I think the most generally accepted definition of success would have to involve some conception of happiness. Bill Gates is successful because his billions can buy any conceivable pleasurable thing; the satisfaction of any exotic whim he can possibly conceive. He can step on a plane (he can buy the plane, for that matter) and be whisked by friendly and obsequious associates to any location in the world and buy any thing available for sale there. And this, to all but a few, would be a blissful paradise.
The reality of another, and more authentic, kind of happiness was taught to me by the most unlikely of teachers. My dogs would have been no happier in Mr. Gates' tropical paradise than in a garbage strewn alley; in fact, they probably would have been happier in the alley.
Here were beings who were always happy. I have never known anyone who lived in such a state of absolute certainty that everyone they met and everyone who knew them loved them. They had no doubts about this and when someone was less than friendly to them, it was not their problem, they still knew that, deep down, they were loved. And I owe them my life. It was not due to some heroic rescue, like pulling me unconscious from a swollen, flooding river; it was because of this conviction of theirs: I loved them and I would do nothing to disappoint them because they loved me.
And what is it that really matters anyway? Does writing a book, starring in a film, being a great guru, being president, hold a candle to the happiness they experienced every day of their lives? We honor achievements in our world; we hand out medals, gold for first, silver for second and bronze for third; we measure ourselves against others and compete for attention and recognition but in the end we all die. Some of us by choice, some by accident, many by disease and famine and some lucky ones peacefully in their sleep, but we all die, and by three generations out our names and our lives are completely forgotten. By the time a Douglas fir tree reaches middle age we and all we accomplish are nothing but dust.
I didn't think I needed help. I knew I was miserable but I thought, somehow, I would be able to get through it by myself. I couldn't see myself at all yet. All my terror – terror of my desire to end my life - I kept bottled up inside: to allow someone else to see that was dangerous. It would be admitting that I was wrong about the most basic premises of my life. Somehow I believed that I lived in an isolation bubble and my misery stayed safely within that bubble. I cared about no one and no one cared about me. The idea that someone might actually be thinking about me and worried about my condition was inconceivable.
Every living thing dies. Death is how Nature renews herself. But consciously seeking death, choosing to die, is not something normally found in nature, with the possible exception of whales and lemmings (which may be more like us than we imagine). Such an "unnatural" death is another of those uniquely human activities, like writing or laughing. We appear to be the only animal that can perceive death as a blessed relief from the pain of living in a harsh world.
The choice had yet to be made and I hung painfully from the limbs of that most basic dilemma; I devoutly and profoundly wished to leave this world permanently but I was too scared to actually undertake what was required. Sometimes while driving home from work, at 75 or 80, I would swerve the wheel, heading directly for the sturdy concrete columns which supported the highway, wondering if I would die quickly or if I would just mangle myself - end up quadriplegic. It was terrifying to me how small the divide was that separated the tiny movements of my hands upon the wheel which would accomplish the task and the equally tiny movements which swerved me back onto the road. It was no longer something I vaguely considered in the back of my mind - it was a real threat. So real that I was terrified.
My hands would not do the deed. The resolution was becoming stronger, but also, the terror of that resolution was increasing. It is probably this terror more than anything else that indicated the reality and immediacy of my death wish. Like a mule deer confronted with a cougar, that animal part in me sensed the imminent danger and responded in panic. Even though it was only a flick of the wrist, after I swerved back onto the road I found myself sweating, breathing heavily and rapidly and feeling my heartbeat pound. Danger was avoided, for now.
Many highway patrol officers have doubts about certain auto accidents, especially certain one person-one car 'accidents.' And we will never know how many deadly head-on collisions are acting on a death wish, how many drunk driving accidents arise from the misery and despair of those seeking solace in drink and not finding it. We will never know how many 'accidental' overdoses, falls, drownings, housefires or poisonings are the actions of those who have chosen to end their lives.
The day did come finally, for me. And now, unlike my adventures in steering, I was doing more than contemplating. I made a plan.
Since I couldn't leave my dogs abandoned I had to kill them first. I had no gun and strangling them with my hands or hitting them violently over the head was something I just couldn't contemplate. But drowning was supposed to be a fairly pleasant way to go. I heard that once you gave up and started breathing water it was kind of pleasant.
I would drown my dogs in the well.
Then, for myself, I didn't want to risk a crippling accident in the car or from jumping off the roof. I did have sturdy rope though. And some heavy metal plates with holes in them that I could tie the rope through. We could all die together, in clear, cold water.
I began roiling in terror. It was really happening. Before, when I had steered the car toward the embankments, there was always the reality of my dogs at home to keep me on the road. If I had nothing, at least I had them. Now, even they were not keeping me from my visit to that undiscovered country. Death by my own hands was a reality. I would be dead soon. I just had to do the horrible and difficult deed of drowning them first.
I called them to me and they ran up happily.
Were we going somewhere?
A walk?
Yes. We're going for a walk.
They started running around in circles happily as we walked down the hill to the well, the heavy metal plates clanking and dragging in the dirt, I couldn't look at them. I just grimly struggled towards my goal. I didn't think making the decision would have been so frightening; I thought I would feel some relief. But there was none; only blank empty despair and terror.
Down by the well they trotted happily through the muddy stream and ran up and rubbed themselves against me and then trotted off to explore something else. The well was of gray concrete and about twenty four feet deep. It had a heavy concrete lid on it with a handle made of galvanized pipe. I couldn't lift it by hand and had to get a branch to pry it off. With a heavy echoing grinding noise it slowly slid off the top and I could see down into the clear water that was almost to the rim.
I would have to pick them up one at a time and hold them under until their struggling stopped.
I sat down and watched them glumly. Leo, sensing that something was up, came up to me and looked at me. If there was anything going on he wanted to be first. Tears welled up into my eyes as I looked down at him,
"No, Leo, I don't think you get to be first this time."
He cocked his ears, hearing his name, and looked into my eyes.
"Leo, I'm sorry. I've really tried everything. I know I've failed you miserably. But I can't leave you here in this world all by yourself. There's nobody who will be able to take my place. Nobody. I know you're a one person dog and I'm it."
He looked at me.
Deep into my eyes.
Only comprehending that I was talking to him and that I was sad.
So we had gone for a little walk down to the well; it was a little odd that I was sitting there talking to him like that, but then humans are always a little odd. He simply wanted to make me happy. His whole life was to make me happy. When I was happy he was and when I was sad he needed to try harder.
How could I drown him? If I'd had a gun it would have been over quickly. Guns allow killing at a distance, without the personal contact. If I'd had a gun we all might have been dead months before. But drowning required actually putting my arms around him, lifting him up and holding him under the water. It didn't have the distance a gun would have afforded.
When I reached down to put my arms around him, I couldn't lift him up. I stayed there hugging him in desperation, like a drowning man to a bit of wood in the whirlpool. His sister trotted up, curiously sniffing my face and I hugged her too. We stayed like this for a long time.
The life coursing through their warm bodies was palpable and, at two and a half, they were in their prime; chasing coyotes, hunting bunnies, and lording it over a pack of neighborhood dogs.
It was too much life to contemplate ending. It was too horrible a deed.
I couldn't do it. And I couldn't leave this horrible place until I killed them. But I couldn't kill such faithful, trusting companions.
I was trapped.
Dogs are supposed to have poor vision, seeing only black and white. Perhaps this limitation enables them to avoid distractions and see only the essence of things. Dogs are also not supposed to possess the full conscious awareness of humans, but perhaps this limitation also frees them from distractions; they are unable to perceive defects in those they love and this unconditional acceptance breaks even the stoutest barriers much more effectively than any powerful frontal assault.
Under Leo’s gaze my grief was laid bare, I was drowning, breathing water.
And his eyes only saw his beloved. No pain, no despair, no B.O. (in fact he probably thought I could have used a little more odor); only his beloved who could do no wrong.
The idea of me drowning him would never have occurred to him; if I had actually held him under the water he probably would have thought I was giving him some sort of bath. And, even at the moment of death, he would have still trusted me. He would have gone to his death loving me.
I saw all this in his eyes. My salvation stood before me, his four legs firmly planted in the mud, his wet nose sniffing, his eyes looking, unmoving, into the gore that was my psyche.
And then it was as if he asked me if I needed help.
All this time, all this long painful trip to the bottom, I steadfastly maintained to everyone around me that I was perfectly fine. I needed no one. I was complete in myself. I was seeking to become someone others came to for help and someone who could counsel others. That I, myself, could possibly be emotionally and psychologically disturbed in profound and fundamental ways shook the foundation of my fortress of self-deception.
His question pulled the last brick out of this teetering edifice. Suicidal depression is not convincing proof of enlightenment
Faced with the stark choice of killing myself or getting help, I honestly didn't know what to do. In spite of my heroic efforts to deny it I could no longer avoid the fact that help was what I desperately needed, and, furthermore, that no one was going to help me if I didn't ask for it. His gaze gave me the barest nudge, shifted the balance ever so slightly, towards admitting that I could no longer solve my own problems, much less anyone else's.
The isolated elevation I dwelled upon, looking down on the common herd, had, instead, turned out to be the bottom of a deep well from which I looked up at a distant, dim circle of light. That line from Li Po resonated strongly:
I am like a tree fallen in a well,
for whom will my blossoms shine.
Nevertheless, as was natural for me, as I had learned from childhood, I maintained the statue. In my pride and stubbornness I would not let anyone see how much I suffered. Like a wounded animal among predators I exerted every fiber of my being in appearing to be normal and healthy, running as fast as I could just to stay in one place. I'm not sure how well I did this, but no one ever asked me if there was anything wrong. I must have carried it off well enough to fool those who didn't know me. Finally, from beneath the waves of pain, I remembered the last visit of one of my last friends, six months before, when he mentioned that he knew a good therapist who would be a good person to talk to if I needed to talk to someone.
But seeking a therapist was admitting total defeat. It would be admitting that I was a psychological basket case. Paying someone money to help fix my emotional and psychological problems was pathetic. Anyway, I didn't have any money to pay for it. I was pretty scared about even being able to obtain the basic necessities, much less pay for therapy.
How could I have fallen so far?
I had to admit to another human being that I was drowning. I had to struggle to the surface, splash and flounder about and call for help. And in asking for help the mask of my narcissism would have to burn. It was not an easy choice.
Looking into Leo's eyes gave me the spark to do this, to continue living. The compassionate Buddha gazed from his eyes. Even the most hard-headed arrogant misery was not beyond his love.
Suddenly it became terribly urgent that I call this therapist. I slid the concrete lid back on the well and strode up to the house, my face set in determination. My dogs, perceiving the change in direction, set off happily back up the hill towards the house, their home, the den. All this turmoil was nothing but a brief walk in the woods.
My friend hadn't given me the therapist’s phone number, not wanting to be that forward about the whole thing, but he did tell me her name. Luckily she was listed in the phone book.
Screwing up my courage I dialed the number. The phone rang and after six hollow tones the answering machine picked up,
I hung up. She wasn't home. How could this be? I was suicidal, drowning, grasping for anything that would keep me afloat and all I got was an answering machine. But there was no other option. I called several times and, when it became clear that no one was going to answer, I left a message.
"Hello... uh..."
I waited too long and the machine, thinking my message had ended, hung up. I called again,
"Uh, hello. A friend of mine told me you were a therapist and might be able to help me... Uh... I'm afraid I'm pretty stuck and don't see anyway out... No way out. Could you please call me? My number is .... Thanks a lot. Bye"
It must have sounded pretty bleak when she replayed it. Bleak and hopeless.
Nevertheless I had actually done it. There was a thrill in my body, a fearful anticipation. What if she wasn't interested? Perhaps she was not taking any new clients. Perhaps she wouldn't ever return my call. Maybe she didn't want to help me.
I had no answering machine so for the rest of the afternoon I stayed within earshot of the telephone. Since no one ever called me any more I could be fairly sure that if it did ring it would be her, or a telephone solicitation.
Some hours later the phone rang. I rushed to it. It was the therapist. She very quickly made sure that I had, indeed, changed my mind about my plan. Like a drowning man I grabbed onto her in desperation. I told her everything. We made an appointment for the very next day – she had an emergency opening. I could hang on until then.
I had decided to live. Great relief flooded over me and tears came to my eyes. But deciding to live had serious consequences.
Deciding to live meant that I could no longer use all the escapes I clung to, to avoid facing reality. Appearances and image management no longer worked - I had opened to the pain inside and none of my previous behaviors worked any more to numb it.
Living is a decision. Many people walk around, go to work, go to parties, watch tv and are dead. Living involves no longer running away from pain - no longer hoping that somehow there will be a place where that perfect family, that perfect relationship, that winning lottery ticket will remove the pain completely from life.
It meant I had to accept that this living involves both pleasure and pain. It meant I had to accept that by taking responsibility for myself I had to exert effort, I had to do things that are sometimes hard and unpleasant in order to take care of myself. It meant that I had to believe that I deserved to be happy and then take actions that might result in happiness - like choosing to take the risks required to have intimacy. It is a risky world and some things turn out badly and some things turn out beautifully.
Living means accepting the nature of the world and accepting that I am here and no longer trying to escape into some other place that would be 'nicer'. Living is a choice that takes enormous courage. Even though it didn’t feel at all that way at the time, I think choosing to end my life would have been taking the easy way out.
And I owe it to my doggies.
And I have hope for all of humanity as long as our doggies love us. And thanks to the grace that gifted their presence to us that will be always and forever.