Suicide: Is the Best Option for an Atheist?

Stan Solomon of The Talk to Solomon Show had an interview with an angry man, Gordon Klingenschmitt, who has his own empire of hateful rhetoric towards people he doesn't understand.

You can watch the interview here...

Aside from the men's obvious lack of understanding of what an atheist is, or even the purpose of a "chaplain" who isn't tied to a specific religion, they prove that they cannot follow their arguments to their logical end.

Suicide is present in all cultures, religions, ages, genders, orientations, and any other group classification you would like to throw in there.  Christians are not exempt from suicide, nor are the arguments for suicide, inside the minds of those that decide to end their lives, a phenomenon specific to atheists.

But let's examine the thought process of this Solomon guy and see if we cannot flush out a more reasoned approach to his unreasonable words.

Most Christians believe in a literal heaven.  At any funeral, no matter what faction of Christianity you belong to, provided the dead individual had followed the specific creed of that faction, no matter how nebulous in nature, they are said to have "moved on to a better place".  

Yes.  A better place.

Christianity believes that heaven will render a person's body perfect.  All troubles will be gone.  Tears of sadness will be replaced by cries of joy and worship of their god.  Some literally believe that, as the Bible says, the streets will be paved with gold, while others even believe you will be afforded a mansion to live it up in.  There will be no more death, no more sickness, no...atheists to make you afraid.

Heaven is the ultimate utopia, much like The United States of America, around the time of our Founding Fathers.

With that description of the afterlife, why wouldn't a Christian chaplain encourage a soldier to end it all.  Better put, why wouldn't a soldier view the pending misery of the rest of their injured life, and decide that ending this life is the best option?

On the other hand, an atheist may believe that this life is all we have.  I say "may believe" to differentiate those atheists that unequivocally claim there is no afterlife from those that just don't know, but decide not to worry about it.  Either way, the view that our current life is all we have is actually a good reason to KEEP LIVING and make the best of it.  We have nothing "better" to look forward to, potentially keeping us going.

That being said, anyone can and will commit suicide and will reconcile it in their minds however they want.  Even so, an atheist is not immune to happiness, much like a Christian is not shielded from sorrow, depression, and lack of a drive to live.

That's all I have right now...

Rick Warren's Son, Matthew, Commits Suicide

..and I cry for Rick and his family.

During my post-fundamentalist Christianity and subsequent post-Christian life, I have been outspoken about Rick Warren's beliefs and message.  Actually, due to my fundamentalism, I was even against Rick while still a devout inerrant Bible believing believer.

All of that is meaningless.  Stupid life disagreements that have no place in this world when a son is lost to a father.

I have six children.  Most days, I love them dearly.  Losing one of them, especially to suicide, would devastate me to no end.  Every day, after my son's death, I would question every second I spent (or didn't spend) with my son.  I would go over every word I ever spoke (or didn't speak) to him.  I would remember every after-school program, every sporting event, every conference, every concert, every ballgame, every lunch date I missed and twist them into a list of indictable offenses of the worst kind.

I would weep.  And after the tears were gone, I would question everything of who I am as a father.

I ache for Rick Warren today.  Today, he and I are simply fathers.

The Hammer Drops: Dr. Kenneth Copley Exposed - Pushed to Suicide

Begin reading the series here.  Or, go back to Everything but Rape.

*****

Naturally, my day-to-day behavior was getting worse.  I was stealing from gas stations, libraries, parents, siblings, etc. etc.  I was lying a lot too and home-life was splintering quickly.  For whatever reason known only to him, my dad abruptly stopped coming into my room and molesting me once I began working for him at age 15 as a secretary at ICBCI.

Even with my dad’s lessons of orgasm and masturbation and R-rated sex-filled movies, I still had questions.  I knew I couldn’t ask anyone so I decided one afternoon to Google “sex” on the computer at work.  I learned a lot that day.  I had heard the terminology “oral sex” and “homosexuality”, so it was mainly these terms I searched for.

In January 2000, my dad found out because a coworker had checked the internet history and discovered my searches.  I denied this vehemently and that night he declared there would never be any hope for me or my future.  My mom had been telling me this for years, but my dad and I were strangely close and I trusted him, even with the molestation.  I mainly trusted him because he always made himself available to me and paid me positive attention. He had never fully verbally belittled me, or at least it was very mild compared to my mom’s verbal abuse.   He was the only adult in my home-life that was nice to me and listened when I needed someone to listen to me.  He was like two different people.  “Night time dad” was bad but “daytime dad” was a safe rock and refuge.  But knowing that BOTH my parents were in agreement and believed there was no hope for me, I swallowed a whole bottle of Tylenol and left a suicide note.

Read Part Eight - Exposing the Hypocrite.

The Story of Liz Franklin, Installment 8 - The End...But Not Really

And here, we continue on from Installment 7, where Liz's mother passed away, and see what comes of her life.  This is the final installment.

*****

OY!! After she [mom] died, any buffer between my dad and I was gone.  My dad had quit with the sexual abuse several years prior, but I was still afraid of him, and of dealing with what had happened.  With mom around, it was easier to not deal.  The day we buried her, I had terrible flash backs and was literally stuck reliving things.

My solution was to go back to school.  Because they had proven how good they were in cases like this, right?  I went, but it just didn't work.  I had panic attacks.  I'd never had them before; they were the scariest things I'd lived through.  I contemplated suicide again, and even ran my car off roads a couple times.  In the mean time, I talked a little to the pastor of the church at school.  He was...not as bad as the evil pastor I'd had at home, but when it came to rules, he was adamant.  They were good!  Keep 'em!  Those weren't the topics of our conversations, though.  We talked about me, my past with dad, and I saw a sweeter side to him.  He helped me through many a dark day.  He came to love me as a daughter.  Couldn't love me more if I had been his daughter, he said.

Finally, I just could not go on. I wasn't attending classes, I was having panic attacks regularly, and the urge to kill myself was growing. Around this time, my boyfriend broke up with me, devastating me more. Even though I knew I didn't love him...  I finally went to see my doctor back home, who had me admitted to the psych ward.  The church was aghast.  THIS WAS AGAINST THE RULES!!!!  And this was one of the more important rules, too.  The pastor who couldn't love me more if I were his own daughter came to see me for 5 minutes and prayed for deliverance. I never saw him again.  The current pastor at my church came with his wife, and she cried like I'd been diagnosed with cancer.  (Evil pastor had finally been voted out). In fact, the only person who showed any interest in visiting me was my dad!!

I was in the hospital a month.  The first time.  I spent a lot of time there for awhile.  I just didn't think I had anything to live for.  My spiritual fate had been decided; what else was there?  It took a lot of therapy and medication just to get me to not want to die. 

My sister-in-law ultimately saved me. When it became obvious I wasn't going back to school, she said I could not live with dad, so invited me to live with my brother and her. I got into long term therapy, and today--wow!  I'm a totally different person.  I like me.  There's a lot to like, turns out!  I'm living a good, full, and most of all, peace-filled life.  I'm - dare I say it? - happy.  I've discovered joy.  Not through the church, or god or the bible, but because I made it through my early life, and made it big!  I am so much more than the person I was raised to be! So much better, deeper, fuller, loving.  I don't thank god for what I went through in his name. ( In fact, I'm angry with him for allowing it.  Over the years, my anger has lessened, but it's still there).  Instead, I thank myself for the way I handled it, dealt with it, and didn't give up.  I had hit bottom so hard I knocked myself out for a bit.  But I got up, brushed myself off, and here I am today.

I wish I could definitively say what I've done with god.  I read blogs of people with pasts similar to mine who are atheists, and I envy them that.  I think I lean in that direction, but wow! kinda scary!  Then I read blogs of people who have a great, loving relationship with god, and I envy them that.  I just don't see that happening for me.  As an adult, I've been to churches that were all about love and grace, and did well at first.  Then, not so much.  Seems I'm only comfortable for a little while accepting god as loving me.  Then I tie myself up in knots with rules and condemnation again.  It's a knee-jerk reaction. So for now, I leave god alone, thank him for leaving me alone, and think that maybe, eventually, I'll know what I believe.  I know that whatever happens, I have myself. How empowering is that!  And so, here I am on this path, learning and loving, and being oh- so -patient with me as I work this out.  Or don't, whatever the case may be.  Life just can't get much better than this.  And I'm thankful, to my marrow, for the things I've learned, the things I've unlearned, and the strength and understanding I've gained, and the loving people in my life that I have today as a result of my healing.

*****

And that ends Liz Franklin's story.  The good came quite fast in the end but after eight installments of misery, it was worth it.  Thank you for reading.

The Story of Liz Franklin, Installment 7 - Nearing the End

We left off in Installment 6 where Liz grabbed a knife on the way to her dorm at school.  She had just given what she called, "the performance of my life" where the girls of her college dorm ate up every joke and every laugh she had to give.  But, like many funny people, she was dying inside. Now, it was her turn to literally try to end it all and die for good.  Let's follow her to her room.

*****

So- anti climatic, this.  I scratched myself with it. Didn't even produce blood.  But the fact that I had actually moved closer to hell scared me to death.  I told a girl I trusted, who told the dorm mother, who called the college president, who called the conference president... My name was making the rounds.  In the middle of the night, they came to the dorm to yell at me, and pray with me, and generally discuss the sorry state of my soul.  I did pray, and I guess I got some relief, because for awhile, I was ok.  Or not as not-ok as I had been earlier.

This was right before Christmas break, and somehow I went home and acted as normally as I could.  Went back after break, and actually made some friends (whose friendships I value to this day), and had a semblance of a life outside the spiritual.  I knew I was being watched for signs of depression. You know, demonic possession, so I managed to stuff things down even further.  Emotionally, I was numb.  My soul felt dead, and I knew I was just never going to be good enough for god.  But some how, I hid all this from people.

When the second school year started, I got a new bff, and then, eventually, my first boyfriend!!  I so did not know how to relate to people.  I had never in my life been loved.  I was an oozing hole of need, which severely strained my relationship with my bff.  My boyfriend...I was on autopilot with him.  We weren't allowed to ever be alone, so conversations did not go deep.  I thought he might be my salvation. After all, girls were expected to marry, bear kids, and let the husband make all the choices.  So I wrapped myself up in these plans.  That summer, it hit me undeniably that I did not love him.  I needed to be married, though, to be loved, so I drowned out that inner little voice.

During my second year, the pastor's wife of the church I attended while in school (still part of the Allegheny Conference,those were the rules) took note of my behavior.  The constant praying, the suicide "attempt", the cloying neediness, the way I was just about the only girl who didn't go home on weekends or shorter breaks...  I only lived 45 minutes away.  I was scolded soundly for this, too, by no less than the president of the college.  My mom had cancer; I should be going to help her.  I'd feel guilty when she died.  (she did, I didn't, how bad a person does that make me?)  Any way, the pastor's wife got together with my bff, and decided I was an incest victim.  (I'd told no one).  This was actually pretty forward-thinking of her.  She got a book on it, and my bff and I went through it in an attempt to heal me.  That, I think, was so sweet, and even sincere, but she was in no kind of way equipped to do that.  The church didn't believe in mental health professionals at all.  They were satanic! They opened the door! So that was how they tried to help me.

Instead, they sent me into a tail-spin.  What I had managed to keep wrapped in a box now overwhelmed me.  I had no idea how to cope with this. None. Zero.  It became a monster, bigger than me, and chasing me, chasing me always.  Although I continued to seek god, it was really all I could do to get dressed in the morning.  god became, out of necessity for my survival, second, or even further down in my mind.

Then, in '89, mom died.  I was at school, and dad called, saying she was in the hospital, but was good, real good.  The thing was, he always acted the opposite of what was going on with her.  If she stubbed her toe, he called 911.  When he said things were good, we needed to call 911. So, I knew I needed to get there, fast.  She hung on through surgery, and we left (my bff and I) back to school after a couple days. We had just gotten back when my brother called to tell me she had died.

*****

The final installment will follow Liz to the "getting out" of her spiritual misery.  She still has room to fall lower - and she will - but the end is good and still is writing itself to be a true victory.

The Story of Liz Franklin, Installment 6 - Suicide or College...or...Murder?

We witnessed some of the most disgusting spiritualized sexual abuse in Installment 5 by Liz's own pastor, his wife, and an elder, no less.  It was horrid to read. Something that no child - at any age - should go through.  But that was not the end of Liz's story.  Not by a long shot.  She would continue trying to become the unattainable perfect being that she thought this church's god wanted her to be.

*****

Why by now my being hadn't just said enough! and imploded, I don't know.  I wanted to die, but that was another sin.  By my senior year, I was in full-on rebellion.  Or reacting normally to the circumstances in which I was raised, to put it another way.  I was going to hell.  I firmly believed this.  So I just didn't see the need to try any more.  I was still miserable, but at least now, I wasn't heaping abuse on my own self.

My twin brother and I were the graduating class of 1987.  I was the valedictorian, and as such, was awarded a scholarship to the church Bible college. Allegheny Wesleyan College in Salem, OH.  I guess I decided to give myself another shot.  Surely, being surrounded by holy people 24/7 would produce results.  Maybe when I got out of dad's house, I could do it. Away from the abuse. Away from mom, whom I didn't like very much any way. Besides the fact that I didn't like her, she'd been diagnosed 10 years prior with cancer.  Her fainting became the norm.  I couldn't sleep at night, waiting for the bang! that meant she had fainted again.  Then feeling the guilt for not praying with/for her.  So, I decided to go to AWC, and even got excited at the prospect.

That fall, I began my journey away from the insanity that had been my life up til this point.  I didn't know it yet, and indeed it would get a bit more insane before it got better. My first year was probably the worst.  I don't have a lot of specific recollections.  I barely recall myself during that year.  I do know that I did not acquire holiness through osmosis.  I still went to the altar every time there was an opportunity.  It still did not work.  I had other things on my heart, too.  It seemed that no one liked me.  I didn't have one good friend to talk to at all.  Oh, they were my friends when they needed things. I had a car, so people could be very friendly if they needed to go to town.

One thing about me is my sense of humor.  I have a wicked one.  I love to laugh, love seeing people laugh; there's just too little laughter in the world.  Somehow, my sense of humor lived through the stuff I barely survived, and it breaks my heart, but I turned the humor against myself.  People started counting on me for laughs, and did I deliver.  So many people told me of how I had made them laugh when that was just what they needed.  I cheered people up, and I got good at it. I was dying inside, but hiding it behind the humor.  I also gave good back rubs, so at one time or another, the entire girl's dorm had beat a path to my door.

When I needed to be cheered up, no one was there to make me laugh.  When my back ached, no one was there to rub it.  The things that I had been taught about myself were true: I was unlovable.  Spiritually, I'd given up.  I still desperately wanted to be good enough for god, but I had resigned myself to reality.  It just wasn't gonna happen.  Daily, I gave of myself to my fellow students, and nothing happened to fill myself back up.  I became depressed; that seems like too tame a word for what I was feeling.  A living death, that's what I was living.  I began thinking of suicide.  I just didn't have what it took to live through one more day.  These thoughts scared me back to the altar, because suicide was an unforgivable sin; the express train to hell.  I didn't talk to anyone about this.  Just told them I was having spiritual problems, and since I'd obviously been having them all semester, they weren't alarmed in the least. 

Finally, one night I delivered the comedic performance of a life time. This was on a Sunday after evening church service.  The dining hall was in the basement of the girl's dorm. People had gathered there for a late supper. I had them rolling.  And I was funny!  I was ON!!  And with every joke, with every burst of laughter, I died a little more inside.  Finally, everyone left, the lights were turned off, and we girls headed upstairs.  On the way, I grabbed a knife.

*****

Aaaand...you'll have to wait for Installment 7 to see what Liz does.

Pending Series: The Story of Elizabeth (Liz) Franklin

Out of the blue, a wonderfully dynamic woman contacted me.  She relayed a short version of her "life story" in the Allegheny Wesleyan Connection.  She told of how she endured physical, sexual, and spiritual abuse and came out on the other side.  The short version was simply spellbinding and I requested that she share the long version with me.

While growing up, she fostered some excellent personal qualities and later, when she was dramatically pulled out of the spiritual mess, used them to catapult her into a new joyful life.  I feel I hold a sort of kinship with her, being that one of the ways I would cope in my growing up years, was through the use of humor - lots of it.

I will be posting her riveting story in parts and we will see a dark side to accepting a fundamentalist view of Christianity and even learn a thing or two of how to cope.

One truism to watch for is the one or two people in Liz's life that were "there" for her and carried her on in her journey, allowing her to keep pressing on and not ending it all.  I send out a note of gratitude to you who did that.  You, my readers, and I will be better for it  - I guarantee it.  And I dare say, Liz is grateful too.

I hope you enjoy the series.