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You are saying to yourself, a subject covered countless times, and in most cases you'd be right, but my stand is unlike the common. The question I pose to you in the confines of this one composition is not the ethical validity of the act of suicide, but rather if it is ethical or not to hate the one who committed the act, even if you loved and respected this person above anyone else? Is it fair to hold a small seed of hate for the one who left you in a lurch even if you know their reasons for doing so? On the one hand the person is out of pain, on the other your world is turned upside down and you're full of resentment. In the end I suppose it is up to each of us to determine for ourselves but here is my spin on it.
Ever since, I dare say the day I was born, my father was my hero. There seemed to be nothing he couldn't do, whether it was something as simple as putting together a wagon, or as serious as going down to my school and excusing every senior absence so I could graduate. I could always count on my dad, come hell or high water, rain or shine, there wasn't any problem we couldn't handle together. We were the two musketeers without need of a third, best friends, with a father-son show of respect when needed. Only trouble was, like so many heroes my dad developed what would become a fatal flaw. In 10 he got in a bad work related accident, and ruptured five discs in his back. The surgery he under went, which welded his spine together where the discs had been, left him in chronic back pain. He put up with that pain for twelve long years, it and the inability to stand, sit, or even work for any length of time without laying down, were what eventually drove my father to end his life.
To me, that man was unstoppable, almost as if he had the power to bend the world to his will. But within himself he only saw all the things we used to do, fishing, movies, the boardwalk, all of which he could still do if he didn't mind being laid up on the couch all the next day. He saw himself as not the Mike Gasque he used to be, but instead, as a failure in the eyes of my sister and myself as he told me on numerous occasions. Knowing all this, how he felt about himself, and how he just wanted out of his pain. In a way I must admit I am pleased he is in a better place, free of all that torments this mortal coil. I mean I miss him but the fact that he is finally in a place where happiness abounds, leaves me with great solace. Then there's still that kid in me who wants his way.
To a certain extent, maybe even a large one I agree with that little boy who wants his hero back. It almost as if, even though I know it would seem selfish to society, I want to say how dare you! Or Come back!!!! Neither, I know, would help. But that doesn't stop the wanting, or the hurt and abandonment I am left feeling. You see, in all my family, and this is kind of sad, but my father and a few close cousins were all I trusted, and with him gone I feel virtually alone to face the world. Not to mention the fact that he will never meet my future wife whom ever she may be, or his grandchildren. One day they will want to know about their grandfather and I have no idea how I'll explain why he's not there. I hate him for these things.
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And in that reader, lays my dilemma, I love and respected that man more than anyone else I have ever known and yet, in the same breath, at times I hate his guts. As for my reaction to said dilemma, this whole paper is it, I am still going through it. As for a solution I offer this, Live in the moment and enjoy the happiness brought to you by each friend and family member because it maybe all there is left of them come tomorrow.
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