“And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.”
Granny Weatherwax in Carpe Jugulum by Terry Pratchett
I recently read Carpe Jugulum. The Discworld witches serve as midwives as a nod to “Roundworld” midwives falsely accused of witchcraft if their influence was perceived as a threat to powerful men. This book opens with Granny Weatherwax attending the delivery of a mother kicked by a horse. She can only save the mother or child. Neither is a ‘thing’ to Granny Weatherwax, but a decision has to be made, and she has to live with it. Midwives always made such decisions, and it wasn’t until women sought voting rights that anyone thought to intrude…because it was never about life, but power. I already wrote about this at length in a post last year.
I also don’t want to dwell on the hypocrisy of the Blue Lives Matter crowd assaulting police, but if there’s a conflict between opposing abuse of authority and excessive force, and feeling bad for the victims of a violent coup, I fail to see it. Wrong is wrong, whether it’s committed by or against law enforcement.
“I’m supposed to keep the peace, I am! If I kill people to do it, I’m reading the wrong manual!”
Commander Vimes in Jingo by Terry Pratchett
So many people pretend to care only when it suits their agenda. And this is when I need to include one of my rare trigger warnings because I will write about sexual assault, eating disorders, and suicide (if you’re in need of help, the number for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 800-273-8255).
Right from the start of the pandemic, the same people dismissing pregnant women, newborns, the elderly, and anyone in between with preexisting conditions claim lockdowns cause an increase in suicides. Not only are experts divided on whether or not suicides have increased at a higher rate than they already were, but the reasons are as diverse as the people. The most recent high profile suicides I can think of involve Capitol police. Before that, I was aware of people with preexisting conditions who spent the last year hearing about how expendable they are. And before that, it was black men who allegedly hung themselves amid increasing white supremacist activity.
Even if everyone left a note, no two notes would be alike. I can only speak for myself, but thanks to a lifetime of experience and personal observation, I do know how many of those feigning concern otherwise respond to suicide and people at risk, hence my skepticism of their motives.
This is where I get personal.
I used to be a social butterfly, if highly sensitive, before middle school – but I always found life demoralizing. The suicidal ideation came later. Something about being bullied or excluded, not for anything you did, just for being awkward and homely, wears on you (ask me how much sympathy I don’t have for adults who cry about being cancelled any time someone calls them out for being deliberately awful). It wasn’t serious until high school when former classmates I didn’t even have contact with delighted in spreading rumors or breaking up new friendships. We moved for unrelated reasons by year’s end. I existed on the periphery, largely ignored unless someone had a falling out with someone else, but at least I didn’t have a target on my back.
Then I moved away for college. My first roommate was the snotty rich girl from Texas who changed dorms because she thought our suitemates had it in for her. My second roommate was the snotty rich girl from NYC who never went to class, bought essays online, and sicced her frat boy friends on me. I could no longer hide in the sanctity of my room, and all those coping skills I’d developed over the years failed me. I was sleep deprived from prank fire alarms that led to an increase in room and board. Once my roommate left her pizza box in the hall and lied, leaving me with the fee – pocket change to her, but a big deal to me. I was often fined for forgetting my key. I felt sick all the time and hated spending money on food so I rarely ate. I didn’t own a scale, and didn’t think about my body much at all.
I also had that toxic friend who tried to force himself on me. Whenever people come for reproductive rights, it takes me back to that moment, and I ask “what if?”, and I can barely breathe. Even just knowing people want to deny our bodily autonomy…well, it’s hard for me to view them any differently than him.
“There’s a brain chemistry – the floatiness and the disassociation and all the things that came with starving – I became addicted to.”
writer/director/producer Marti Noxon
My close call reconnected me with my body, if only for a moment, but I did not regain a hunger for food, or for life. What began on accident became a game. I was a 5’8″ 100 pound shell, running on anger and cherry coke. After threats of being committed, I decided I liked freedom more than I hated responsibility.
I only shared a bathroom as a sophomore, and I was content to be a loner. Or I would have been if my suitemate and her guy friends left me alone. Loadies lobbing spitballs at my door or jamming the keyhole was an improvement over frat boys threatening to rape or kill me, but I was so tired. I didn’t want to die, but nobody would let me live. I didn’t find much sympathy. Anyone seen as an inconvenience is expendable. This time I was thwarted by a child proof cap, and a timely phone call, but pills would not have done the job anyway, not directly. And only years later did I realize my suitemate probably would have smelled the remains before anyone knew something was wrong.
I survived, and in some ways I’ve even thrived, but…you know what?
“I’m tired, Boss. Mostly I’m tired of people being ugly to each other.”
John Coffey in The Green Mile, Stephen King
The past few years have been tough. Not enough to break me, but if I wasn’t responsible for loved ones, it could have, and I can see how it might break others. If people really thought all lives matter, they’d stop spreading lies and hate, and help to make it a world worth being born into as safely as possible.
