Читать книгу The Resilient Founder - Mahendra Ramsinghani - Страница 34

2 Stepping Back from the Edge

Mark, the founder who had set out to change this world, had committed suicide. As an investor in his company, I was still grieving, trying to process this, going for long solo walks and having conversations with Mark's spirit. Part of me was sad. Part of me was guilty. Part of me was angry. And it did not make it any easier when another investor sent out an lawyer like email, demanding a special shareholder meeting, seeking an inspection of the books and the status of the cash. Investors, fiduciaries, and all that jazz – yup, we have duties and responsibilities. To the company. But what about our duties to the spirit and the soul? When I sat down with Mark's family member, I fumbled for words. I did not know what to say, where to begin. They did not know me. And probably wondered why I had shown up; I, who was a part of the problem. Are you here to represent those cold-hearted shareholders?, they may have wondered. Where was I when Mark was struggling? Had I failed in my role as a human being, one who could not bond with another?

Later that night, I read Meggie Royer's poem, “The Morning After I Killed Myself,” in which she narrates the regrets of a suicide and how she tries to unkill herself. She writes about the orange tree and the red cloud – the sun rising, setting. She writes about eggs and toast and cheese. About love for her mother. I wished that Mark had read this poem too. Because if he had read it, maybe, just maybe, he might have changed his mind.

The Morning After I Killed Myself, I Woke Up

-by Meggie Royer

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up. I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors' yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn't finish what I started.

LOOKING FOR CLARITY

The last thing a suicidal person wants is to be reminded that their final act will cause more damage. Caught between the jaws of their own unmanageable pain, hopelessness, and fear, writes author Al Alvarez in his book The Savage God – A Study of Suicide,

Suicide is, after all, the result of a choice. However impulsive the action and confused the motives, at the moment when a man finally decides to take his own life he achieves a certain temporary clarity. Suicide may be a declaration of bankruptcy which passes judgment on a life as one long history of failure. But it is a decision which, by its very finality, is not wholly a failure. There is, I believe, a whole class of suicides who take their own lives not in order to die but to escape confusion, to clear their heads. They deliberately use suicide to create an unencumbered reality for themselves or to break through the patterns of obsession and necessity which they have unwittingly imposed on their lives.

Part of me feels like there is nothing we could have done to prevent a suicide. This was destined to happen. Part of me screams that hell yes, we could have reached out to him. Sometimes, it's just one conversation. With a poet, a philosopher, or a friend.

Source: Twitter, Inc.

This Might Be Just a Passing Phase, One of My Bad Days

Most depression episodes last for less than 10 months (see Figure 2.1). For those who have been dragged down to the depths of depression, each day is a drudgery, and 10 months may seem like eternity. But when we put things in context of our entire life, 10 months is a short phase. A tough phase, for sure. But it doesn't spell the end of it all.

Figure 2-1 Most depression episodes drop after ~10 months.¹

I Go Down to the Shore

-by Mary Oliver

I go down to the shore in the morning

and depending on the hour the waves

are rolling in or moving out,

and I say, oh, I am miserable,

what shall -

what should I do? And the sea says

in its lovely voice:

Excuse me, I have work to do

Fantasizing about Death versus Facing the Harshness of Reality

Then there is always this possibility that suicide might not work out. That embarrassment of a failed attempt and the dark humor that comes with it … guess I failed at suicide too?

The list of all those who failed at suicide is long. Tim Ferriss and Jerry Colonna failed at suicide. They went on and succeeded in many other ways. For one, they lived to talk about their journey and inspire the rest of us.

If suicide is a form of repressed frustration, openness about suicidal thoughts might be a welcome form, a release of sorts. Easier said than done, but after all, we are merely talking about what most of us may have felt at some point or another in life. Just like any other frustration compounded by a mix of emotions. Like love, joy, or sadness. By speaking about our repressed frustrations, we take a step toward relief. We bring it out from within, we stare at it, understand it. How do these frustrations seize our power of judgment, numb us so completely and crush our motivation? When we fail to make peace with reality, and keep ruminating in hopelessness, we get into a downward spiral and an all-consuming negative vortex. Our aspirations fuel us on, but the range of unintended outcomes becomes hard to handle (see Table 2.1).

Table 2-1 Aspirations and Outcomes

Aspirations	Unintended outcomes
Financial freedom	Overwhelmed/overstimulated
Problem-solving skills	Feeling adrift
Logical processes	Disorganized chaos
Self-confidence	Fear, anxiety, and defensive behaviors
Adaptability/agility	Rigidity/fear of change/aggression
New learnings and growth	Stagnancy and pessimism
Enhanced empathy for team members and customers	Inability to understand and express emotions; self-centered/one-sided

When in such a vortex, the best thing to do is to postpone any plans till tomorrow. And between now and tomorrow, those aching parts inside you – how can you help those gnawing, angry, frustrated parts to be still? Talking about suicide is as easy as chewing glass, but starting with “I am not feeling as good today” may just as well be a starting point.

Dr. Irvin D. Yalom, MD, professor emeritus of psychiatry at Stanford University, often tells his suicidal patients, “There is a part of you that is here today. I want to talk to that part of you …”

You are here today.

And so am I.

And while we are still here, we have to contribute our verse.

O Me! O Life!

-Walt Whitman

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill'd with the foolish,

Of myself forever reproaching myself,

(for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light,

of the objects mean,

of the struggle ever renew'd,

Of the poor results of all,

of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,

Of the empty and useless years of the rest,

with the rest me intertwined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these,

O me, O life?

Answer

That you are here – that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

What verse will you contribute?

NOTE

1 1. M. ten Have, B. W. J. H. Penninx, M. Tuithof, S. van Dorsselaer, M. Kleinjan, J. Spijker, and R. de Graaf, “Duration of Major and Minor Depressive Episodes and Associated Risk Indicators in a Psychiatric Epidemiological Cohort Study of the General Population,” Acta Psychiatrica Scandinavica, May 16, 2017, https://doi.org/10.1111/acps.12753