By Rex Catubig

 

NOTE: I’m reprising this column in support of the Suicide Awareness and Prevention Month, and the World Suicide Prevention Day September 10. This is to give face to the menace of suicide that afflicts even the seemingly normal person, robbing the young of their power to dream and deleting the future that lies ahead.

The weekday morning couldn’t have been less routine than any other morning the teenager wakes up to. It is the usual run of clichés common in a household.

To jumpstart the day, which could be hectic depending on what he crams it with, he goes off to the nearby basketball court “para papawis”, to sweat it off. Or in retrospect, maybe to shake off some mental cobwebs.

Towards lunchtime, he drives on his motorbike to the remote house of a “kabarangay” to deliver the food that they have ordered. It’s what he does to help in his Lola’s little “carinderia” business, which caters to the neighbors who find it a convenient option.

He comes back right after and repairs to his room without anybody noticing.

The day is unfolding fast but uneventfully.

It’s way past noon when a family member observes that he has not come down to eat—which is really no big deal with teenagers who routinely forego meals if occupied with their cellphones.

When it is already running two-ish and it is unusually quiet in his room, his cousin goes up to check on him. Maybe he fell asleep. He freezes when he opens the door. The image that burst upon him is out of a nightmare. The limp body of the teenager hangs tied to a colored rope. The room becomes a blur and he sees only a dead body.

The teenager has taken his own life—leaving no clue as to why he suddenly ended his ball game of life that was just barely starting.

Basketball was his passion. He was a star in the ball court, adored by ball fans, and respected by his co-players. This passion paid off handsomely as he garnered numerous medals and trophies and easily earned the title of Most Valuable Player.

So everyone is in a quandary about how he came to the point of despair that obliterated reason and self-esteem.

No explanation is plausible enough. There is none, no matter how deep you dig. It just does not make sense. Nothing adds up.

The specter of self-inflicted death takes many forms. Depending on your viewpoint, it could be an act of honor as in hara kiri; or expression of protest as in the Asian monks’ self-immolation; or deviant heroism as in terrorist suicide bombing; or a futile act of redemption and comeuppance as in the death of Judas.

But beneath it all is the sense of loss, uncertainty, and futility, where the overpowering incomprehensible vastness of life cannot contain the aneurysmic burst of the vessels of the mind and calm down the arrhythmic beating of the heart.

Our teenager was a point guard, who was an expert ball handler and passer – a trait that he could have applied in his life. And yet in an unguarded moment of weakness and unexplained loss of control, unmindful of the outcome, he pushed himself to the edge and sprang a dunk shot. And upon landing on the hard court, he ran off and impulsively threw his towel and called it quits.

It was only the first quarter of his play. Too soon to retire to the dugout. What could have triggered the overpowering need to retreat and surrender?

Friends and family saw no signs. Down to the last hours of his life, he remained the jolly, “carinoso” type of teenager, who would routinely ask upon coming home, “Antoy sira?” “What’s to eat?”.

But there was an indication that he wanted to reach out, and maybe seek comfort. A day before, he chatted with a girlfriend, apparently wanting a meet-up. But she was busy with personal stuff and couldn’t make it.

Would that meeting have changed the course of the fateful day?

If it’s any consolation, nothing could have altered the events. As Shakespeare said: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in us, that we are underlings”.

“Man seeks for drama and excitement; when he cannot get satisfaction on a higher level, he creates for himself the drama of destruction.” –Erich Fromm.

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