"Didn't you ever think that your father was doing something noble for you?" the man in the front row asks. He's an older gentleman in his mid-70s. He is white, well-educated and upper-middle-class. And he is making a comment that only comes from men with his demographic background.
Granted, the comment comes in different forms: "There isn't room in this show for rational suicide," or "I always found the idea of suicide comforting." But I hear the same thing, always in my father's voice: "You'd be better off without me."
The question comes in a postshow discussion after a presentation of my solo performance, "Suicide Punchline." In this performance, I chart the ways in which I have tried to survive the suicide of my father, as represented by three characters.
These characters use everything from suicide research to French philosophy to folklore to try and understand my father's suicide. They are angry, fearful, desperate, hopeful and, at times, funny. But not one of them ever says that suicide was "noble" or that we really are better off without my father.
We aren't. Surviving the suicide of a loved one at least doubles your risk for completing suicide. Suicide survivors are twice as likely as the general population to suffer from mental illness, particularly depression.
We feel stigmatized, ashamed and isolated. We have to live with painful, unanswered questions, particularly the question of "why?" We are not better off.
So why is it so important to these men, these men who are so like my father demographically, to think that suicide is a noble choice? I believe the answer lies in our traditional scripts for masculinity.
We teach men that their most fundamental function is to protect and provide. We teach men that they should always be in control, especially of their emotions. We tell them the myth of rugged individualism, where solitary struggle and achievement are the purest markers of success.
