A Different Death Wish

The other day, I was sitting in Plaza San Martin with Denis,** an Argentine photographer and beautiful, beautiful human. I wanted to have a picnic in the park with the Jacarandás and she obliged.

We were sitting under the blooming purple, talking about suicide bombers, martyrs, and the potential of my global itinerary including Israel, when we were approached by a man and, who I’m assuming, was his pregnant girlfriend. We looked up at them. They both remained standing. He was speaking quickly. I caught on to very little of what he was saying.

The man was holding a box of miscellaneous memorabilia and socks. Den sat patiently. Listening and nodding, saying “tranqui” and “claro” over and over again. You see, it’s very common here, as the economy implodes (thanks neoliberalism), for people to sell socks, gummy candy, and playing cards on the streets and subways. My gringo-ass thought that this was just another one of those exchanges. While Denis was controlling the conversation, the pregnant woman and I said nothing.

But, when I looked up at her, she circled her pregnant belly with her finger and gestured that I put my hand on her stomach.

I didn’t.

Den eventually took out her wallet and showed the man that she had no money to give. When she opened the wallet he saw that she did have a US Dollar (I gave it to her earlier in the week). He grabbed it.

The conversation continued and I was still mostly in the dark as to what the conversation was about.  Then, the man shook Den’s hand and then mine and walked away with the pregnant woman.

After they were out of earshot, Den looked at me, widened her eyes and said.

“We got robbed.” She said. “Now you can say you have officially lived in Argentina.”

I stared at her blankly.

Her slacked jaw hung loosely in both awe and anxiety. “But, it was so interesting.”

(I wish I could write something here that would do any amount of justice to the pure and unadulterated beauty of Den’s Argentine accent while she is speaking English. But, I can’t.)

Recall that before the robbery had taken place, Den and I were talking about suicide and the desire to die. According to Denis, the man said over and over and over again: 

“I don’t care if I die.”

This was the sentiment she was referring to when she told me it was interesting. He was speaking within the context of his unborn child.

A lot of parents, I assume feel similarly about their children. Indeed, when I was younger my mother and I would sometimes talk about macabre hypotheticals of her dying in exchange for my and my brother’s lives.

Now, I understand that there are obvious differences between the willingness to die and the desire to die and even a death wish. But, this strange crossroads of martyrdom and suicidality has had my gears spinning for weeks now.

So much of my project, at its philosophical core, yearns to understand why we stay alive (i.e., why we don’t kill ourselves) and, it seems obvious now, that the reasons why we stay alive are often the very same reasons we would be willing to die.

My favorite conversations to have are those that center suicide as a way to “quit while you’re ahead.” Even Denis talked about it earlier in the week.

“I’m so happy, I could kill myself.”

These past weeks have been some of the most beautiful of my life.

The moments are simultaneously eternal and fleeting. When I close my eyes, I see them again in vivid detail.

I see Denis dancing in an empty bar, singing the song above.

I see myself putting Christmas lights on the deciduous tree in my apartment.  

I see the bartenders at Floreria Atlantico (listed as one of the Best Bars in the World) recognizing me from past visits to a different bar in the city.

I see the final full moon of the decade.

I see the entire city of Buenos Aires fly by on some random night bus.

I see people fill the streets at night. (Argentina, the capitol of collective effervescence…given that my project here in Argentina rooted in understanding the ways law and politics interact with mental health care and suicidality, I feel incredibly lucky to have come to this country during a transition of government. The other night, I had the privilege of watching the streets surrounding the Obelisco fill with folx who were fed up with Macri. Overjoyed with the results of the election, they were shoving chori pan and other asado into their mouths, chanting and waving their wrists and hands loosely, as Argentines do. They believe that Fernandez means a better future for Argentina, Denis corroborates this. And, from what she says, I agree. I mean, it’s nice to know that at least one country in this world didn’t swing toward right-wing politics.)

And, when I see these things I cannot help but feel the urge to cry. I have only fifteen days left in this beautiful country. And, I will miss it sincerely.

Consider this blog post a stream of consciousness free-write – nothing more and nothing less.

I don’t really know what more there is to say.

Birds are incredible creatures, I am happy to know them.

Residents from all around Buenos Aires protested for a week do dispute a labor law that would put them at risk. They won. Below is a photo taken at one of the protests. (Once again another serendipitous example of how politics and law can affect mental healthcare.)

I have interviewed many men and women about their suicide attempts. I am still digesting them and will write about them later. I feel as though one of them will die by suicide soon. I hold her story close to my heart.

Felices Fiestas!

I am my soul and my soul is me.

I am so happy, I could die.

“It’s beautiful.”

***This is Denis. Denis is a Virgo born on September 10. She has never celebrated Christmas. She never pays for the subway. Denis doesn’t know how to hold a pool stick. But, she does know how to make a killer mushroom gnocchi.

Thank you Marcos, for everything.