“Except for World War II, nothing ever interfered with the celebration of National Suicide Day. It had taken place every January third since 1920, although Shadrack, its founder, was for many years the only celebrant.”
I’ll let you in on a secret … I think I may be the only celebrant today. Maybe you should join in. The passage above is from Toni Morrison’s novel Sula. I discovered Toni Morrison in college … not by curriculum but by a book cover: Tar Baby. Such a bold title—with cover art reminiscent of Henri Rousseau—my curiosity was peaked. And I was instantly absorbed. By the time I had read Sula and Beloved, Ms. Morrison was awarded the Nobel Prize. She’s essentially been my spiritual matriarch since.
Shadrack is a veteran who returned from war clearly coping with what we call today Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The townsfolk couldn’t figure him out, but he was making his way the best he could. As a method to make “a place for fear as a way of controlling it”, Shadrack instituted National Suicide Day. He would walk through town with a cow bell and a hangman’s noose crying out to the citizens “that this was their only chance to kill themselves or each other.”
By this point in my life I was already leery of New Year’s resolutions. If something needed to be changed—start now. I already had enough waiting in the future. I didn’t need to plan to fix bad habits; I needed to repair them now. Nevertheless, anxiety seemed to follow me everywhere. And National Suicide Day seemed to be a potential solution.
Having practiced more than a dozen years now, what I like about the personal holiday is it’s the one time of the year I let go. Really let go of suppressed thoughts. Things we normally want to avoid. All the irrational things that we fear might actually occur if we think them. I might celebrate by writing down (or saying out loud, or screaming) everything I dread. And then go murder them. Throw them off a bridge. Toss them under a car. Stab them with sharp implements.
It sure beats a resolution because there’s nothing left to do. Yet it comes with the same accoutrements: fear, self-despisal, neglect, guilt. Like all rituals, it makes one feel better. It’s an act of engagement, release and devotion. And who knows—maybe one day after I’ve suffocated myself, shot myself, and burned myself to death, I’ll really be able to start living.
No comments:
Post a Comment