the opportunity to laugh alongside him?
Consider all the rough days that man sanded smooth, worldwide. And if you don’t think he effected change, walk into a room of one–hundred people and shout, “Helleeeew!” with a British accent. See what happens.
And yes, Williams departed too soon. But I’ve got news for you: none of us are getting out of here alive, so you might as well laugh your way through a long and prosperous journey. It’s worth discussing, even if briefly, perseverance in the face of depression and suicide.
Think what you will of Winston Churchill, the man knew his depression. He is, after all, the guy who coined the depressive moniker, the “Black Dog.” Something that, once it sinks its teeth in, refuses to yawn.
But Churchill found a way to feed the bite. After being kicked from the Royal Navy, he experienced a profound episode of depression. It was during this time he stated that, “The Muse of Painting came to my rescue.” And throughout his life, Churchill’s depression would hold his brushes while he thumbed the frame.
Is this humorous? No, but Churchill brushed aside a blank canvas to reveal his healing. And I’m sure on more than one occasion, a poorly executed brushstroke unveiled something so deliciously bad he couldn’t help but chuckle at it.
Churchill also said one of my favorite things in regards to perseverance in the face of hardship:
“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”
Love it. Chef’s kiss.
I think Churchill’s words imply that you have two options while you’re in hell. The first is that when enduring suffering, you’re still “going.” Enduring the worst day brings you closer to one that’s not-so-worst. Because restoration—much like falling in love, getting sober, or “finishing” a canceled Netflix series—is a process, not an event.
Healing is a painting that becomes. It is not is.
Healing is you slogging it out in the trenches, getting pounded into the mud and the blood, weeping the whole time. It’s you joking about your suffering—gallows all the way. And you keep going, because you know what happens if you stop. Churchill certainly did.
And one of the best ways to “keep going” is to have a sense of humor. To make lemonade out of every mouth-puckering event in your life. To keep going, one must self-(de)appreciate.
You shit your pants? So what? Use that to make others laugh. You tried opening your wrists in the bathtub and couldn’t follow through? When was the last time you had a long, hot soak?
Maybe, if you’re trying to kill yourself in a bathtub, it means one of two things:
1) You don’t want to ruin your carpet (implying a part of you would like to stick around). Or . . .
2) Maybe all you really needed was a fucking bath.
Because you shit your pants, cried until your abs hurt. Couldn’t find something you truly believe in. Maybe what you really needed was to practice self-care.
So here’s your homework: Create a folder when times are good for when they’re bad. A “Break Glass In Case of Depression” folder.
And you know what makes you laugh. Videos of people laughing, animals talking like hoomans, weather reports of a green screen penis eclipsing the midwest, planking, terrible Jeopardy responses, SNL bloopers, cat memes, misspelled gas station signage, farts, moar cat memes, Goat Simulator, Ricky Gervais laughing, horrible family photos, the best-worst vacation you and your friend(s) took. That time you cried so hard you burped.
Depression is not funny and neither is suicide.
But suicide is not what kills people.
I’ll leave you with what I think is a humorous quote on suicide, courtesy of Rodney Dangerfield. If it makes you laugh, great, but if it doesn’t, at least you know you’re in good company:
“Last week I told my psychiatrist, ‘I keep thinking about suicide,’ and he told me from now on I have to pay in advance.”
