Suicide by Capitalism

We were watching Hard Knocks on HBO at 1:30 am when I suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion come over me. My partner of 5 years, Phil, had just finished his bar shift, and I stayed up late to pick him up from work with our dogs Max and Lola even though I had been up working and running errands since 8am. “I think I have to head to bed. But keep watching,” I offered. “Promise me you’ll finish this episode tomorrow while I’m at work?” Phil asked. I always did. That was our thing- if I got too tired to finish a show or movie, I would catch up while Phil was at work. Our opposite schedules sometimes meant that our free time didn’t line up as much as we hoped, and one of us always had to sacrifice precious sleep time. But we always made an effort to carve out time for each other.

I climbed into bed, dogs snuggled under the covers when I heard Phil call my name from the kitchen as he opened a bottle of Corona. I know he had already been drinking at work because he often confessed that drinking was the only thing he looked forward to all day. He felt stuck in his (lack of) career, and alcohol was his only escape. “I promise I’ll be here in the morning- But don’t you think it would be better to die young than grow old and be a disappointment?” This question didn’t strike me as shocking. Phil and I often talked about the meaning, purpose, and struggles of being alive. We’ve talked about dying before. He’s asked more troubling questions and was always there in the morning, so I didn’t think this question would be different. “No one benefits when someone dies young. Think of all the people in your life who would miss you, all the experiences you’ll miss out on,” is all I offered. We said I love you one last time.

I slept until 8:30 the next morning and rolled over to find his spot in the bed next to me empty. I thought he must have fallen asleep on the couch. Or stayed up all night working on music. It wasn’t uncommon for him to latch on to a musical idea and perfect it for hours. Lola was next to the bed crying for my attention but wasn’t responding to my invitation to come in. It felt too quiet in the apartment. I walked into the living room to find Phil hanging by his guitar strap off the hinge of the studio door. The strap from the guitar that was the foundation and origins of his musical genius. Suspended between the studio where he would disappear for hours creating music and the living room that was central to 5 years worth of our little family’s memories. Between two places he would forever stay. His lips were blue, his skin was already marbling, and his eyes were closed. In hindsight, he looked more at peace than I remember seeing him for a long time. Max was laying on his dog bed next to Phil’s body, not getting up to greet me as he usually does in the morning. My body got hot, and I shouted Phil’s name even though I knew he was gone. “Is there any sign of life?” The 911 dispatcher asked when I told her that my boyfriend hung himself. “He’s cold,” is all I could wail in response.

This is just my story. I’m not the only one who has lived through this. Suicide is a growing crisis among people of all ages because of the conditions we have no choice but to live in.

I feel like I haven’t had a chance to really grieve for these past 2 months. There is so much work and money and planning that goes into death- there truly is no escape from the trap of capitalism. I had to plan the love of my life’s funeral when just weeks before I was secretly making a Pinterest board of wedding dress inspiration. I had always suggested we just go down to city hall and get hitched without the pressure and ceremony of planning a wedding. Not let financial instability and the trap of wedding costs keep us from starting our life together. But Phil always insisted on doing it right for the family. For our older relatives who may not be around long, the relatives who ended up outliving him. I had to move out of our apartment because it’s unimaginable for a single person to be able to afford a modest apartment in a working-class neighborhood of a small city on their own. For weeks, I have felt paralyzed by decisions I didn’t want to make. Words about Phil’s life I didn’t want to write. Furniture I didn’t want to donate. Conversations with family members that I didn’t want to have.

To know Phil was to know his politics. To know him was to listen to stories about his experience in occupied Palestine, his involvement in the Port of Oakland shutdown during Occupy when he lived in the Bay, his opinions on Medicare for All, and his undying belief in Socialism. At the core of Phil’s being was empathy. The idea that people are good. That we were capable of living in a society that made sure everyone is housed, fed, has tax-subsidized access to healthcare and education regardless of the class one was born into. I’m struggling with why he couldn’t see that same good and capability in himself.

Phil often told me that he didn’t get anything out of talk therapy because counselors would always turn the focus in on himself, even though his anxieties stemmed from the world around us. “Focus on the things you can change.” That kind of therapy didn’t help when his mind was filled with worries of impending climate change, the normalization of white supremacy and fascism, and diabetic patients rationing their insulin because they can’t afford the high cost. Phil’s psyche never turned the focus on himself- he knew that collective action was necessary to enact massive change, and he felt powerless as a singular person in that context. Phil wasn’t alone in this feeling, as described in this post he shared with me:

After a Neo-Nazi group targeted our largely immigrant community with hateful, nationalist propaganda this winter, we organized a neighborhood rally as a response. Phil felt reinvigorated by his political aspirations after this experience. He wanted to go to school and possibly work within a labor union, or even run for a small, local office. But access to higher education without debt hanging off his back was an obstacle he never thought he would overcome. He saw first-hand how I struggled to pay off my student loans despite having a relatively comfortable corporate marketing job. He saw his friends with degrees barely making ends meet working at cafes and restaurants. “What’s the point if it doesn’t keep you from being poor?” he would often ask. “I’m going to die in the class I was born into. We all are.”

This doesn’t even begin to touch on Phil’s anxieties about his $80,000 in medical debt because of an emergency gallbladder removal operation he had in 2018, and consistent letters from the IRS claiming that he owed almost $2000 in back taxes because he didn’t pay the right amount for his Connector Care Insurance (which for those who don’t know is Romneycare- the model for Obamacare- which is basically just a handout to insurance companies). Why do we live in a system where a 28 year old bartender, with no credit card debt, no property to his name, no secret holdings, feels that his chance at a successful life is over because of situations completely out of his control?

All the public-facing coverage of Phil’s death has described him dying “suddenly” or “unexpectedly.” But it doesn’t feel so sudden or unexpected to those of us close to him. And I don’t think we should hide that Phil took his own life because of the compounding effects that capitalism had on him his entire life. From growing up in a financially insecure family who couldn’t pay for his education, to living paycheck to paycheck, unable to save for a more permanent home, to being faced with insurmountable debt at any chance of moving up the socioeconomic ladder. Phil felt like a disappointment in the face of his talent and intelligence compared to his output in life.

There have been days I’ve been angry at Phil for leaving us to deal with the overwhelming political feat of revolution on our own. There have been nights where I didn’t want to survive to see the next day because Phil’s passion kept me motivated. But that’s the alienation that capitalism makes us fall into. We feel as if we’re alone in the struggle. In the words of his preferred presidential candidate, “Not me. Us.” Without struggle, there is no progress, and we can only survive the struggle if we go through it together. Phil will always be suspended between two spaces- the capitalist system in which we live and the world in which we want to see ourselves. It’s up to us to push ourselves through the doorway and find our way. It’s up to us to keep our communities strong and recognize that we all have more in common with each other than our binary political system makes us believe.

Those of us who knew and loved Phil have felt lost for these past 2 months. We have struggled to understand why someone with such passion to make the world better would end his own life so young. I now realize we have a purpose in the wake of his death to realize his dream, and that needs to keep us going every single day.