Suicided

This website is not intended for those under the age of 18. Please read the full FAQ before browsing. Viewer discretion is advised.

Do you have a tech support question or want a place to discuss theories with other denpa fans? Check out the Denpa Forum or the Discord Server

Chapter 5: About Myself

Raised by Marxism

Let me tell you a little about myself.

Yoshinaga Yoshiaki is my pen name.

When I worked with Aoyama on Bessatsu Takarajima, there was an author introduction page at the end of the issue.

Aoyama’s name is first because it starts with A, so he stands out. So I decided to stand out too with a name starting in Y. I took my first name from Fujiwara Yoshiaki, my favorite wrestler.

I just changed some of the characters around.

And that’s how I decided on Yoshinaga Yoshiaki.

I was born in Tokyo. I have a brother that’s six years older than me.

My father graduated from Chuo University and worked for the Tokyo Metropolitan Government as a civil servant.

My father was a Marxist, and his older brother served as chairman of the Japan-Cuba Friendship Association. I remember his photo with Castro appearing in Asahi Shimbun one year. He was a professor in the Faculty of Economics at Chuo University, where he taught Marxist economics. My grandfather died in the war, and my father was raised by his older brother.

My father was deeply influenced by the Marxism of his older brother, to whom I owe a lot.

Marxists advocate for overthrowing established power, smashing feudalism, and revolution, but ironically, my father was no better than a dictator at home. He complained a lot, but never did anything to change. He was the type to subscribe to the Japanese Communist Party’s newsletter but never take action.

I never received an allowance. Our frugal lifestyle was inspired by Marx, but I hated it.

We had a TV at home, but we were forbidden from watching it. “TV will make you stupid,” he said. I couldn’t talk about Ultraman or anime with my classmates. Music was my only salvation. It was my drug of choice.

I was stuck listening to the records we had at home. My father and older brother were classical music fanatics, and their passion rubbed off on me. We had a good sound system. I didn’t listen to classical music because I wanted to, but rather because it was all we had in the house. As I listened, I grew fond of Baroque: Bach and early music in general.

When you think of classical music, you tend to think of it as a hobby for the cultured. But I didn’t listen to it with that in mind. I listened purely for pleasure. Bach is ecstasy. It’s the privilege of being able to let the sound capture your undivided attention, and in that respect, Bach’s music is beautiful.

My father was Beethoven, my older brother was Schoenberg, and I was Bach. I would darken the room, sit in front of the speakers, and listen to pieces like “Partitas” from start to finish. As a kid, I did it sober. That changed as I became an adult and drugs came into the mix.

While other kids were singing along to Finger 5 and Downtown Boogie Woogie Band, I was listening intently to Bach. I must have been quite the oddball.

About my Family

My earliest memories are of the daily fistfights I had in kindergarten. Despite my docile appearance, I fought for dominance on the jungle gym.

In elementary school, I became a bookworm and spent all my time hanging out at the library. Since I couldn’t watch TV, books were my only source of entertainment.

I devoured every collection of world classics and children’s literature I could find. Hino City’s library was well-stocked and somewhere I could read in peace, so I borrowed as many books as possible and read the rest in the library.

I read the most in my early elementary school years, an average of two books a day. Nearly sixty books a month.

I was an extreme example. Once I got into university, I fell in love with movies and watched roughly four hundred a year. I’d watch them and do drugs until I was on the verge of death.

We subscribed to the Asahi, Mainichi, Sankei and Akahata newspapers. My father made me read them all, too. He wanted me to keep up with what was happening in national politics. The one newspaper he didn't subscribe to was Yomiuri. He was anti-Yomiuri.

The only magazines I was allowed to buy were the Asahi Journal, Gendai no Me, Sekai, and Mass Media Criticism (later published as Uwasa no Shinso), and whatever my older brother had in his room.

I hated my father’s obsession with Marx. Perhaps I was influenced by him without realizing it. I absolutely hated popular things, such as the Giants, Taiho, and tamagoyaki, even as my anti-Marxism grew.

My nerdy, genius older brother was under my father’s control. He studied abroad in the Soviet Union for a short period on a scholarship.

When I was in high school, I was pressured to study abroad in Cuba. I desperately resisted, refusing to let myself spend my precious youth there. Back then, the only image I had of Cuba was of sugarcane. I knew nothing of drugs.

My only experience was with nicotine in my first year of high school. Speaking of which, I smoked some weed as a college student in New York. It was incredibly exhilarating. I was at someone’s apartment in Brooklyn, smoking, and before I knew it, I’d crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and ended up in Chinatown. I’d walked quite the distance.

Anyhow, my father’s Marxism had a strong influence on his work in the civil service, and union activity was thriving. Perhaps because of this, my older brother dashed his dreams of working in media to become a private school teacher.

My brother is still single. A normal family would think of arranged marriage, but in a Marxist family, that tradition is considered feudal and strictly forbidden.

He’s never tried drugs. Never even heard of marijuana. He doesn’t even know who I am.

I think he’s a virgin, too. That’s how sheltered he is.

He has a bachelor pad, but it’s as if there’s this aura that wards away women. He’s not ugly by any means. Just silly.

Even when Saki died, he didn’t seem to understand how I felt.

When I ID’d her body and contacted my brother, all he had to say was, “Oh. Is that so.”

Maybe. I was a mess at the time, so I don’t remember exactly what it was he said, but I think he added a “good luck” in there somewhere.

My mother was like my father’s appendage; she couldn’t live independently, couldn’t survive without him.

She truly wanted to support me, but she was too scared of my father to do so. She was raised to be naive and weak.

I’m pretty much estranged from my parents, and when Saki died, my father said something that was tantamount to cutting all ties with me. I’ll never forget that sinking feeling in my chest when he said, “This is your problem. Leave us out of it.”

I Want to Be Understood

I was fed up with the Spartan, Marxist homelife that ignored my individuality. The love they expressed felt conditional.

I ran away from home a few times, and each time I’ve been labeled “extreme” and “crazy.”

As a boy, eating apples, kiwis, or cherries would cause hives to welt all over my body. I suffered from severe rhinitis during pollen season. I was allergic to everything.

My parents attributed all of my problems to a failure to thrive.

I even had an electroencephalogram test taken because I was so restless. Looking back, I realize now I had ADHD, but in the end, all of this was dismissed as nothing more than an example of my emotional instability. My parents were very sensitive about admitting I had anything wrong with me.

I have no memory of ever being emotionally dependent on my parents. Instead I was incensed by a desire to be understood.

Saki was the one that was able to grant me peace.

She understood my individuality and highly valued my right-brainedness. Thanks to Saki, I was on the verge of graduating from that desperate craving to be understood.

Being understood was the same as being loved. And then, Saki died.

I came so close to jumping off the roof of a building that I barely managed to stay tethered to the ground. Nobody would’ve been surprised if I had gone after Saki in that moment.

But my friends saved me.

Friends from as far as Tokyo, Hiroshima and Okazaki rushed to my side, even though I was a ball of nerves.

They mourned Saki and tried to ease my mind by talking to me, even though I was completely exhausted.

“Yoshinaga, you have to live!”

“If you give up now, I’ll hate you forever!”

That’s how they encouraged me.

They knew my relationship with Saki better than my parents or Saki’s family did. And they were the first to worry about keeping me alive.

It was solely thanks to my friends that I was able to avoid losing faith in people and am somehow able to believe that I have to live. That I have to turn over a new leaf.

Among them, I was particularly touched by the advice and thoughtfulness of Yamano Hajime, who shared the same experience of losing his wife.

2DK Apartment For Rent, 170,000 Yen

“You need to leave,” Saki’s father demanded. “Immediately.”

I had no choice but to move out.

I frantically searched for a new apartment. As a freelancer without a family member to act as guarantor, I had no choice.

At her parents’ insistence, I returned most of Saki’s belongings.

Books, CDs, office equipment, clothes…

Taking a step back, I realized Saki had quite the wardrobe.

Most of her belongings were things I’d bought myself or things she’d received from ex-boyfriends during the bubble era, before she started living with me.

“These books sure are strange…”

Saki’s father muttered as he sorted through gay and lesbian literature.

I got rid of most of my books and sent many of my CDs to friends’ houses. I also got rid of my desk, bookshelf, and bed.

Only the things Saki had bought for me and the things I’d gifted her remained.

Saki had left me the most thoughtful gifts, picking them out with discerning eyes that knew full well my love of audio-visuals. They were rather eccentric.

— — Mementos of Saki.

A professional-grade dodecahedron speaker called the Polygon. An illuminated statue of the Virgin Mary.. A thick foreign-language collection of electron microscope photographs, a copy of HEAVEN AND EARTH.

A watch with a psychedelic trance alarm. An MD Walkman. A one-of-a-kind kaleidoscope. Techno club-style clothes. Scooter’s new album. A DVD of Luchino Visconti’s Death in Venice.

The room I’d once shared with Saki stood before me like a body bereft of soul.

I was flooded with memories of when we first moved in.

Saki was in a rush when she returned from the real estate agency.

“Hurry! Let’s go see the apartment. It’s on the ninth floor, has no neighbors on either side, and has a rooftop balcony!”

The property in Asakusabashi was newly built. Indeed, there were no neighboring rooms and it had a spacious balcony. It was a 2DK apartment for a staggering 170,000 yen. It was a luxury for us, but we decided on it. Saki was born to live in this apartment.

I couldn’t be stingy. I had savings, so I knew we’d manage.

In our yet-to-be-furnished apartment, we played some music on our portable sound system. “Twisted” by Hallucinogen.

“We can make a lotta noise in here,” Saki said, smiling and bouncing on her heels. We were brimming with hope.

Seven years have passed since then.

I moved out about a month after Saki’s passing.

Emotional Instability

Now I live in a foreigner’s lodge in Chofu with no guarantor, security deposit, or key money required. The rent is 46,000 yen and there’s no gas or running water.

Without air conditioning, the heat of the 2003 summer was unbearable.

At one point, I lost contact with my editor, Akada, and he was so concerned that he paid me a visit.

I wasn’t hungry and I couldn’t eat. I became malnourished, nearing the brink of death.

After losing my wife, I ate through my savings. Feeling destitute and depressed, I returned to living alone for the first time in seven years.

I hadn’t recovered from Saki’s death, but I wanted to get used to my apartment and start over.

However…

I couldn’t adjust to my new apartment and my emotions teetered towards instability.

I couldn’t sit still, so I kept tapping my foot. I wanted to concentrate on something to distract myself, but even when I picked up a book or turned on some music, I couldn’t do it. My anxiety ramped up, as if I was being chased. My whole body was tense.

I consulted a psychiatrist colleague and he suggested that I was already prone to manic depression, so the shock of my wife’s suicide had probably triggered a manic episode in me. Apparently it’s not uncommon for people to suddenly become manic during funerals.

I was officially accepted as a patient and was prescribed antipsychotics.

Around the time I started taking my prescribed antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication, the feeling of restlessness eased, and I instead felt sapped of all energy. It was as if the tense chord of my heart had snapped, and I became increasingly depressed.

One lonesome night, catastrophe struck.

I couldn’t fit in my apartment. The tension was off the charts, my nerves on fire.

I’ve got a bad feeling about this…

My existence was diluting by the second.

Help me…

Someone! Anyone!

I’m trying so hard to live,but it seems like I… I shouldn’t be alive?!

I’m going crazy!

I felt like screaming.

I was in a panic.

Sweat poured down my face.

My breathing was getting rough and all I could hear was pounding in my chest. My heart was going so fast I thought it would burst.

My head felt hollow, and I lost track of where I was.

I’m falling.

I’m falling.

What’s become of me?!
I’m in pain.

Saki, help me.

Saki…

Saki!

I… I…

I was going crazy.

Friends

I called Nekojiru’s husband.

It felt as if twilight came and went in the time I waited for the receiver to pick up.

I wonder if he’s not home. Please, please answer. If this silence continues, I’m in trouble.

Hello? Hello?

I heard Yamano’s voice.

I finally spoke. “I just can’t calm down. This is so hard.”

“You’re pretty depressed, aren’t you?” Yamano answered. “I’ve had times where I was unbearably restless. You don’t have time to catch a train. I’ll pick you up so just wait for me. I promise I’ll be there soon.”

Strangely enough, hearing Yamano’s voice was enough to lift the weight off my shoulders.

He came to my rescue and took me to his house.

I was still as nervous as ever, but I felt reassured. Seeing that my autonomic nervous system was out of whack, along with my freezing body temp, he quickly drew a bath for me.

“Are you taking any medication?”

“Oh, yeah…”

“Are you feeling restless?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Maybe you should focus on something. Shall we rent a video?”

We rented Eddie Murphy’s Coming to America. Apparently it was Nekojiru’s favorite comedy. It was well-made and entertaining, with no cynical undertones.

“I think something like this is good for when you’re feeling down. Brazil would probably be a bit much for you right now.”

He was absolutely right. By the end of the two-hour movie, I had regained my composure.

He let me stay the night. The next day, we randomly played frisbee. It was Yamano’s suggestion. He saw how depressed I was and nursed me back to stability.

After that, whenever my emotions started to break down, I’d call him and he’d talk me through my episodes. He never let his emotions get the better of him and always responded calmly. Even when I was losing my mind, he’d say, “Oh, I heard that story yesterday too. It seems like you’re repeating yourself a bit. Have you considered taking notes?”

He responded tactfully, without making me feel uncomfortable about my unstable emotions. His unfazed attitude toward my panic was very reassuring.

“Saki’s probably gone to the same place as Nekojiru. You were good friends. It’ll be okay. She’s watching from above and laughing at us commoners struggling to survive.”

I felt a sense of relief.

When Nekojiru passed away six years ago, I realized I hadn’t fully understood Yamano’s feelings.

I never understood how difficult it was to lose your other half until I lost Saki.

Yamano spoke as I tearfully reminisced about Saki.

“It’s been six months already, yet you remain so kind. To be honest, I would’ve cooled off by now, but maybe that’s Nekojiru talking. Yoshinaga is sentimental. Almost too sentimental.”

Sentimental is an understatement. I think he was trying to say, “Are you still down? Pull yourself together.”

Yamano is a brilliant left-brained genius. But living with right-brained Nekojiru had, in a way, molded him into a man that can better understand the emotions of us right-brainers. He’d take my jumbled emotions and make sense of them. He was like a translator. He experienced the grief of losing his wife to suicide, but still managed to recover. He was like a role model to me.

Saki once said that Yamano had told her, “Please take good care of Yoshinaga.” I think he was concerned about the inherent sensitivity that comes with being right-brained.

Saki’s death was traumatic, but nobody would feel better if I followed in her footsteps. On the contrary, my friends have told me they’d curse me if I even thought about taking my own life. I didn’t have the heart to do it. I had to repay my debt. Being despised by my friends was a fate worse than death.

After losing Saki, Yamano and my friends became my new lifeline.

A Journey to Visit Friends

A man who lost his wife to suicide doesn’t seem like he’d recover so easily.

Men can be such timid creatures.

I was so lonely that I couldn’t stand it.

Desperate for human contact, I set out on a journey to visit some friends living in the countryside.

My friends welcomed me warmly and offered to talk to me, even though I was a shell of my former self. I wasn’t able to drink with them due to being on prescribed tranquilizers; alcohol made my mind and body feel sluggish. When I tried to nod my head and speak, my words slurred. The more I tried to speak properly, the more tongue-tied I became.

I’d experienced the intoxication of various drugs, including marijuana, since my twenties, but this was my first time getting “high” off of tranquilizers. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. I was rather frustrated that I couldn’t speak the way I wanted to.

One memorable night, I was relaxing at the office of Hiroshima-based writer Marquis Kabachi (a pen name) with fellow writer Yasunori Goan, who worked with Aoyama Masaaki, among others.

Three of their friends had also joined us. We all loved music and listened to a wide variety of it.

“Yoshinaga-san, do you have anything to play?”

At Kabachi’s urging, I handed over the CD I’d brought with me, Tokyo Ghetto Pussy. It was beautiful trance, sentimental and tear-jerking, featuring English female vocals.

“Take a listen to this,” one man suggested, and played a sample CD of a song he’d written himself. It was gentle, sentimental pop featuring Japanese female vocals.

I never wanted to grow up
But as an adult
I realized I can’t keep thinking this way
Don’t close your eyes the moment something changes

Seeing me listening intently, the owner of the CD said, “Here, take it.” He was gruff, but kind.

I loved this CD and often listened to it at my place in the foreign housing complex. Tears would well in my eyes as I listened.

In that moment, I felt true gratitude.

Why are they so kind to me? Because I was vulnerable. Because they were friends. Because they were my friends’ friends.

Dependent on Work

My journey visiting friends in my weakened state was profoundly moving.

I returned to Tokyo exhausted.

The mania triggered by Saki’s funeral had subsided, and I became depressed again. I tried to ease the pain with sedatives and somehow managed to stay composed. But even with the sedatives, I only managed to feel slightly lower than neutral. And they gave me a little high.

“Doctor, this medication makes me loopy. It’s a bad look at work and I’m falling behind. Could you switch me to something more effective…?” I called my doctor for advice.

“It’s too early. What’s important now is relieving tension and stabilizing your mind. Your priority right now is being able to eat and sleep. This prescription will help your body before your mind.”

For about a month after Saki’s death, I barely slept, and when I did, I was essentially passing out. I had no appetite and lived off a liquid diet. All I drank was Weider Jelly and Pocari Sweat.

Sure, it was true that sleep gradually came naturally. I still had no appetite, but I’d quietly eat when I needed to. Perhaps my doctor’s strategy was correct. With that in mind, I continued taking my prescribed medication.

Some of my friends weren’t impressed.

“You look pathetic. You need to clear your mind, now!” a friend of mine said. She encouraged me by saying that when she was in a messy relationship with her boyfriend and unable to break up with him, she got through her depression by relying on stimulants to clear her mind. Drawing on that experience, she recommended the same to me.

Her advice, though blunt, was born out of pure consideration for my well-being. Reality is sometimes harsh like that. Everyone is struggling to survive, overcoming crises in their own way. Feelings like fun, happiness and excitement, become diluted. Sexual and material desires disappear, but the tranquilizers managed to keep me hydrated and away from spiraling back into depression.

Even when I sat at my desk, I found myself brooding over photos of Saki.

When I found myself in that state I realized the only thing I could do was write the manuscript for this book.

I couldn’t rely on friends forever. Above all, with the economic crisis looming over me, I had to get to work.

I set up the sound system in my room and arranged the books I needed for work, along with two cardboard boxes of CDs. I have a habit of constantly playing music no matter what I do, including while writing.

It was in that room that I began writing the manuscript for this book. It was all I could do. Financial and emotional circumstances forced me to depend on my work to survive.

I felt ashamed that I hadn’t realized this until I was pushed to that point.

For the first time in my life, I took out a loan.

I thought I’d become rusty if life continued on this way, so I decided to push through with my work, writing manuscripts even though I was depressed.

Since I’m not salaried, I work part-time at a convenience store during the week.

I work during the day and write at night. Little by little, I’m making a comeback. Little by little…

Loop

I wake up in the middle of the night to a sudden noise.

“Oh, Saki’s home,” I think to myself, in a haze of sleep.

“Welcome home!!”

As I sit up to greet her, I suddenly realize I’m not in our castle, but in the six-tatami room where I live alone.

I’ve experienced this many times before.

It’s been more than six months since Saki died. To me it feels like it’s only been a few days. I’ve lost all sense of time.

I remember Saki’s body awaiting the autopsy as if it were just the other day. She was sleeping peacefully. I felt as if she’d respond if I called out to her.

“King, King~!”

I can hear Saki calling back to me. She sounds a little anxious.

Saki. I’m here. Don’t worry. Don’t worry… Everything’s okay now.

Though I’m working out the kinks in this manuscript, I’m not writing coherently. I haven’t been able to sort out my feelings at all, so I write for a bit, then stop to brood over photos of Saki.

She hated being photographed, so there isn’t much left of her. Looking at photos brings back memories. One photo shows when we went to Osawayama Onsen in Niigata. It was winter, and Saki was standing on a mountain trail, wearing her coat and facing me. She looked adorable with the hood pulled over her head. I was exploring a narrow path of the mountain when a pickup truck and several dogs came barreling towards us. The dogs were off-leash. Saki immediately stiffened and flinched.

“We were attacked by wild dogs!”

In reality, the dogs were domesticated and out for a walk, but I can remember Saki’s fear, clear as day. She was a cute, timid girl. Looking at the photo reminds me of that mundane scene of the usually strong-willed Saki— and the tears begin to flow, unstoppable, as they often do.

I coordinated Saki’s clubbing outfits from head to toe and hung them on the wall.

I plastered her favorite Christian paintings on the wall, ordered by largest to smallest.

“Sadness is my drug.”

“There are some things you learn only when you die. By the time you realize it, it’s too late.”

“There’s no going back.”

“I want to go to Amsterdam with Saki.”

“I want to go to Yakushima again with Saki.”

“Saki, you’re safe. You’re safe.”

“God, please give Saki back to me.”

I scribbled everywhere.

I pasted work faxes and manuscript structure notes over my writings. I plastered psychedelic trance flyers in the gaps.

In the end, my six-tatami room became cluttered.

Whenever I wrote a manuscript, the first thing I did was have Saki read it. Up until now. I’d ask her thoughts and opinions. Saki was my dearest reader, editor and teacher. Without her, my manuscript became disorganized and repetitive, the same phrases playing on repeat. I felt so uneasy.

Progress on the manuscript wasn’t going very well, but I had to finish it somehow.

Bad Trip

Two years ago, I attended a rave in Izu.

I was out and about, having stayed up all night to meet a deadline, so I was in a terrible mood. By chance, I stumbled across some LSD, a drug I’d long since stopped using. The effects of psychedelic LSD are greatly influenced by your condition and the environment at the time.

Sure enough, I fell into a bad trip, trapped in my own head with painful hallucinations.

No one could help me at this point. All I could do was hold myself back from screaming. I just had to endure it until the effects of the chemicals wore off. It was hell.

After the party, I was exhausted, unable to even buy a train ticket for the journey back to Tokyo. My friend Nicholas Keiji accompanied me home. On the Shinkansen, I called out for Saki with trembling hands.

I felt like I was all alone in the pitch darkness of space.

Sweat started to pour out of me. Time seemed to slow.

We finally arrived at Tokyo Station. I felt alone in the crowd, invisible amongst them.

My bad trip continued. It was painful. I’d had enough.

I spotted a woman in the crowd.

My wife was waiting for me at the ticket counter.

I was so relieved to see her.

As if passing the baton from my friend to Saki, I grabbed her by the hand and she led me home.

Saki was smiling.

The moment I held her hand, the dam that had been holding everything together broke apart. Tears began to flow.

In the moment, we were the image of a terrified, crying child and his loving mother holding his hand.

But Saki is no longer with us.

The one to hold my hand has vanished from this world. From now on, I have to overcome crises on my own, with nobody to rely on. It should be obvious, but I will never forget the feeling of Saki’s hand in mine.

It’s so sad to think about.

Why Can't I Die?

I started visiting a certain downtown head shop-slash-bar that stocks many of my books. The staff and customers there were all reading work like Dangerous Issue No. 1 and Psychedelic & Trance. They welcomed me warmly.

One girl even read my work in BURST HIGH.

The realization that I had so many readers soothes my lonely heart, just a little.

Some of the girls there would envelop me in a gentle hug when I was visibly depressed.

Another even invited me to her home. When I got there, it was like a foreign housing complex, with people hanging out in messy rooms. Everyone was doing their own thing. They weren’t all friends either; they seemed to be acquaintances with vague connections to each other.

I once spoke to a young girl who frequented the bar.

She was only in her early twenties, but she had a strangely brazen and calm demeanor.

She came from Okinawa and was now living with the bar manager, a girl also in her early twenties.

It was the same foreign housing complex I’d visited before, with everyone else inside.

She was unemployed, but didn’t seem to be a student, either. She had big eyes, a thin face, with a petite, delicate body. There was something gloomy about her, as if she was suppressing something. She spoke calmly (perhaps too calmly), and I got the feeling that she was eccentric, deep down. Suddenly, my gaze fell to her slender left wrist.

There were countless scars. She didn’t seem particularly flustered when I noticed them. Instead, she proudly displayed them to me. That’s when the conversation turned to suicide.

“My wife… recently committed suicide,” I told her. She didn’t seem surprised.

I showed her a piece I’d written for the column in BURST HIGH, available in the store, that touched on Saki’s death. I’d written it when I was a nervous wreck, right after the incident.

“What do you think?”

“This is no good. You wanna stop people from committing suicide, right? So you shouldn’t mention how beautiful or peaceful she was in death. It’ll just lead to other people imitating her. And besides, I don’t think it’s right to think you can stop someone from killing themselves. No one has the right to stop them, do they?”

“Well, suicide is ultimately a matter of ego.”

“Then isn’t it also egotistic to not want someone to commit suicide?”

“...I can’t take this. You’re being so blunt about it. This is unbearable for me.”

“But, isn’t it? Both are egotistic. I think trying to stop someone from killing themselves is a bit naive.”

I can never clearly answer the question of why someone shouldn’t die.

It’s a person’s right to commit suicide, and anyone who tries to stop them is said to be selfish. There’s no logic to this.

“...You mentioned earlier that your pulse stopped twice. Why’d you do it? Did you really want to die? Or was it just for the thrill of it?”

To this question, she gave a slight smile and didn’t answer.

She could’ve responded with something like, “This world is a rotten place. There’s nothing good about it. I don’t think the answer is to just muddle through life ugly, miserable and pathetic.”

Either way, she seemed to be living while repeatedly attempting suicide for no real reason. And she seemed to take pride in having stopped her pulse twice.

I felt pathetic. I couldn’t even persuade a twenty-something-year-old girl like her to believe that dying is “bad.”

Maybe her experience is what made her so brazen.

She might be into it for the thrill of it, akin to bungee jumpers or skydivers. Recently she’s been saying that she wants to go to fashion school.

“Do you think you’ll stop attempting if you go to fashion school?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know when I’ll feel like dying again. But that’s ultimately up to me.”

I found myself feeling sorry for her romantic partners.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, but that’s okay. My fashion career is more important right now.”

I felt a little relieved. I didn’t really want to know that much about her personal life.

Saki’s death had made me afraid of delving deep into other people’s hearts, of prying, worrying, sympathizing.

I’d read in the newspaper about support groups for people who’d lost loved ones to suicide. But I tried to maintain my emotional well-being by meeting up with friends.

But they were always busy. One woman advised, “It’s naive to think that seeing people will help you heal. You have to do it alone. Maybe online.” It was harsh, but she may have a point. Seeing friends on a daily basis is near impossible.

I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to be alone, so I desperately wanted to interact with others. I’m not the type to heal by withdrawing, like Yamano.

I wondered where someone like myself could be accepted. But before I could find my place, I had to finish a book that would be good enough to persuade that fashion student from Okinawa to change her mind.

These days, I’m finally starting to think that way.

Something to be Passionate About

On the brink of financial ruin, I had no choice but to work.

I couldn’t afford to be trapped in the past anymore.

Dangerous Issue No. 1, my collaborative project with Aoyama Masaaki, is long dead.

No longer am I dangerous. I’m useless.

That’s right. What I want to do is be useless.

I want to make junk books. Totally useless junk books.

All I can do is work hard to write a book about how a loser like me manages to survive.

Once I’ve achieved that, then I can write a book called Happy Issue No. 1.

A book that encourages you to enjoy your retirement without chastising the reader. With that plan in mind, I decided that I’ll join a gym, do basic exercises and make mountain climbing my ultimate goal. Of course, I’m not physically fit enough to tackle that right now.

I’d also like to soak in a hot spring. My days of taking LSD, smoking weed and partying all day at Goa trance parties are over. Instead, I’m thinking of pivoting towards living a natural life. Drug-free, of course. I think getting high without drugs is what it means to truly be an adult.

Natural highs are the best, after all. While mountains and hot springs sound a bit cliche, the plan I have in mind is one that’ll get me just as high, if not higher, than I ever did on drugs.

I’ll obey the law, but I want to stay a rebel no matter my age. How can a sober rebel get high in the mountains? These days, I think focusing on that is more forward-thinking than going to raves.

Without a sense of enjoyment, without something you’re hooked on, you start wondering what the point of living is. So I’ve decided to find something new to be passionate about.

According to a clinical psychologist in the US who’s counseled over a thousand bereaved families, many survivors lose trust in people and the world around them.

But I’m the opposite. How could I live without believing in people?

Now that I’m in the position of a bereaved family member, I need to stop relying on others and carry Saki’s legacy. It’s my burden to deal with.

It’s so incredibly painful. But I don’t want to run away.

Saki's Back

Nekojiru, Aoyama Masaaki, Tatsumi Saki and I are all part of the bubble era.

We were young during its peak and lived comfortably, at least financially. Making the most of our eccentric personalities, we worked in the margins of the publishing industry. We made a living from the culture surrounding Dangerous Issue No. 1 and enjoyed the final days of the subculture bubble, to a certain extent.

We each had our own unique point of view and approach to life, so it’s inappropriate to simply group us by generation. There’s also the difference between a suicide driven by desperation and a suicide chosen willingly. Still, we all shared a sense of pessimism about the world in the midst of the Great Recession, feeling it was a difficult, suffocating place to live.

For those who lived by sheer momentum rather than skill, our current world feels incredibly harsh and devoid of hope. Hence, there seems to be a prevailing sentiment that dying now is somehow “acceptable.”

This is the age of survival. Only the tenacious will make it.

I too am at rock bottom—the death of my beloved wife, financial ruin, estrangement from my family. When I try to imagine a future for myself, I can’t think of a single ray of hope. Perhaps those that have taken their lives were worried and pessimistic about the future much earlier than I was.

I was the most naive of all.

“If you go east, you’ll find the Land of the Blessed.”

—Saki loved these delusions. She called them “fantasies.”

“If you go south, all the men are gay, and all the women possess grace, refinement and decorum.”

—Saki held images beyond our reality. They likely stemmed from her desire for circumstances to be a certain way.

Still, she didn’t immerse herself entirely in her fantasies. She made considerable effort to live in the real world. But this proved to be incredibly difficult. After all, “the world is full of idiots.”

What kind of image did Saki have in mind? I think she was troubled by the gap between expectation and reality, and ended up retreating into the world of imagination. A world where Brahman and Atman become one. I don’t have a passport to Saki’s world. So I’ll never see her again. Ever.

Neither Nekojiru nor Saki were optimistic about the future. Actually, I think they were extremely pessimistic. I’m a fool for not having realized this sooner.

Living is hard. That’s how I feel right now, to be honest.

The world sucks and humans are nothing but fools.

What does it mean to live in such a world?

Talking with Nekojiru was so much fun. Working with Aoyama taught me so many things.

And my romance with Saki was sublime. All of it was happiness gained because they were alive. That’s why I choose to live on.

The present and the future are pitch black, bleak and dire.

But I want to live. I want to do good work. I’ll live as if the real thing is yet to come.

I still can’t understand the motives of Nekojiru or Saki, those who could choose death. I find a small sense of comfort in the things I can’t understand.

In any case, those who have died are gone forever. There’s no going back. That’s why I cling to my delusion that Saki will come back. If I work hard and live my life to the fullest, Saki will surely return.

The day will come where we will meet again.

"THE AGE OF LOVE"

One day in July of 2004, I went to a rave in the mountains of Gunma. It was my first rave since my wife died.

These days, trance music and raves have become popular among rowdy youngsters. There are parties that draw as much as ten thousand people, and the scene has completely changed from the scene I frequented ten years ago. In other words, it’s gone mainstream.

Frankly, this has turned the scene into nothing more than a chaotic mess of fights and pick-up attempts, making it the wrong place for those purely seeking trance or music.

But back in the day, raves were underground affairs—cutting-edge spaces where the sharpest, most dedicated crowd gathered, creating a truly psychedelic atmosphere.

The rave I attended deliberately avoided advertising in magazines, opting for a closed listing limited to five hundred people. This recreated the old vibe, making it a really pleasant party for old-timers like myself.

When I got to the venue, I found that many old friends were there. It felt bittersweet and nostalgic, like some kind of reunion.

I danced alone for a little while. The DJ was RAY, a rave veteran. He played German trance, none of which I recognized. As I moved my body to the rhythm, swaying from side to side, I suddenly found myself in a state of pure focus. Before I knew it, tears were flowing.

These weren’t the tears I shed when I think of my wife. Nor were they tears of sadness, but of something warmer. They were the tears of raw emotion and wonder I’d felt back in the days before meeting my wife, when I used to frequent raves. My emotions instantly transported me back ten years.

Wandering around the venue in my broken state, I suddenly noticed a tent in a corner, heavily decorated with all sorts of things. There were pictures of Christian goddesses and angels. Among various goods, several books were displayed. And there it was—THE AGE OF LOVE, a German trance track. It was the record that had moved me so deeply in the last decade. Saki and I often listened to it together. When I declared, “This is the best techno track ever!”, she always agreed.

“Huh…?”

I took a closer look. I’d noticed two mooks; one with a feature on pink films, and a yellow vinyl-covered one about drugs.

They were all books my late wife had made!

I fixed my gaze on the collage of goddess photos. Then I noticed that casually blending in among them was a photo of Saki!

“Ah, so that’s what this is…!”

I finally realized. This was Saki’s altar. It had been planned by the event organizers without my knowledge, and coordinated entirely by Saki’s former colleague and friend, Nicholas Keiji.

Unaware of this, I was speechless, and once again burst into tears. Not out of sadness, but out of warmth.

I stood there, stunned, in front of a photo of Saki I’d never seen before. The tears flowed endlessly. To commemorate Saki like this—how incredibly thoughtful and kind!

Expressing their sentiment through the altar rather than words touched me deeply.

“I’ve had enough of wallowing in my own misery. I’m going to live in the present. I’m going to finish this manuscript.” I thought to myself.

The reality of their kindness sank in, and I suddenly felt deeply ashamed of my slump.

At the rave, I felt like something inside me had finally been set free. More than anything, feeling tears of joy flow freely again—rather than shedding tears of sorrow, as I have since Saki’s death—was a profoundly moving experience. “My feelings are coming back!”

I felt like I could live again.

No, I absolutely will live. That’s what I believed.

From Now On

I sincerely hope this book will help reduce the number of suicides, even if just by one.

I hope that by penning the emotions of those left behind, even a small number of suicides can be prevented. The main message I want to convey in this book is my current belief that suicide is irreversible.

In Japan, more than thirty thousand people have died by suicide each year since 1998.

To those contemplating suicide, I say:

“Wait a minute. Isn’t there someone who would feel an irreparable loss if you died?”

I got carried away during the bubble era and partied too hard. Then I used my depression as an excuse to be overly indulgent. I became far too lazy. But depression might just be an excuse for weakness. It was only through blaming myself for this incident that I finally realized that.

And now, I want to apologize to my wife. Desperately.

But my rock, the person who matters most to me in this world isn’t here. She’s gone. Suicide is truly irreversible.

These days, the word “loneliness” stabs deep into my heart.

But what matters now is how I live from here on out, forging my own path without relying on Saki. Emotionally, I’m still in love with her, but I have to push through that and live in reality.

I have no lifeline anymore. Actually, my debts and my friends are probably the closest thing to it. And no matter how painful it is, I’ve decided to convince myself that living is my destiny. It certainly isn’t the easy path to take, and it’s undoubtedly an arduous journey, but it’s the only way forward.

They say that after about three years, the tears of most bereaved run dry. Memories fade, both the good and the bad. If you remembered everything, you simply couldn’t go on.

But I will never forget Nekojiru, Aoyama or Isaki. Absolutely not.

Now, as time passes, I’m scared of how I’m gradually becoming more and more detached. I don’t want to let the memory of the dead fade. Even if it’s painful, even if it’s lonely, I want to live holding them in my heart.

I have Saki, my absolute confidante. Even now, in death, she remains firmly in my heart. So I must have faith.

“You’re the man I chose!”

I must believe in Saki’s words. If I do, I’m sure I can accomplish something. I can write a book.

And if possible, I want to write a book that would make Saki happy if she were still alive.

Once I’ve written something I can show her, I’ll look up at the sky.

There, surely, Saki’s figure will be reflected like a goddess.

I’m sorry for everything, Saki. I’ll live. I’ll live as if you’re watching me.

So please, don’t say “goodbye.”

I don’t want to hear such a lonesome word.

Saki. Please watch over me.

Let’s continue living together.

I’ll see you then.

Saki.

Let’s meet again.

I love you.

I love you, even from beyond the grave.

P.S.,

The girl I mentioned earlier in this book—the one from Okinawa with the self-harming habit—tried to kill herself again. She overdosed on sleeping pills, but somehow managed to pull through. I plan to give this book to her. I hope it will inspire her to think about what it means to live.

Don’t talk about dying. Let’s live. That’s what I had in mind when I wrote this book.

Losing a Loved One

My dear friend, Nekojiru. My longtime colleague and mentor, Aoyama Masaaki. And my editor and beloved wife, Tatsumi Saki. I wanted write about the events leading up to their suicides to the best of my knowledge. As a writer, I wanted to write while still mentally unstable in order to gain some sort of closure.

In this book, I wanted to focus less on “reasons for death” and more on the feelings of those left behind. What does it mean to lose a friend, a colleague, a wife? How does it feel?

“Dying is easier, so I’ll just die.” To those who think this way, I wanted to convey the feelings of the bereaved, hoping they would reconsider “life and death” once more.

Could it be that “living on after someone dies” is more difficult than dying? No, it definitely is. Living is incredibly difficult.

Even so, I want to reject the seemingly rational idea that dying is easier than living. Not with logic, but with emotion. Living is painful, but I choose to do it. That’s the path I’ve chosen. Because losing someone is truly heartbreaking. I believe that living, though painful, is also a source of joy.

***

This September marks one year since my wife committed suicide. The only reason I’ve managed to survive this past year is thanks to the support of friends, including manga artist Yamano Hajime. I felt completely alone after losing my beloved wife. But I wasn’t. My friends treated me with kindness at times and firmness at others. There was certainly something to be gained from that. I felt that, as long as I had faith in people, I could live.

***

I’m deeply grateful to Akada Yuichi, my editor at Asuka Shinsha, for navigating me through this work. He kicked me into gear, guiding me towards writing—towards living. Even when I repeatedly fell into slumps during the process, he never abandoned me. He waited patiently and always offered precise feedback on my clumsy drafts. It’s because of him that this book came to be.

“Before she passed away, I heard that Saki wanted to work with me. I’ll do my best to honor her wishes.” (From a fax I received from Akada at the start of writing)

I undertook this book to honor Saki’s final wish.

***

Finally, I have something I’d like to say to women approaching middle age: Grow old. Both Nekojiru and Saki held the belief that they’d rather die than grow old.

But what defines a person isn’t their looks, figure, or physical age. I believe it’s the heart. As long as you’re alive, there are sure to be small victories.

There are surely times when you’ll think, “I’m happy to be alive.” So please, don’t be afraid of getting older.

October 16, 2004

Yoshinaga Yoshiaki

In Lieu of an Afterword for the Paperback Edition

I tried hanging myself. I looped a rope around a doorknob, using my own weight to pull myself into the noose. It tightened smoothly, and after letting out a chicken-like squawk, I couldn’t breathe. “This is bad,” I thought, panic shooting through my body. I slipped my fingers under the rope and loosened it.

Lately, I’ve been in a slump. Rather, it’s been about five years since my wife died and I developed severe depression (among other disorders). During that time, I went from being unable to leave my room to gradually being able to quell my inner turmoil. I returned to publishing for financial reasons about two years ago. Even for someone like myself—a non-bestseller with a gap in my resume—there were still editors here and there encouraging me to write. In a major publishing recession, having even a handful of books to work on was a blessing in disguise.

Still, I just can’t get my work done the way I want. I can’t be as active and productive as I used to be. I don’t do much magazine work (not that I don’t want to, I just don’t pitch it), so I have no daily income. My cell phone, gas and electricity get cut off constantly.

“I have to recover as soon as possible.”

I grew increasingly anxious, tormented by worry. My depression accelerated and I began to view the world with pessimism. Even if my symptoms eased somewhat, it never fundamentally improved (what we call “remission” is when depression temporarily eases with medication). I just couldn’t accept the obvious truth: returning to my former self was absolutely impossible.

So I frequently fell into despair and suicidality.

The only time I truly felt alive was when meeting and chatting with friends. For someone like myself, who avoided TV, newspapers, and the internet, that was my sole connection to society. Returning home, I lay alone on the floor, pondering the myth of Sisyphus. My thoughts endlessly circled the meaningless of my existence, and escapist delusions looped in my head.

Then, I tried hanging myself. Not seriously. I was experimenting to see if it could truly kill me.

The result? Physically, it was indeed easy to die. And I’m ashamed to say it, but I also felt fear.

Then I imagined how my friends would feel if I died now. In the grand scheme of things, whether someone like me lives or dies changes nothing in the world. It’s no big deal. But when I overlapped that with my own experience and imagined my friends’ feelings, and even the feelings of the readers, I felt that my suicide would still be an act of sin.

When this book was published as a hardcover, what first struck me as odd was the number of reader responses I received. Most were not just postcards tossed into my mailbox, but lengthy letters sent in sealed envelopes, and about ninety percent of them were from young women.

Half of them expressed compassion for my psychology, while the other half essentially told me I didn’t understand. What was particularly noteworthy was that nearly every letter empathized with my late wife, essentially stating that they understood (or even approved of) her feelings.

Admittedly, I did meticulously recreate everything from my wife’s ideological background to her particular lifestyle. I didn’t intend to romanticize her, but I acknowledged and valued her existence. Even so, the level of understanding shown towards my wife—who committed the utterly selfish act of revealing her death mask to her loved ones—seemed excessive.

In other words, many readers of letters written by bereaved families, pleading with me to not give into death, were people who, if possible, wanted to die themselves. Just like my wife. And while they empathize with my pain, they ultimately justify her actions. Moreover, they want to be like her. It seems my suffering made her death appear idyllic.

This response deeply unsettled me and made me ponder. Here was a philosophy of suicide I had never possessed. So I, too, began contemplating philosophically—utterly uncharacteristically. Over and over. And each time I thought it through to the end, I always reached the same conclusion. Terrifyingly, my philosophy began to overlap with that of my readers.

“If you want to die, then die.”

That’s where it led. At that moment, I think I began to understand the feelings of my wife and the readers who wrote in. But…

Everyone has felt all alone in this world, at least once. Everyone has felt like they’re a different breed from those living happy lives.

But surely that’s not the case. We’re all one race. Not everyone lives easily, nor are they free of weariness. Countless people feel cornered. Yet many of them choose to fight desperately to survive. This isn’t just instinct. There must be a reason to live that defies logical explanation.

Everyone carries some sort of burden. We’re vulnerable, fragile, and living each day exactly as we wish is incredibly difficult. Yet, most people still muster their strength and somehow get through each day. I’m not the only one hanging by a thread. The whole world is. And humanity, simply by being alive, shares some kind of spiritual bond. There’s no such thing as being completely alone in this world.

Even if someone is tormented by alienation and harbors suicidal thoughts, they must be connected to us somewhere as long as they’re still alive. That trap of thinking “Why me?” that suicidal people often fall into is, to put it bluntly, a persecution complex.

Finally, yes, living is painful. I’ll admit that. But losing a loved one is surely even more painful. That’s why I’m alive now.

“Losing a loved one is painful.”

I hope you understand.

August 2008

Yoshinaga Yoshiaki

previous x next ->