In hindsight, the suicides of Sid Vicious, Ian Curtis and Kurt Cobain were pretty easy to understand. Maybe not easy to take, but not hard to comprehend. Of course you have the myopic masses who ask things like, "Why would Kurt kill himself when he was so popular and rich?" As if that saves lives. But Owen Wilson?
In my own shortsightedness, I figured the toughest emotion he'd ever faced was the frustration of forgetting a poorly written monologue in a two star film. Then I come to learn he has a drug problem. Now, how much of his suicidal attempt was driven by his drug use is not known and I will not guess. But a drug problem is not something that generally afflicts a stable, happy, easy going person.
It is a symptom of pain. Be it depression, existential despair, personal loss or any number of different wounds. As I pondered Mr. Wilson, drugs, depression, suicide and began to look beneath the surface, it occurred to me that in many ways, I was looking straight into the mirror.
All my life I have unconsciously used humor as a protective tool. Sometimes as a weapon. It's always been an instinctive, reflective action to keep people outside the wall. I use humor to deflect, to keep people distracted and laughing when they start to get too close. Then, when they can't see my titanic internal despair, I blame them for their ignorance. A self-inflicted Catch 22.
Recently in rehab, I got a testing ground for my demented art. The patients couldn't tell what I was up to, but the counselors picked up on it pretty quick. While I did make them laugh, their frustration was apparent. Instead of working the program, I was working the room. Instead of digging deep to unearth the thick roots of my alcoholism, I'd fire back with humor, pick apart faith in God with logic, and focus on semantics rather than myself. I felt if I really looked and discovered the cause of my pain, I'd be crippled for life. If I started crying, I'd never stop. Maybe Owen Wilson was working along those same lines.
The line of thought that silently says, "I have to keep you happy because if you witness my bottomless, ubiquitous depression, you will be forever scarred." It's always been imperative for me to be perceived as a carefree, independent, aloof person. Above the human need to need humans.
Persistent sadness is considered weakness and no one will tolerate a basket case for long. Being a basket case is un-American. It's not in the brochure. People admire those who are ambitious, goal driven and thankful to be alive. I am not ambitious, I have no goals and on any given day, I'm thinking about how to end it all. In society, it's ok to grieve but it freaks people out when you're consistently unhappy. Better to put on the mask of comedic indifference while stockpiling Phenobarbital in the cupboard than to show your hand of misery.
Suicide and the comforting thought of suicide has haunted me like an unwanted ghost for nearly 30 years. I've tried twice and, to my dismay, failed both times. Recently a friend of mine asked, "You seem to have no reason to live - what is it that keeps you alive?"
"Oxygen," I replied. It seemed the safe answer and it worked. She laughed and the gloomy topic was diffused. I prefer to suffer in silence. When other people have been privy to my despair, not one let me down. And that was so much worse because I felt I deserved to be abandoned. I was at the bottom of the well with pairs and pairs of hands extended to give me a lift and help me help myself. But I remained shivering against the wall, unwilling or unable to move.
Depression is nearly flawless. Not only does it convince you that it is the correct frame of mind, the truth beyond the illusion of contentment, it also paints a picture of helplessness so complete that any action outside of sleep is a massive undertaking. Somehow, you're able to fake it for one reason and one reason only - so that others may be spared from witnessing your spiral into a blackness from which you may never return.
I don't believe the humor tool breaks down per se but when the outside persona is so incongruous with internal torment, the polarization is too much to bear. When the horses of depression, hopelessness and sorrow break the gates, something has got to give. Unless something can be done to lessen the degree of personal hell, what gives may be life itself.
Money, friends and love mean nothing when suicide seems the only choice. Everything fades into the background, and as much as one may want that support to matter, it's rendered useless. That is where one turns from how to make life better to how to make life end. Where the mind gives up hope, facing the greatest fear most humans will know, death, and makes an active attempt to get there.
Some people will openly admit they would never, could never conceive of the thought of suicide. It's beyond the realm of their thinking. They view it as selfish, stupid, cowardly. They are the lucky ones. They will never know how it feels to be trapped in a life begging to be left. Actually fighting the temptation to buy a gun or jump from a bridge. It is the loneliest place conceivable.
Regardless of what I think of Owen Wilson, I do know this - he has felt the paralyzing, terrifying need to get out, permanently. I don't care if it's him or some 12-year-old kid with a suicidal reaction to Zoloft. Every suicide or attempted suicide is tragic. It pains me to think that 30,000 people in the U.S. kill themselves every year. Dying to leave a world that offers no hope, only exits.
While Mankind has made remarkable medical advancements over thousands of years, we still can't stop people from taking their lives. As Albert Camus said, "There is but one truly philosophical problem, and that is suicide." It's as true now as it's always been and always shall be.
From the gutter drunk to the Buddhist monk to the A-list celebrity, no one is spared the roulette wheel of suicidal possibility. It's a hard grief for those left behind but for those who die, it is peace from a war they could no longer fight. For Owen Wilson, I can only hope that he reaches up from that well, takes hold of a helping hand and reclaims his will to live. Not because of who he is but because everyone who survives a suicide attempt deserves that chance.
*****
If you were interested in this story, you may also be interested in The Bridge: Looking Into The Abyss [1]