Suicide [journal] I just heard news that a family friend committed suicide. When I lived in Winnipeg my dad socialized and lived near one of his closest highschool friend from Vietnam. This guy had two sons that were near my brothers' ages. Naturally my brothers and his children grew up together as playmates. When we moved away we didn't hear too much about them except the occasional visit. The last time they visited, about two years ago, the sons were doing very well. They had dropped out of school and started an internet business that was sort of the Yellow Pages for businesses on the internet. The idea was genius. They soon had 50 employees working under them. They had to expand to Montreal. They became millionaires. They were the Canadian dream. Nick (let's call him Nick) came to town showing off his beautiful wife, talked about his beautiful new car (close to a hundred thousand) and tipped the bouncer at the club (Meow) a hundred to let us all by-pass the line. He was living the privleged life. He seemed high on it. Suddenly I hear he's dead and by his own hands. Jumped out of the hotel window, plummeting many stories. See the thing with money is, once you have it, you want it even more. You combine that with a gambling habit and you've got a millionaire that owes more money then he's worth. If you and I were compulsive gamblers we would only have the assets to lose thousands. When shit hits the fan we could probably pool the money from family and friends, but when you're a millionaire, who do you go to for money? Billionaires? He probably killed himself--at least he thought--to help his family. The creditors probably threatened to kill or maim them if he didn't pay. And when I say them, I don't mean just Nick and his wife. He had a baby, and another on the way. It's probably the saddest thing that's only one degree of separation from me. My brother tells me that after two years of life insurance you still get the money even if you commit suicide. Fuck, that's just wrong. To believe that money is worth more than yourself.
I still don't understand it all. It feels very surreal. I never see him. As I said, last time I saw him was about two years ago. To me, nothing has changed. My day goes on as usual. Because nothing is different, it's like he's still alive in Winnipeg or Montreal working away at his businesses. He must be. All I've heard is words. People mouthed the words "He committed suicide," and now I'm supposed to accept he's dead and somehow mentally change my schema of him. No, he's still alive, eating, sleeping, crying, loving, being. He can't be dead because he was too young, too rich, too happy. Look at me: I'm a sickly, 50-pound weakling, free-loader---but I'm alive. Too surreal.
