Suicided

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Suicided by Yoshinaga Yoshiaki

September 28, 2003.

September 28, 2003.

My wife Tatsumi Saki died today.

June 17, 2001.

My colleague and editor, Aoyama Masaaki, arguably one of Japan’s best subculture writers, died today.

May 10, 1998

Nekojiru, a colleague and friend of mine, a one-of-a-kind manga artist with a cult following, died today.

What they have in common is that they were all irreplaceable to me.

They were moody, but very charming and blessed with incredible talent.

And then…

They killed themselves.

Because losing someone to death is true suffering.

Don’t you agree, Saki? I’m in so much pain I could die. You were a kind person, weren’t you? You understand my pain.

The dead never come back.

Death is irreversible.

There’s nothing I can do.

Yet I can’t come to terms with it. So…

I will write honestly about the truth behind suicide and the grief and regret of those left behind.

Rather than exploring the reasons someone may kill themselves, I will consider suicide from the perspective of the widowed—the one left behind among the living.

So that there will never be more people like myself, who have been “suicided.”

Writing is all I have left in this life.

Chapter 1: My Wife, Saki

Left-Brained and Right-Brained

I, Yoshinaga Yoshiaki, am a freelance writer and editor.

Due to the devastation caused by my wife’s death, I haven’t touched writing and I’m struggling to make ends meet. Desperate, I work part-time, three days a week, at a local convenience store.

The store is run by a married couple. All the employees are part-timers in their twenties.

During my interview, I said frankly, “I’m an aspiring writer, but I can’t make a living just writing these days.”

I wanted to make it clear that working at the store isn’t my main job.

“My primary job is writing, afterall…”

Thankfully, the store owner hired me.

“You’re a college graduate.” the owner said after reviewing my resume.

I was the only one there with a college degree.

I settled on a part-time schedule at the convenience store and gave my editors as much notice as possible. They were considerate enough to let me cancel my freelance contract for the time being.

I worked eight hours a day, from 8:00am to 5:00pm, excluding breaks. It was my first time dealing with customers and working a cash register.

The owner told me to refrain from wearing flashy clothes while on shift.

I don’t usually wear particularly garish clothes; I tend to dress modestly, so even though I’d made a living as a freelancer, the restrictions didn’t bother me.

There was one thing, however, that I couldn’t compromise on.

“Can’t you do something about that hair?”

I don’t care for my hair being long, but my late wife did.

Saki liked when I grew it out. When it got hot and I tried to cut it, she’d say, “Don’t cut it. You look better with it long.”

After Saki passed away, I realized something.

There were many ways in which I was still trying to court her.

Even after she passed away, I continued to do the things she loved.

The reason I decided to write memoirs again was because Saki had told me this while she was alive:

“You should work harder and harder. You’re not the intellectual type. You have intuition and sensitivity; you’re a ‘right-brained’ person. Use that to your advantage. I believe in your individuality.”

Saki, who gave me this advice, was left-brained.

She was the kind of girl that worked hard, studied hard, always came up on top and made her peers look foolish in comparison. She only took interest in those who had something she didn’t.

I’m right-brained. I’m used to seeing things visually, and I have a well-developed ear for music. These are things the brilliant Saki lacked, which was precisely why she was drawn to me. Once we got together, Saki, who liked my right-brainedness, began to complain that my left-brained, rational sensibilities weren’t as dominant.

“Why can’t you be a little more normal?”

Saki was tolerant of my extreme personality at work, but would criticize me in everyday life.

When she began to complain, I’d reply, “You fell in love with me because I’m not normal. I wish you’d just accept it.”

“You have to be normal, after all.”

––Now that I think about it, Saki and I had a codependent relationship. We clashed, yet were attracted to each other.

It worked out well for us. At least, I thought it did.

She always spoke about me like this:

“You have ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder), depression, hay fever, atopic dermatitis, chemical sensitivities, and an autonomic nervous system disorder, making you extremely sensitive and easily damaged. Living with you is like raising a rare, eccentric animal that’s difficult to care for.”

Although it seemed like she was criticizing me, she was really just boasting about my eccentricity. Saki herself was an eccentric in many ways. She hated ordinary things.

How We Met

Tatsumi Saki and I met in 1996.

I was reaping the rewards of an economic bubble.

The bubble economy peaked in 1988 and burst in 1990. Money flowed into real estate and stocks. Japan buzzed with excitement and a desire to make money. Everyone thought they could become billionaires, and some people around me actually did.

The publishing bubble I experienced was personal. It happened in 1994.

After graduating from university in 1984, I worked in various corners of the publishing world.

I worked as a typesetter for women’s comics, a reporter for a beauty industry magazine, and an editor for adult magazines. Then, while working for a magazine, I met Aoyama Masaaki, and in 1988 I began working in the editorial department of Eccentric, the overseas travel magazine he oversaw.

At the same time, I began working on a team to edit university entrance exam resource magazines and recruitment magazines. I also began working for Bessatsu Takarajima (Takarajima-sha).

We started making money when we worked with Aoyama on books like Bessatsu Takarajima: Thailand Reader and Bessatsu Takarajima: Hidden Hawaii Reader (both published by Takarajima-sha), Dangerous Issue No. 1 and Complete Manual for Using Adult Goods (both published by Data House).

The books we produced sold quite well, and we began receiving royalties from editing. I edited and ghostwrote books, and accepted all requests for manuscripts and book editing. I was just about to turn thirty, too young to grow old, and I was fearless. I didn’t mind staying up all night, and found my work fulfilling and enjoyable.

The most memorable era was when we were working on Dangerous Issue No. 1.

Dangerous Issue No. 1 was published by Data House, with Aoyama as editor-in-chief and myself as assistant editor. We published it at a pace of one volume every five to twelve years.

It was a mook book consisting of special features and serials, with editors advocating for “savagery” and “no taboo when it comes to fantasy.”

Feature themes included drugs, an introduction to sadistic culture (corpses and murder, wiretapping, perversion, etc.), and hedonism. Some of the content was quite grotesque and frowned on by more sensible readers, but surprisingly, half of the readers surveyed were women.

Around the time the first issue of the magazine’s cover story on stimulants was published, we received quite a number of unsolicited questions from readers such as, “Where can I buy stimulants?” and even a call from a woman who had taken stimulants and panicked, “What should I do?!”

The first three volumes of Dangerous Issue No. 1 sold over 100,000 copies, and it was a bubble period for both the publishing world and myself in the subculture.

Nekojiru, Aoyama, my future wife Saki and I all wrote articles for Dangerous Issue No. 1.

Wataru Tsurumi, author of the Complete Manual of Suicide (1993, Ohta Publishing), which caused quite a stir, and Seino Eiichi, trance DJ and author of RAVE TRAVELLER: Dancing Traveler (1997, same publisher) also wrote for Dangerous Issue No. 1.

After Aoyama Masaaki’s depression worsened and he stepped down as editor-in-chief after the second volume, I became assistant editor and edited the third volume. However, I stepped down soon after. Volume 4 was produced independently by Data House.

The reason I stepped down from Dangerous Issue No. 1 was because I was losing interest in the macabre and my readers were becoming more extreme. More extreme than us, the creators.

Once while watching TV, they showed a New Year’s card to a friend from Sakakibara Seito, the man who placed a boy’s head atop a school gate in Kobe.

The card featured a reproduction of the illustration from Volume 1 of Dangerous Issue No. 1.

With shining eyes, Sakakibara Seito and speedfreaks alike were reading something we edited for shits and giggles at work.

I just couldn’t stomach it. I couldn’t shoulder the burden.

King

Saki and I grew close in 1996, working together on Bessatsu Takarajima: Cheer Up Medicine.

She majored in education at Tokyo University but had no intention of pursuing teaching. Instead, she got a job at a textbook publishing company.

She was a high academic with a nerdy personality and eventually became an editor at a small publishing company called Company A. Company A’s books were of the cutting-edge sukashi-kei variety that were locally prevalent during the bubble era. They were characterized by their maniacal, highly deviant (and borderline fetishistic) production. The editors passionately created whatever they wanted, and many of them could not have been said to be very popular. This was probably why it best suited Saki, who disliked popular culture. I was working freelance for Bessatsu Takarajima at the time and we teamed up to finish a chapter. Saki, meanwhile, had begun working part-time as a writer while still employed at Company A.

Isaki is her pen name. I think she first used it in Cheer Up Medicine.

She pretended to be a college student, though in reality she was thirty years old. Before we started dating, she had a “guinea pig conversation” with me about anti-aging drugs and aphrodisiacs.

Yoshinaga: “There was an anti-aging drug for women that said it was ‘dangerous because it makes you too tight.’ The one that said to use it near a phone so that you’ll be able to call 119.”

Saki: “It was ‘Fuho.’ I was too scared to use it. Sorry (laughs).”

Yoshinaga: “You must have spiked someone with it, right? Did you tell her about it later?”

Saki: “I could never tell anyone that.”

Saki was quite the “brat.” After this job, we became closer. By the following year, 1997, I was working alone on the third volume of Dangerous Issue No. 1. After work, I would head to Saki’s studio apartment.

On weekends, we’d go to trance parties together while they were still in their infancy. Dancing in a dark club filled with delinquent foreigners only lit by black lights seemed like a new experience for Saki, who’d always hung out with older guys.

I was completely immersed in it. Saki looked like she was having a lot of fun back then. I was having a lot of fun, too. Everything was so lively. The bubble had burst and the Great Recession had begun, but we were still basking in the afterglow. Eventually, we decided to live together and moved into a newly built apartment in Asakusabashi. Its rent was a bit extravagant for me, but Saki really wanted it, so I caved. We still had savings and Dangerous Issue No. 1 was selling well, so I thought we’d be able to make it.

Nekojiru once asked, “What do you call each other when you’re alone?”

“Saki and King,” I answered honestly.

“King?!” Nekojiru laughed. “That’s a little weird.”

When we were alone, Saki called me “King.” The apartment was her castle. Saki was, in a sense, a princess.

Perhaps calling me “King” reflected her desire to depend on me.

Psychedelic and Trance

My wife’s work as Isaki included co-writing a series on techno and trance music with me for magazines like Bessatsu Takarajima, Dangerous Issue No. 1, and the delinquent magazine BURST (Core Magazine), where tattoos and drugs graced the pages.

In 2002, she single-handedly edited a stylish graphic mook with a yellow vinyl cover called 2-:+/Special Feature Drugs for a publisher called Studio Parabolica.

This book holds one of my most precious memories.

Around the same time, I also edited a visual mook called Psychedelic & Trance (Core Magazine), featuring mesmerizing digital psychedelic art. It was a toy-like book with special 3D glasses.

One summer, while on a date to Odaiba, we passed by Village Vanguard, a subculture store that sold merchandise and books.

“Shall we take a look?” I said. So we went inside. There, I found two copies of 2-:+/… and Psychedelic… stacked side by side.

Saki, upon seeing them, happily exclaimed, “We have matching books!” It felt like they were our children.

I still treasure the book Saki created.

Enlarged yellow-green and brown seashells, with rays of light forming mandalas, adorn the color pages.

The production of Psychedelic & Trance was influenced by drugs. By the brilliant colors and infinitely expanding beauty I saw on an LSD trip.

Heroin, cocaine, marijuana, acid, psychotropic drugs…

The book covered every drug that affects human emotions.

It included a bibliography of specialized books on drugs and records that have been influenced by drugs—for example, it explains how John Lennon’s “Tomorrow Never Knows,” included on The Beatles’ album, Revolver, was written based on the hallucinations he experienced when he took LSD as if he were eating three meals a day.

It provided a detailed, beginner-friendly explanation of what drugs are and what drug-influenced culture is like, packaged in stylish feminine aesthetics.

Saki, who had little experience with illegal drugs, must have created this book because of me. She compiled nearly twenty pages using my experience and commissioned a manuscript from a writer friend of mine.

Each graphic was made using things I had laying around at home. I think she was able to create them without spending too much time or money.

This was the last book Saki edited in its entirety. She wrote the following editor’s note, in her signature feminine style:

“This is a specially treated cover. Please handle it with care.”

The Sound Addict Society

Saki, myself, Aoyama and Nekojiru.

Three suicide victims and I ran in the same circles.

We all made a living in the subculture publishing industry and we were all immersed in the rave culture that began in Japan around 1994.

Author Seino Eiichi wrote the nonfiction book RAVE TRAVELLER based on his own experiences, and his novel Dead End Sky won the 8th Bugakukai Newcomer Award.

“Raving” refers to collective outdoor dancing.

By dancing mindlessly to music in nature, people can reach religious or spiritual heights. They may even reach a state of natural tripping without the use of drugs.

Rave culture has come to establish a strong set of values among young people.

We’d dance our hearts out in groups at Yoyogi Park.

I went to trance clubs every week, took LSD and danced like a madman. I was sweating buckets and had to keep hydrated. Sometimes my water bill reached 10,000 yen a night. We partied hard.

Saki, Aoyama, Nekojiru and I were all hooked on techno,a genre of electronic music, and psychedelic trance, a type of music synonymous with drugs.

Each of us had our own style of feeling the music even if we were listening to the same songs. Saki and I were the type to dance hard, but Nekojiru and Aoyama weren’t the type to dance; they’d sit, close their eyes, and listen intently.

While working in the subculture industry, we frequented clubs and raves, and sometimes held “sound addict” parties in someone’s room.

We were a group of people that could lose ourselves in the music. We could listen to music and trip without a care in the world.

An air of excitement, like the dregs of the bubble era enveloped us. I thought our frenzied dancing would last forever. I wasn’t thinking about the future.

We danced and danced and danced. Worries, anxieties, anger and grief flew to the wind as we danced the night away.

But we can’t dance forever.

Nekojiru led the way, and one by one, we lost our enthusiasm. Aoyama followed, and then…

The World is Full of Idiots

Tatsumi Saki was a brilliant young woman.

She was precocious and goal-oriented, only interested in people who were interesting or useful to her.

In the movie A Town with the Cupola, there was a scene in which poor Yoshinaga Sayuri checks out a school that she’s always dreamed of attending. Saki told me that her father was overjoyed when his daughter got into that school.

She went on to a high school in her hometown of Saitama prefecture.

The girls’ school was nationally renowned, with the highest average score among all the prefectural high schools.

Saki was a natural academic.

Her father loved her unconditionally, without understanding her essential individuality. I think he listened to every word she said. That never changed, even up until his death. He doted on his daughter.

Saki’s parents spoiled her rotten, saying things like “Saki is smart, honest and cheerful…”

But they didn’t show it. They were proud and, in some ways, arrogant.

Saki once said, “Mukai Aki isn’t stupid, so why would she go and marry a guy like that?”

Among Saki’s upperclassmen in high school was the entertainer Mukai Aki, who underwent a hysterectomy but refused to give up on raising a family and traveled to the United States for a surrogate.

When she held a press conference, Takada Nobuhiko appeared on the TV screen.

Saki loved martial arts, but hated Takada Nobuhiko.

She loved professional wrestling and didn’t mind macho men.

“Why do you dislike him?” I asked.

“I don’t like his shallow, showy attitude. And he looks really stupid. Tiger Jeet Singh is more mature. He’s my type.”

I could not believe a villainous wrestler who specializes in saber-wielding attacks was her type.

When I asked if she had any other favorite fighters, she answered, “I like Fujiwara Yoshiaki.”

It wasn’t that she was trying to impress anyone.

Deep down, Saki loved old-fashioned men. It had nothing to do with looks.

Among baseball players, she said, “Enatsu Yutaka was the best,” even though he was once arrested for using stimulants. She was a big fan of Luchino Visconti and Tim Burton films. She watched Visconti’s films as if they were boys love. Death in Venice and Family Portrait. They all featured beautiful gay men. That’s what Saki loved about them.

She was tolerant of gays and lesbians. She herself was queer, or rather, bisexual. Her lesbianism seemed to have already begun to blossom in middle school.

Tim Burton’s protagonists were always lonely, living on the margins of society. Saki, who hated popular culture, supported his films in which outlaws were the stars.

In return, I introduced her to the works of Terry Gilliam and Paul Verhoeven.

After graduating from high school, she was accepted into the National Academy of Arts and Sciences. Partially to please her parents.

Her parents wanted her to become a teacher.

Saki, however, rebelled before graduating from university, insisting that she wouldn’t become a teacher. She compromised and joined a textbook publishing company.

Saki held herself with a sense of elitism and arrogance that made everyone around her seem foolish in comparison.

“No matter where I am, everyone around me seems stupid,” she’d say.

Senior employees at the time included the self-proclaimed devilish Sezaki Hyakuro, who would later make his debut as a writer with Dangerous Issue No. 1 and editor Nicholas Keiji. This was likely one of the most fulfilling periods in her life. Comparing photos from her time at the textbook publishing company with those from after Company A, her gaze appears notably more vacant in the former.

But with the collapse of the bubble economy, publishing companies like Company A became unsustainable, and the company dissolved in spring of 2001. Their somewhat posh approach to creating the cult books they aspired to was no longer possible.

A change came over Saki. She began to realize that her youthful obsession with the posh yet highly perverse micro culture was a “mistake.” Company A’s sales were poor, and the pay was low. So she began working part-time as a freelance writer. I met Saki when we were both working for Company A and wanted to explore other ventures. We lived in very different worlds, but it was refreshing to share with each other. My influence led Saki to listen to techno and dance to trance. She was particularly receptive to my tastes in music and aesthetics.

She didn’t show me her intellectual side too much.

Saki was the daughter of a civil servant, but she’d been raised as a princess. She’d always behaved like a good girl in front of others. It was a strategic act of pretense, and she was a real performer, a demon at heart. She hid her intellect and maintained a cheerful and reserved demeanor. She never revealed her true self in front of anyone. She was always acting, playing the role of “good Saki.”

At first, I was fooled by it.

She never talked about challenging books, so she didn’t seem particularly smart. But that was because she was accommodating me. In reality, she was much more intelligent than she appeared. When we first started dating, she acted very self-absorbed. But that didn’t mean she was that kind of person. She also had a pessimistic side and carried a heavy burden in her heart.

But really, I enjoyed spending time with her. Even if she acted snooty.

Like my family back home, however, I was a little hesitant to call someone who was almost thirty “Saki-chan.” So I started calling her “Saki.”

The real Saki was a perverted little punk. She was a maniac.

She was queer, or rather bisexual, and loved gay men and yaoi (boys love). She liked androgyny and fringe subcultures, repulsed by anything that appealed to the masses.

She also had a strong interest in terrorism. When the Twin Towers in Manhattan were bombed, she was extremely excited. “Allah is angry,” she thought, and began reading books about Islam and the Middle East. Saki was addicted to reading. I imagine it must have been very painful for her when she finally became so depressed that she could no longer read.

She was a narcissist with a high level of self-esteem and pride. She was the type of person who would die for her pride.

Saki’s younger brother told me that when she ran for student council president at her junior high school, she staged a public seppuku (disembowelment) in imitation of Yukio Mishima.

Saki was bisexual at that point. She acknowledged this when she started living with me. She told me she became aware of her homosexuality in junior high.

She was the type of genius who worked hard and came out on top in her studies. From junior high onward, she became more precocious and read adult books. Her parents doted on her, so they bought her all the books she wanted. She even had a book by Shibusawa Tatsuhiko, which she was obsessed with since junior high.

When I was shown a photo of her in junior high, she had a stiff, belligerent look on her face. Saki was a daddy’s girl. She liked older men. That being said, she despised her own father.

Saki behaved in a way that pleased her parents. On top of that, she was very spoiled. Her parents would tell her how cute she was and give her an allowance. Saki thought it was better to act for an allowance, so she did.

She said of her mother, “She’s not particularly quick-tempered, but she’s honest and a good person.” And her younger brother, too, “I wouldn’t say he’s a genius but he’s an honest, straightforward, good kid.”

Saki’s father was especially fond of her, but she hated him. She acted cheerful and loving despite this. It was all a ruse.

Why did she hate him?

Because he wasn’t the man of her dreams. After retiring from the civil service, he worked quietly as an accountant. Saki saw him as a man whose only redeeming quality was his unattractive and earnest nature. Saki hated that type of person. She was a woman who rebelled against the macho, big things of America, and disliked people who followed the latest trends.

I think that’s where her eventual decision to become gay came from. She hated anything popular or conformist, like her father was. From my perspective, he was a kind, easy-going man. Now he hates me and calls me a “murderer,” but…

Saki was very cute and popular with men.

But her cuteness was only surface level. Maybe she wasn’t pretty on the inside.

“The real me is scary,” she’d told me several times.

“I’m holding it in for you. I’m holding it in for everyone. I can’t show the real me, and I won’t, ever. The truth is, I’m scary.”

When Saki was young, she looked at herself objectively and realized something wasn’t right. From then on she decided to always act like a good kid. In later years, she developed a bad habit. Sometimes, when she came home, she would explode.

After it happened a few times, I realized.

Saki was acting. Just acting out, that’s all.

Maybe, just maybe, her “desire to die” that she sometimes expressed might also stem from that same unreasonableness.

I was too oblivious to realize it until she exploded. I guess “not noticing” can be loosely translated as “I was deceived by her act.” It’s a convincing lie, so I feel like I should believe it.

Mistress Nature

Saki, who was a fan of Tiger Jeet Singh, Fujiwara Yoshiaki and Ensatsu Yutaka, had relationships with several middle-aged men who had wives and children. She was their mistress.

She also dated a writer who was renowned in the 1960s as an anti-war activist.

I’ve heard her talk about her trip to America with the writer several times.

She said that she learned to appreciate luxury while being the man’s mistress. When a wealthy middle-aged man told Saki to buy a coat she liked, Saki took the plunge and bought a coat worth 300,000 yen using the man’s credit card.

When she went to meet him, he looked sad and said, “I was hoping you’d wear something better.”

“I regretted it,” Saki said. “I hurt him. I should’ve gone for the three million yen coat instead. I’m ashamed of my cheap taste.”

From what Saki told me, other lovers included a reporter for a major newspaper and the owner of an events company.

They were all top-notch, wealthy, eloquent middle-aged men with wives and children.

Of course, I wasn’t at all shocked when Saki told me about the men she’d dated in the past. She was mine, after all.

When we fought, Saki said, “You’re the man I chose. Why haven’t you any confidence?”

It was a pretty arrogant way of putting it.

“You’re the man I chose.”

Saki stopped seeing middle-aged men and started dating me. The only men who called her home phone were her gay friends. Saki’s ideal. A gay man who could love a woman. In order to understand gay people, I wrote a book called Gay Life Manual (Data House). The book was a big hit at a bookstore in Shinjuku Ni-Chome.

Saki loved clothes, and owned countless designer items. She preferred cute, unique pieces, and I found some outfits were a little extravagant, like the one with angel wings on the back.

By extravagant, I don’t mean extravagantly priced. Don’t get me wrong, she knew a lot of really wonderful places with extravagant prices. But she was both a fanatic and avid lover of authenticity. When it came to chocolate, she’d say, “Godiva is already mainstream, but Demel is the best,” and her favorite was the Viennese royal purveyor, Cat Tongue Chocolate, which cost 4,000 yen per box.

“We should start by experiencing the real deal,” she said, and the first hot spring inn we went to together cost 60,000 yen a night. She was a bit of an aristocrat.

I was born in 1962, and Saki in 1968.

She used to have a boyish haircut, but after she started hanging out with older guys, she’d ask the hairdresser to style her like Shaku Yumiko. Older guys wanted something more feminine. Before that, she had a punk style. She hated school; her family loved her, but they didn’t understand her, so she felt lonely. That led her to punk. Her punk spirit remained until the very end, but her style was the complete opposite.

Saki never cooked at all. She was insistent about not cooking. But occasionally, when I made something like curry, she’d gush over how good it was and eat it happily. It’s not that she disliked home-cooked meals. She simply had a strong desire not to cook.

She wasn’t interested in local stories like the news cameraman being shot, but she was well-versed in international conflicts. She was always up-to-date on the current situation on the front lines and around the world.

Saki seemed to desire a “climax” like during the final war. She supported the self-determination of the oppressed. Perhaps she fell in love with me because I was a little unusual—in other words, an outcast.

I was anti-Yomiuri, but Saki was even more anti-America. She reasoned that America was making the world worse. She said they were causing harm. I don’t know exactly why Saki became anti-American, but I think it was because she saw their brutality. While watching TV, she commented on Bush and Bin Laden, saying “It’s a battle between cocaine and heroin. I support heroin.”

When a big person bumps into a small person on the street, the smaller person always apologizes. Their size lets them intimidate others. That’s why Saki disliked big men. When that man becomes a nation, it becomes America.

On the other hand, a part of Saki admired strong people. She was very dependent. She was smarter than me and had been in relationships with more adults than I had, yet still tried to depend on me. I’m sure that was reflected in the way she called me “King.”

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