Murder~Suicide

Murder-Suicides

By Jan Deelstra

It seems that murder-suicides are on the rise. Not a month goes by that a story of a kid killing kids on campuses and then taking his own life, or coverage of an estranged husband killing his wife, or worse, killing the kids and then the wife, isn't reported.

Murder-suicide is a complex subject that leads most of us to immediately judge the offender with a combination of shocked disbelief, gut-punching horror, and a final quick categorization into the pigeonhole of polarity. With short delay we determine they are not like us. They must certainly be of a certain psycho-social makeup that allowed them to kill another and then take their own life. We tuck them neatly into place safely ensuring our sense of logic and rightness. We are not of the same fabric; our nature would never allow us to take another's life. We are sane, and sensible and kind. We tuck that self-description neatly into the correct cubby of observations and beliefs. All is right with the world.

Let's take a closer look. If we further break down the murder-suicides into groupings we see that the majority are intimate relationships, some are mothers killing children and then themselves, and a growing amount of these deaths are among the elderly.

A mother kills her children, and then herself, leaving behind a highway littered with decades of misery and abuse, and a concise note that says, "I'm sorry." Investigation reveals a history of violence against the woman and the children by the spouse. The woman was never violent. She was more often a victim of constant emotional badgering and physical terrorism. All who knew the woman said she was a doting mother that loved her children deeply. Why then, did she kill her children?

Backed into a corner financially, support-wise, and physically, this woman had made a choice to escape. With no money, few resources, and no real promise for a different future, she felt she had little option. She was not about to leave her kids with the abuser. At wits end, she systematically killed the children, and then herself.

A young boy is bullied on the Internet playground even harder than he is bullied at school. He is a loner, a deep poetic writer, with only a journal and an online blog as outlets to his confused emotions. Kids can be cruel. They tease the boy for his writings, for carrying around his constant companion notebook, for the glasses he wears, for the extra few pounds of baby fat he has yet to outgrow. They attack him in virtual space and in his physical space. The kids are relentless. He takes the gun from his grandfather's cabinet, posts a bulletin on his blog, goes to the playground and begins to express his inner rage...then turns the gun around. His journal voices his turmoil over the torment. The pages scream his pain. "I'm sorry," is what he wrote.

The elderly couple are barely making it; rats eat more. They are crippled with arthritis, and have no money or means to get their medications. The woman's heart is barely keeping up, but she smiles with admiration at her loving husband of sixty-eight years. He is her true soul mate. He kisses her tenderly on her wrinkled cheek, tasting the salt water of her watering eyes. "I love you sweet princess," he says as he pulls the trigger. He backlashes at the force of emotion that sweeps over him as he watches her pass. Struggling to compose himself he gently tucks her in with the beautiful afghan she had knit before her hands became too crippled. Carefully, so as to not to disturb his eternally slumbering wife, he sits down beside her. "I'll see you soon, sweet princess." He places the gun in his mouth, and joins his soul mate.

Society fails, often.

A close friend of mine was very recently diagnosed with esophageal cancer, which has now metastasized to his liver and pancreas. It is in his lymph glands. He is in increasing unbearable pain that will continue to devour him. Helpless, I watched as he writhed with a soreness he could not explain. "It is unlike anything you have ever felt," he was able to express while attempting to catch breaths. I asked my friend if I could do anything, could get him anything.

In a brief moment of soul-searching eye contact, he answered, "Yes." He doubled over and moaned a deeply guttural sound that I have only once heard before. I watched, and I waited for what I knew instinctively was coming. "If you can find it," he continued.

"During the war, when soldiers were captured...." He wheezed and writhed as a snake coiling. He inhaled a short puff of precious oxygen. "Beneath their collar they kept a small white pill."

Now, his eyes penetrated me, searched me for the truth. "Could I be trusted?" his eyes seemed to ask.

"If things got bad for the captors...if they needed to...potassium cyanide...."

I knew what he was asking. And I knew that given the same hand of cards, I would probably opt for the same way out.

I went home and searched the Internet for "potassium cyanide."

I learned that the effects of potassium cyanide are virtually identical to those of sodium cyanide. If ingested, a person would likely die within two hours. On-line, I found information about Nazis committing suicide by taking a tiny lethal dose of the fast acting substance. I also discovered that potassium cyanide is the same chemical compound that was used in the 1978 Guyana mass murder-suicide orchestrated with Jim Jones at the helm.

At once, I understood. I have no spouse to murder, but if I am honest, I can understand how some couples push each other far beyond the edge of reason when it would be better to simply walk away. Although, I personally would not kill my children, I have enough personal insight to know that others may feel compelled to do so when given limited resources. I am far too old to entertain thoughts of schoolyard rage, but I can see how a bullied student with limited support systems and guidance might snap. If I live far into old age, I may want to end my life with dignity, and might be faced with the decision to help an aging partner in mercy.

As for my friend's request for help, I am no Dr. Jack Kevorkian, at least, not at the time of this writing. But as I see my friend fade, helpless to stop the insufferable consuming pain, I am left to ponder Kevorkian's most famous quote, that "dying is not a crime." And my categories of acceptance are expanded. And I discover my judgment, that there are levels of murder-suicides for which I have no mercy, no compassion no matter how carefully and holistically and liberally I look them over. And finally, in my categorizations and pigeon holing, there is only left the single question that begs me to answer: If I believe in mercy killings. And what then, defines "mercy"?

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_{Author, Jan Deelstra is co-founder of the Reaching Youth Art Network, a safe place for adolescents to express emotions through various artistic expression. For more information visit http://www.ReachingYouthArtNetwork.org.}