Suicide is Funny (Story by R.C. Peris)

My fourth suicide was a hoot. My boyfriend broke up with me in a text.

“Hey Sarah, I think we should split like a banana. We should see other people.”

He ended his message with a unicorn, devil, heart, and sad face. What does that even mean? I should note that we were both 40-year-olds. We weren’t teenagers with their whole lives ahead of them. I blubbered. Cry, cry, cry. Tears, tears, tears. When you are 40 events in your life become less dramatic and more pathetic. I drank a bottle of vodka and emailed my friends. You’re better off without them said, one friend. Good riddance said another friend. You should have drinks with me on Friday said another friend. I did drink. Gin and tonic. It was a blur by the evening. All of life was a blur. And yet, I knew I was alone. Abandoned. I was 40 with no boyfriend, no husband, and no children. I should mention I have issues with mood and my doctor prescribed lithium. It didn’t seem to work when my boyfriend broke up with me. I knew lithium could be lethal so, in an irrational haze, I swallowed 60 pills of lithium. I laid in bed and waited for death. But my stomach wasn’t having it. I spent the night vomiting. In the morning, I staggered out of bed and dressed. I had an urge to go to the Guggenheim. No idea where that thought came from. I sat on a bus bench next to a black woman.

“Are you okay?” she asked. She had an accent.

“I’m wonderful.”

Her face looked confused. “You don’t seem wonderful.”

I cried. “My boyfriend broke up with me and I swallowed pills.”

“I’m sorry. Should you see a doctor?”

“I’m going to the Guggenheim,” I slurred. “Hey, where are you from?”

“The Congo.”

“Were you there for that nasty thing?” I couldn’t form the word genocide.

“You mean the massacre? Yes, they took a machete to my husband, father, and then they went after me but my husband paid them some money to save me so I could escape. My husband and father died. Their bodies were thrown into the river. Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

I cried. “I swallowed pills today because my jerk of a boyfriend dumped me in a text.”

She laughed. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny.”

I looked at her. She was in her forties. Short hair. A smile on her face. I thought of her life. Losing her husband and father in a horrific manner. And then my break up with a jerk. I thought of my suicide attempt. I started laughing and then the woman laughed. We were two women laughing at a bus stop. Fuck life. Fuck death. We laughed. I told you my suicide was funny.

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