Suicide Angel

Suicide is something that many people have contemplated on some level, at some point in their life. Some may have actually attempted to complete the act while for some it may have been simple introspection - ‘would I ever consider this ultimate act of rebellion?’



Yes, I said rebellion! The Catholic Church teaches that suicide is the unforgivable sin from which no soul can be saved. Since sin is going against the teachings (rules), or will, of God then sin can also be called rebellion.


Don’t get me wrong, I disagree with this damning teaching. I believe that Christ died on the cross for ALL sins, not just some of them. We are promised that once a person enters the family of God they are there for eternity. The act of suicide does not break this promise.


Suicide has been a life-long journey for me. Alcohol and drugs are the sissy attempt at suicide but like so many others I used them for years; until the summer of ‘83.


I had been in Honolulu about six years by the time I was 22. My son, Todd, was just over a year old when my wife decided to leave the marriage taking him with her. She filed papers, was granted the divorce and was given full custody without my even knowing she was planning to leave. My drug use was a problem, again, by that time; I was strung out on heroin and living on the streets.


The sun was shining bright that day as I leaned against the rock wall preparing to walk into the McDonald’s staring at me from across the street. The fifth of vodka I was nursing was almost gone; the time had almost come. My rig [kit for using heroin; generally contains a needle, mixing device and cotton] was in one pocket and the heroin purchased earlier that morning in the other. As I played with the plastic wrapped tar [heroin] in my pocket a short middle-aged man walked towards me. He was clean-shaven and well dressed; put together in a manner that caused me to wonder if he was gay – today he might be what they call metro-sexual.


“Looks like you’re having a rough day, mind if I talk to you for a few minutes?” Metro Man asked.


Through the vodka haze that moved in quickly I realized there was no one else standing nearby so he must be talking to me. “It’s a free world man, I’m about ready to go in McD’s over there, just as soon as I finish this,” I saluted my bottle with a stumble that almost landed me face down on the ground.


“Could I buy you something to eat then?”


I lowered my eyes, dropped my head to my chest, then threw my head back and took the last swallow of liquor as I pushed myself off the wall that had just caught me and mumbled “Wasn’t planning on eating, just have to use the bathroom.” [Cough] My voice caught in my throat is I mumble, “Time to ride that final train and feel the sunrise one last time.”


His hand touched my arm and steadied me as he asked, “Mind telling me what you’re planning?”


Puzzled and starting to feel the uglier side of my inebriation, I looked him square in the face, planted my feet, tried to stand up straight and angrily stated, “I just finished my fuckin’ bottle and now it’s time to go finish what I started (raising the bottle again). “I’m going to go off myself with this,” patting the black sunrise in my pocket. That should scare the fag and get him to fuck off I thought as I watched his face in anticipation.


He smiled as he gestured back toward the wall and asked, “Would you be willing to sit here and talk with me for a while? Tell me your situation and let me see if I can help. If you still want to walk through that door”, pointing towards McDonald’s, “after talking to me - I won’t stop you,” he added.


Who the fuck does he think he is - God? Fix my situation?! “You going to get my wife and son back for me?!” I snapped. “I don’t see a magic wand that is going to help me get clean, fix my fuckin’ leg, get me a job, get a fuckin’ place to stay!” I screamed in his face, thoughts racing, but too out of breath to continue.


“John, I can help you start”, he answered calmly. “Tell me about your son, how old is he?”


Tears welled up in my eyes; I missed my little man. “He’s one year old and the best thing I ever did. I’ve screwed up his life already though; I can’t even manage to pay for diapers or food for him.” I slumped against the wall and proceeded to tell this gentle man my story. Every time I paused Metro Man would ask a question that always managed to get me going again.


He heard about my dad dying, mom hating me, grandma dying, losing my leg, who I wished I was – I don’t remember how long we talked but it was long enough for me to sober up a little. It felt good to talk to someone who seemed to care and wanted to hear more.


Eventually, he invited me to go with him to a meeting starting not too far away. The meeting was just the first step Metro Man helped me make that night. He gave me information about a rehab and helped me meet other people who had found themselves at the edge of the cliff, holding on by their fingernails.


I don’t remember all the details of that summer; how many meetings I attended with or without Metro Man, how short the wait for rehab was, how long I waited before trying to find the stranger who had saved my life. I had this second chance because he took the time to stop and listen.


At the time I knew his name (many years of alcohol & drugs have removed it from my memory). I went back to the meeting we attended together and asked about him but no one seemed to know who he was or for sure where he lived. They weren’t even sure he had ever been back to the meeting since that night!


I managed to locate the building that he had taken me to that night to sleep and knocked on what I thought was his door. No one answered. Back down in the lobby I looked for names of residents to determine whether or not I had remembered the correct condo. I knew I had the correct building because it was where my mother-in-law had lived when I first met my wife. If I had been on better terms with her I might have asked her about Metro Man but we weren’t speaking and haven’t since.


I caught sight of the manager and decided to see what he knew. I quickly explained what Metro Man had done for me, how I wanted to thank him and that I wasn’t sure if I was remembering the correct condo. Mr. Manager proceeded to inform me that he had been manager there for the last 10 years and there had never been a man living in that particular condo. In fact, the woman who lived there was elderly, had never been married or had any children. He then told me that he couldn’t even remember a tenant with that name or fitting that description ever living in the building.


I continued to attend that first meeting and several others in the area, always hoping to hear about or see Metro Man. No one ever saw him again or could tell me anything about him.


Over the years I have come to realize that God has been looking out for me and must have a plan for my life. Whether you want to believe that God used a random mystery man or sent an angel doesn’t matter to me. I believe that Metro Man was an angel sent by God to keep me on this earth a little bit longer; thank you God for my Suicide Angel.