I am Not going to Kill Myself

shotguns, sincerity, and second chances

If you use Google to look up “painless ways to kill yourself,” the search engine becomes very concerned for your well-being. I find this intriguing because the same rules do not seem to apply if you search where to buy cigarettes near me or step by step guide to make crack cocaine.

I find it particularly interesting that if you search is a 12 gauge to the head deadly? the results are instantaneous and without fanfare. One of them is a somewhat bizarre study published in the Journal of Forensic Sciences called Comparison of contact shotgun wounds of the head produced by different gauge shotguns. I’m not sure why they needed this exact information.

A series of 89 contact shotgun wounds of the head were evaluated to compare the extent of wounding produced by different gauge shotguns.

Wow, that’s interesting, I think to myself as I peruse the study on my laptop in the cramped used bookstore where I like to do my writing. I pause and give what I imagine is a very casual look around to make sure no one is reading along with me.

The external head remained fully intact in 55% of 20 gauge intraoral wounds.

Good to know, I think.

I decide to stop reading when I get to the threshold effect for head bursting.

If you go far enough into the search results, you will find a link titled

Using a shotgun for humane dispatch of a horse

This fascinating post is hosted on the forums at “Pigeon Watch” .co.uk.

Pigeon Watch has nearly 36,000 posts concerning strategies for shooting pigeons.

User Kennett notes that

it would more than kill a horse, but I dread to think how the horse would react.

I must agree, Ken. Can I call you Ken? This leads me to consider a horse begging for its life.

I type out where to buy a 12 gauge shotgun. I delete the words and think of where I’d even want to buy a 12 gauge. There’s a hunting store on Long Island that’s about a twenty-minute drive from my mom’s house. I have been there once before. I was scared out by the gruff man behind the counter, who wore a padded fishing vest in the summertime and asked what are you looking for a little too accusingly. But it’s been a long time. Maybe he doesn’t work there anymore. Statistically, there’s a chance he died in his home, shot by his own gun.

I imagine taking the Long Island Railroad out. I can never manage to do anything useful on the LIRR, as if there is some kind of ineffable Long Island aura that causes me to disassociate. The train is actually a time machine, and every time I’m on it I am no longer here and now but somewhere else. I am 10 years old with my mother going to see Lion King on Broadway, or 26 and heading home from my first year of law school, still starry eyed and believing that my life has some grand purpose. Who knows what I was thinking of back then. I am never current on that train.

Maybe I would Uber there, from the station. There is something very funny to me about ubering to the gun store to buy a shotgun to blow my brains out. I laugh thinking about it. Thank you, Mohammad. 5 stars. I am going to kill myself now.

I scroll the website of the store, perusing their impressive shotgun selection. Many have creative names like Honcho and Nova and Double Badger. One is called the Persuader. I particularly like that name. I imagine whoever came up with it was very pleased with themselves.

Some of the shotguns are very long, which makes me concerned that I would look ridiculous putting it in my mouth and attempting to pull the trigger. It is of the utmost importance to me that I not look silly trying to kill myself as that seems highly undignified.

My concern about writing about suicide and ideation generally is that it will make people—for lack of a better description—really annoying. It does sometimes feel that even the specter of harm brings out the worst kind of hand wringing and false sense of urgency in people, not unlike Google’s professed alarm when you get a little too curious about it.

Now of course it’s a cynical thing to say, undoubtedly. It is cynical to suggest that people do not care when their first expressions: alarm, concern, reaching out, etc., are all obvious expressions of care. But I think more than one thing can be true. People can look for assurances that they themselves have done enough. That they are released from responsibility, to some extent. That makes sense. But, you know, it’s not the end of the world or something. Well…depending who you ask.

It’s also not a crazy thing to ideate on taking one’s life, plenty of people do. It’s more the planning and action that are the really bad, you-better-call-the-doctor type moments. When I half-heartedly tried to kill myself fourteen years ago, I was assigned a therapist who told me It’s normal to think about. It’s like an emergency escape hatch, mentally, at least.

Actual real image of me and my therapist 14 years ago having an emotional moment

And even I have to say I am glad I didn’t kill myself all that time ago. Tons of cool shit happened since then. But clearly, we all have dark days.

One of my favorite films is In Bruges, a black comedy with Colin Farrell, Brendan Gleeson, and Ralph Fiennes. I will also note that Clémence Poésy is remarkably sexy in the film, and also French. It is a story of redemption, where the patently stupid hitman Ray (Farrell) accidentally kills a child during a hit and attempts to take his own life before his partner, Ken (Gleeson) stops him even though he was actually tasked by Harry (Fiennes) with killing Ray for his fuck up.

That’s the interesting aspect of second chances: they’re rarely obvious, and they almost never feel like redemption in the moment. In In Bruges, Harry declares, “We’re all suicidal. We’re all fucked.” It’s a blunt truth, but it may also be the case that if we’re all at the bottom, being at the bottom isn’t the end. There’s a way back up. Even for Ray. Even for people like me. Even for people like you.

Ray’s entire arc is about living at rock bottom. He knows what he’s done, and he spends most of the film trying to figure out if he deserves a second chance. And here’s the thing: maybe he doesn’t. He killed a kid, after all. Even if it was accidental, that’s the kind of thing you can’t really come back from. But the beauty of In Bruges is that it forces you to confront the gray areas. Ray might not deserve a second chance, but does that mean he shouldn’t get one? Should anyone?

What I love about the film is how it handles redemption in such an unpolished, human way. It’s not tied up with a bow. Ray doesn’t suddenly become a better person. He doesn’t get to undo what he did. But he gets to try. There’s a scene where Ken talks about second chances—not in a grand, sweeping way, but in the context of just getting another day to figure things out. Isn’t that what second chances really are? An opportunity to keep going, to fuck up less, to laugh at your own stupidity, to hope it’s enough?

Harry, ironically, becomes the film’s most tragic figure. He’s so obsessed with his principles—his unyielding moral code—that he kills himself because he mistakenly believes he’s broken one of his own rules. He’s rigid to a fault, while Ray and Ken exist in this messier middle ground of humanity. That’s what makes them compelling. They’re allowed to be flawed. They’re allowed to change. Harry’s line about us all being suicidal feels like the thesis of the film—not in a nihilistic way, but in a way that says, If we’re all struggling, then maybe we’re all worth saving too.

“You’ve got to stick to your principles”

Believing that might require a little faith and a little sincerity, which feels in short supply. We don’t see too much of it anymore. Charlie Brown, clutching his sad little tree while the whole world laughs at him. That kind of earnestness—believing in something when everyone else thinks you’re a fool—is rarer than it used to be. Social media doesn’t really help. Sadness isn’t just sadness anymore; it’s bed rotting. Depression is content. Pain is packaged into neat little posts, many secretly hoping someone will care, knowing most won’t. Even worse: being shocked, maybe even appalled when they do. I may be projecting too much. I do think we are all a little bit Charlie Brown now, running at the football over and over again. Every time, Lucy moves it.

A few days ago, I sat across from my new therapist for an intake session. We went through the usual questions: Do you feel safe? Have you had any recent changes in appetite? And then:

"Are there any other protective factors you can think of to prevent you from killing yourself?"

I genuinely had to think about it for a moment.

"I really want to see Dune Messiah," I replied.

It was an honest answer, and it made me laugh, which was probably the point.

And then there was this exchange:

"Do you think about suicide more than half the time?"

[Laughing] "I mean, you know, a lot."

"More than half the time?"

"I mean, half is a lot."

"More than half the time?"

[Laughing]

I’m on Lexapro now! I’m trying. That could be what matters. Not necessarily grand principles or gestures, but the act of trying itself. Second chances don’t always look like redemption.

Sometimes second chances look like getting out of bed, going to therapy, or waiting for a movie sequel.

Sometimes they look like holding on to the hope that sincerity still exists—Charlie Brown clutching his sad little tree, or running at the football over and over again.

Sometimes they look like a walk around Bruges, which I hear is a lovely little place, almost like walking in a dream.

If I’m still laughing, I’m still here. And if you’re still reading, so are you.