My big brother at my wedding.
Today is the first anniversary of my brother’s suicide. He planned it well: On the coffee table were copies of his will, life insurance policy, and house keys. He changed the greeting on his cell phone (“by the time you hear this message I’ll be dead”), put a plastic bag over his head, lay down on his bed, and died.
His death gutted me, just as his prior threats of suicide had in the years leading up to it.
He was a complicated figure. His best self was fantastic — alive and brilliant, curious, adventuresome, generous, thoughtful. People wanted to be around him and themselves became more alive and aware when they were with him.
I remember Jimmy as so intelligent, fun, sweet, and kind, basically the coolest cousin you could have wished for. He was such a great friend to us in the years we lived in Bedford. I will always cherish those times and will remember him forever.
Diagnosis Helps
Such is the seductiveness of narcissistic personality disorder. Despite the joy and wonder with which he engaged the world, he cared about other people — parents, friends, siblings, children, partners — only as if they were participants in his eponymous movie. We were cast in roles that he created, and if we deviated from his script, we were wrong. Because he was charismatic and persuasive, we often felt foolish if we didn’t see things as he did. When we ceased to have value to him, we were written out of the story.
To this day, a year after he proved his beyond doubt that he was ill — after meeting his psychiatrist, who diagnosed the disorder — I catch myself wondering if we’re not just exaggerating.
His memorial service helped. I hold on to it as evidence that the complexity isn’t imagined.
On one side of the room sat his colleagues from the university, where he was under-employed an assistant in a biology lab. (He was 47 and had three degrees and more than 10 years’ work history with the EPA.) Evidently Jim showed up in a professor’s office one day out of the blue, and asked to audit a PhD-level seminar. The professor scoffed, handed Jim a textbook, and told him to come back when he had finished it. A few weeks later Jim returned and and they had a long and deep conversation about biology. They became fast friends, and Jim was offered work in the lab. Everyone at the school saw him as special, a bright light, not someone who could have deeply rooted instability.
On the other side of the memorial service, our mom, his ex-wife, teenage sons, sisters, and a few high school friends knew much more complex man. My sister had lived with his life-long ridicule and contempt. I had been accosted by repeated suicide threats (always sent by email), and viciously attacked when I tried to intervene. His ex-wife had begged him to get help six months before he killed himself. I can’t imagine what his kids have been through.
Living with a person like this is slippery. He sees life from such a strange and interesting, point of view, that when he lays out his philosophy (for instance, that humans are just corrosion on the planet), you actually sort of believe him, even when you know it’s ridiculous. He’s so sure that he’s right that you learn to doubt your own judgment.
I met Jim only once. But the impression he left is as if I had spoken to him many many times…I left the meeting laughing heartily and amazed by this talented and pleasant person. I’m sure Jim has touched countless people. I am glad I’m one of them.
I’m glad I’m one of them, too…but then he pulled a bag over his head.
How could I maintain clarity when faced with a super-smart, exceptional-seeming crazy big brother? It’s the most infuriating, frustrating, doubt-inducing situation. Especially when you’re nine and the crazy person is 14 and the most popular boy in school.
(Cue the Suicidal Tendencies’ 1983 hit “I’m not crazy…you’re the one who’s crazy…you’re driving me crazy”.)
I should be angry with him for killing himself, but I’m not really. It’s what he wanted. He had been planning it for years: He had his will notarized monthly. He took out a life insurance policy with a multi-year suicide clause and patiently waited until it matured, so that his boys would have resources. It should be just enough to pay for their inevitable decades of therapy.
Precipitating Events
His choice of timing is not surprising. My father — from whom he was astranged — died just a few months prior, after a 10-year illness. A few weeks later Jim asked his ex-girlfriend to marry him; she declined (“not until you get help”). He bought a ring, became depressed.
She and a friend successfully staged an intervention, had his gun impounded, and got him admitted to a locked ward for 72 hours of observation. She says it was the most calm she had ever seen him. Upon release, he began seeing a psychiatrist. He wanted to go every day, to prove that he was doing as she wished. He was convinced that a perfect love, a new wife, would make his life meaningful. A few weeks after the intervention, he acted on his long-held plan.
His girlfriend thinks he finally accepted his illness and couldn’t face the future as a crazy man (he had already watched schizophrenia take our sister and bipolar disorder take our
Goofing during photos. We both loved dancing.
father). I believe that his inability to connect deeply, to love, ultimately killed him.
The last thing I said to him was “If you ever decide to get help, I’ll do anything I can. But until then, I can’t have a relationship with you.” At the memorial, I came to realize how many of us have said some version of those words to him.
I miss him. I loved him so much. It makes my heart ache. A light went out when he died, and my life feels diminished. But it’s also more stable, less fearful. He caused of a lot of emotional trauma; he inspired so many to look with fresh eyes.
I hope to find in my life that which he never did — love, peace, and a settled acceptance of my self.
Wow, Janice. I’m just astounded by this post. I’ve helped two people die of cancer (5 yrs each in and out of hospitals.. they were both extended family of my parents age) and that kind of death is wrenching and takes years to get over, but it’s also i think much less complicated in the end than what you describe.
Last winter someone I know who is likely a NPD or a BPD (doesn’t “borderline” sound like it’s not that serious?.. and yet it’s incredibly serious) person. They threatened very specific detailed suicide twice in one week and I called a suicide counselor. I do think they are mentally ill (i say that with a lot of hesitation because I’m not a doctor but they regularly do all the things on the “five or more list” for NPD or BPD). So the counselor said to tell the family and roommate, which I did. Which then caused them to become enraged and go crazy sending me more than 50 nastygrams in 5 different media in 4 days, showing about 10 people. Super drama. I ended up leaving the situation, not responding except to say: “You have to get better and I have to be healthy and draw a boundary around my being treated badly. I’m sorry.. but I hope you can get help.”
Reading your post, I really don’t know if that was the right thing. It’s so complicated and narcissism is really hard. This person sounds very sane to people who don’t know them.
I feel really terrible about it, and also, reading your story, I feel that it’s likely the direction they are headed in. Success with the threats which started way before me and go on now post my involvement. You know intellectually that it’s tremendously narcissistic and yet you also feel like you could do more or shouldn’t leave or whatever to save the situation.
Having helped those two sorta-parents die, in a travesty of physical deterioration, I know how painful death is. I still hear them in my head, think about the funny stories about each of them. Know them like they were in the room, even though they died over 15 yrs ago.
I don’t know what to say except that death is so hard and hard to talk about, and I love the way you captured the complexity and the heart of it. And I suspect that one of the hardest versions of death is the combination with mental illness.
Good for you for writing about it and sharing.
mary
Janice – this is a most touching, extremely moving tribute to your brother. I hope the writing of it helped you find your way farther down the path to peace. Much love to you, my friend.
Mary — thanks so much for sharing your story. I’m convinced that intervening is the most loving and kind thing to do when someone presents a credible threat of suicide. It takes a lot of courage to make that call, and letting the family know is exactly right. I understand now that the price we pay is their anger. Suicide (and NPD) is manipulative, and you’re disrupting the script. The kind of reaction you experienced is typical of what we experienced with Jim (and to a certain extent my father and sister, who have/had schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, respectively).
Death is hard, mental illness is much harder. When you disengaged from the person in your life, you did the right thing. Healthy people protect themselves, and that’s what so many of Jim’s friends did.
I’m not surprised to learn that you have such a big and loving heart, mary.
love and peace.
Sarah — thanks so much for your comment. I’m grateful for you seemingly bottomless supply of kindness, empathy, and joy. You’re an amazing person.
Janice,
I really appreciate your saying that it was the right thing to disengage. I know it but I don’t feel that so easily. I have been thinking about everything you said since yesterday, and in light of my explaining my own reaction I left out how amazing it is to read and reread your thoughts about your brother.
Your heart and articulation of feeling blows my mind. Feeling your life is the most human thing you can do, and knowing how much you loved him, and feel it, is the most brilliant thing to share with me and everyone else here. We are so lucky to have you.
Thank you.
What a tough, tough thing to go through. Sometimes, for family and friends, there just are no good solutions.
*hug* Just fixed my link to your RSS feed, so I’m a little late to the game. My heart goes out to you hon.