No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away.
- Terry Pratchett
The other day, someone from work committed suicide.
I didn’t know her well. We were from different departments, moved in different circles. The gaps between meetings stretched to weeks, if not months. A lot of the time, we only passed each other in the hall with a smile and a simple hello. Yet the workplace is also a community, a lattice of human beings tied to this place and time, these efforts and environment. You expect people to leave. It’s only natural. Colleagues resign, older folk retire, friends move on to greener pastures.
But this was different. This time, someone died.
It’s said that change and death are the only constants. But sometimes it may seem that one can only be achieved with the other. Over the last few days, I’ve heard tales of depression, stress, what must have felt like inescapable problems. For what else is suicide but a desperate attempt to escape? The tragedy is when someone succeeds.
I do understand. I considered killing myself too once upon a time, when I was much too young to be thinking about such things. I felt like life would never get better. But I decided, no. As long as I was alive, there was a chance for things to improve. Once I was dead, it would all be over. So I made the choice to hold on.
And looking back, a lot of the choices I’ve made since then, the bad habits I picked up and the addictions I still struggle with, were exactly that. I was finding ways to hold on. To avoid my problems, and escape my demons.
But I’ve spent enough years running. Holding on isn’t enough anymore. This year, I’m looking my demons in the eye.
Nowadays, I’m busier than ever. I’m doing more at work than I once did. I’m learning Japanese, colouring intricate patterns, making a concerted effort to finally write my fantasy story. I’m reading good books and dropping those that aren’t so good, because let’s face it, ain’t nobody got time for that. I’m playing video games, drawn to the experiences they offer, plucking up new ones like a magpie and then lamenting that I have too many games, the ultimate first-world problem.
All these disparate activities. But they all have one goal, in the end. The same goal we all have: to defeat death.
That is to say, to do things that matter. To have meaningful experiences. To do meaningful things. To somehow know that my life has purpose, that these years were not wasted. To leave behind something that will live on. Is this not one of the core drivers of human history? Dynasties have been built, riches amassed, kingdoms founded and conquered. Empires rise and fall and for what, if not the desperate desire to matter? To know that the world has been changed, even a little bit, by our presence.
Are they worth it, these things I’m doing? The way I’m living now? I wish I knew. I don’t think anyone does. We’re all just doing the best we can.
I didn’t know her well. I didn’t know her hopes and dreams, or the darkness she must have gone through. But I did meet the couple in the ICU who talked about how her life had crossed paths with theirs. Who looked over and said quietly, she was a good person. I’ve read the tributes, the remembrances. I’ve seen a tiny piece of what she left behind.
Maybe this is how we defeat death; in the hearts and minds of those we touched along the way. Maybe, despite the tragedy of how she chose to go, she’s no longer bound by pain. Maybe some part of her is free. I hope that’s true. I really do.
Because now the book closes, with so many pages still unwritten. The rest will forever be blank, cut off before their time.
Now her story has come to an end.
