Will I Be Perfect[ly Happy] in Death?

CW: Suicide

On the Live From Snack Time Instagram page, an anonymous four year old was quoted as saying, “I finally did everything right today!” I saved the post because it made me chuckle and it resonated, as so many blurbs from that account do. But when I revisited it a few days later, I felt this enormous pang of sadness for my younger self. I've always, always been chasing some version of perfection. I've been blessed with several revelations throughout my life that I don't need to be perfect, nor is it required of me, but still. Still! The idea appeals, does it not?

Part of my perfection fantasy has always been future-oriented. If only I could get to such-and-such a place. If only I could land such-and-such a job. If only my living situation was more permanent. Then, surely, I would blossom into a person who has everything clean all the time, never gets angry or frustrated or melts down, loves every aspect of my family members, and the cat wouldn't destroy the home I decorate impeccably. By the way, I remain extremely humble and relatable throughout becoming flawless. 

It's funny to put such a fine point on it. Even when I do get some things I want or have a day where I didn't do or say anything regrettable, I quickly move on to new goals. The inverse is just as true. Just as I fantasize about being a perfect version of myself, I also imagine end dates to my pain. The amount of decay and death and horror that has touched me in my life is heavy indeed. I'm moving past comparing my pain to other people's pain, because I've found this does not help me or others. Being able to say that some things in my life or my past are not right and are really too much allows me to process their full weight. That often comes with depression. 

Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I noticed myself believing that at some future time I will no longer experience depression, ever. That I expect my life will change and perfect itself in such a way that it never ties me in knots again. Or that I’ll just be fine and happy with knots. But I don’t think that’s true. 

While I have no plan to depart earth early, it appeals to me more lately. I'm also the most aware I’ve ever been that 1) my depression will pass, and 2) my brain gets sick. I wish it didn’t, just like I hate to get regular sick. But I can’t always control what makes me ill. I can control my healing environment, to a degree. 

I also know that suicide is a chosen escape from a sometimes incurable disease that is very painful. It’s not just a matter of mind over matter to avoid suicide. Sometimes suicide is stronger than the patient and it chooses for you. Like any other illness. 

I want to stay here. I do not lack for love or loved ones, or joys or passion or hope. Still, I get sick. 

I often don't realize I'm depressed for quite a while after I've been experiencing depression. I read this beautiful, heartrending post by Justin Tang about the suicide of his beloved partner, Jing Mai. The tenderness with which he saw her beauty and her illness coexisting, and his respect for her in the midst of his mourning touched me. It gave me a category for what it looks like to love someone who is severely ill and knows it without trying to medicate them to death (not that people are trying to over-medicate me or that medication is wrong). Jing Mai didn't lack for support or love, joy or passion. She just died from invisible wounds. 

I know that if I read that story and related to Jing Mai, others must too. I'm not the only mostly-stable person who sometimes has suicidal ideations (of which planning to kill oneself is not the only symptom). I love Jesus and my faith gives me hope for life and death (a relatively recent development, despite a lifetime of religion). But it's not magic that immunizes against suicide. Or cancer. Or whatever other illness. And you can love Jesus, be ill, and still hate being ill. It was a heavy refrain in my formative years that Jesus makes pain bearable. In fact, my understanding was that experiencing pain was a result of a lack of faith. Because perfect Christians joyfully accept everything God sends their way, and therefore can endure it. But I never could. 

artwork from Judas comics by Jakub Rebelka

For a variety of reasons, I've been studying and thinking about Judas in the past several months. I don't think he killed himself because he was so ashamed of his betrayal, or because he was damned. 

I think he lost his friend and he was irreversibly saddened. His brain was too ill to provide the time to recover slowly. I believe that Jesus loves Judas.  

The Orthodox Christian traditions have a different view of hell than modern Protestants. Fr. Peter Heers explains it by saying that to be in the presence of God but not want God - that is hell. God is in Hades because God is everywhere, but if you are also in hell (including while you are living and breathing on this present planet), it is because you do not want communion with God. Similarly, Saint Sophrany of Essex said, "You may be certain that as long as someone is in hell, Christ will remain there with him." If Judas wants communion with Christ, he will have it. (You might not agree, but I believe that).

In some ways, the evolution of my faith and musings on metaphysics have led me to see life and death, heaven and hell, as both present all the time. Sometimes that makes death seem a lot less scary or permanent or "bad." Sometimes the pull of death is just a hope that there's something easier later.