He Didn’t Have To Die

The news that the Los Angeles Coroner’s Office is soon to release it’s findings labeling the death of Michael Jackson as a homicide is hardly surprising, only confirming what anybody with half a brain could figure out in their sleep from the beginning.  And, while some dismiss any news relative to Jackson as unwelcome sensationalist trivia, I find it all incredibly sad.

That Jackson had become a self-exploited, P.T. Barnum-style, crotch-grabbing caricature of himself more than half of his life ago is undeniable.  Yet, though easy to demonize as a child molesting weirdo, the jury in the court of public opinion is pretty conclusive on the weirdo part, while the jury in the court of law found the legal evidence insufficient to judge him a pedophile.  Be that as it may, for me, there’s more than enough available information to determine that, more than anything else, he was a troubled to the point of tortured man.

Buried in the stories of the coroner’s report is the news that at his death, he was suffering from an enlarged prostate, and his insomniac body was covered in bed sores, said to have been the result of his depression following his trial.   Whether his inability to sleep is evidence of his own feelings of guilt is up to more learned minds than mine to forensically psychoanalyze.  However, the fact that he could neither find peaceful rest, nor rouse himself to function productively, is something I find heart-wrenching.

Jackson’s death leaves so many questions likely never to be fully answered.  Was his life unbearably burdened, and were any personal pressures he might have experienced real, imagined, or manufactured?  Did the burden of providing for his family weigh him down and overwhelm him, if indeed he was the exclusive, or primary, provider for the entire brood?  Janet generates tremendous income after all, and, it’s not like the rest of the family is completely devoid of  talent and resources.   Whether overly dependent upon him financially or not, did Michael feel as though his family saw him as a ready ATM, and resent it?  Did he rebel, or revel in the responsibility?  Was it even an issue?

I often wonder who he turned to for guidance and comfort.  Of course, his mother was always there for him; sitting in court every day, listening to people allege and accuse him of things no mother should ever have to hear about her child.  Hearing strangers reveal intimate details of his life, some sordid, some salient, all intensely personal, had to be searingly painful for Mrs. Jackson, as well as her son.  But, could he talk to her about those things?  His guilt, or innocence, his feelings, his shame, or lack of it?  If not, whose was the shoulder upon which he cried?  Though it would be extremely difficult for anyone to ask another to help bear any burden of the size Michael’s obviously was, it’s almost more painful to imagine that there was no one with whom he felt comfortable enough to ask.

What caused him to abandon his beloved NeverLand, move into strange, shifting accommodations, only to wallow sleepless in unfamiliar, undesired, uncomfortable beds?  If his relationship with children was as innocent as he claimed, how lonely he must have been to find himself forced by circumstances beyond his control to be deprived of the joy of their company.  If his interactions with them were as sinister and ugly as his accusers claim, such tortured abandonment is more than justified, and insufficient punishment far too good for the likes of him.

Did self-pity, paranoia and guilt drive him into seclusion, not only from the world, but from his family, himself?  Did he build safe rooms and hideaways in his homes to engage in forbidden criminal activities away from prying eyes, or, did he, like a child, make a fortress for himself in fancy closets, where he could feel protected, where bad things, feelings, people, and thoughts even he could never really understand, couldn’t intrude?

More importantly, was his isolation and seclusion self-imposed, or were there some outside influences with financial motives to keep him zombified and immobile until called upon to do their bidding?  Did he still enjoy performing, was he looking forward to the prospect of the resumption of his  touring and recording schedule, or, was he given little choice in the matter by some shadowy “entrepreneurs” eager to make a buck by aggressively marketing and exploiting their bewildered and bamboozled “product”?  If so, were these entities “friends,” family, acquaintances, partners, or weaselly opportunistic snakes who wormed their way into his life at the point of his greatest vulnerability?

The thought that one of the greatest entertainers and humanitarians, yes, humanitarian, was found dead in his bed from an overdose of restricted prescription drugs administered by a doctor employed to provide just such services, is appalling.  That this shy, sensitive, man-child on the brink of his fiftieth birthday was covered in bed sores is infuriatingly sad.  How could people who loved him, or, were paid to care for him, allow things to get to that point?  Realistically, if they knew, had they known, could they have done things differently?  Things that might have prevented his death, or the pain, suffering, and depression that lead up to it?  Was Michael silently screaming, tacitly seeking intervention, would he have allowed anyone to help him, or, was his death as much suicide as manslaughter?

Was the Man in the Mirror the only real friend he had ever known, and, did even he abandon him at the end?  We’ll probably never know.  The people willing to offer answers are probably the least qualified to provide them, and, those for whom the answers are obvious, available, or discoverable, the questions themselves may be entirely too uncomfortable to consider; the answers if, and when, found, too painful to admit publicly, or privately.

I like to think that he didn’t have to die.  That someone, somewhere, somehow held the keys to intervention, and, for whatever reason, found themselves unwilling, or, unable to assist him in his time of greatest need.  Perhaps they weren’t even aware that they possessed such awesome power or responsibility, perhaps they didn’t fully appreciate the urgency of wielding it.

I dunno.  I know I don’t have the answers.  Maybe there aren’t any.  I do know however, that just thinking about the questions makes me terribly sad.

And, I imagine I’m not the only one so affected.