I don't know what to say right now except that I need to talk
about it, and I've cried so much that my eyeballs are sticking to the
insides of my eyelids. It's like being punched in the stomach, I've
heard it described and now I know. It's something that invades you
completely, seeping into you and surrounding you with a darkness, a
void so violent it rips out your heart and leaves you there crunched up
in a ball weeping so hard that it sounds like you are laughing and the
snot is hanging out of your nose and then you wipe it all over your
face because you are trying to hide from others who might not
understand. There is nothing anyone can do to stop the emptiness from
hitting you this hard. Human touch is distant and irrelevant.
Someone I knew quite well and worked with and have lived with for the past 3 years hung himself today.
There are so many levels to this. I feel as if I have been
physically attacked. I am shaking. I don't know how I am being so
articulate right now, in a way it disturbs me. He was someone who not
many people understood nor befriended, because he didn't allow himself
to be. But he really was a nice guy, he was just gruff. And I was his
friend. And two nights before I left to go home this weekend, he came
over and asked me if I wanted to go walk down to the lake front.. I was
tired and I was working on a story, so I said no, thanks, I'm going to
bed. I wish to God I had gone with him. I knew he was fucking lonely.
Right now I'm beginning to cry again, and I need to talk to someone, so I'm going now and I will be back in the next sentence.
So I just went and cried my guts out again just when I thought I
couldn't cry anymore. I know this is confessional and I'm sorry but how
else does one talk about this? He killed himself because he wasn't good
enough for himself and so that means that I wasn't good enough either.
Part of me has died, I can feel this, I can feel this inside of me.
Because killing yourself is an act of violence against those who love
you. I feel as though I can't quite grasp that it really happened. And
then when I begin to I can only scrape my insides hollow with tears.
Things will never be the same, this I know for certain.
How could he do this? How could someone ever do this to
themselves? Because it's never just against themselves, it's against
everyone, it's against the world. And they take a piece of you with
them. Why did he do this? How, why? These are the questions that bring
me to the darkest, quietest edge, the quiet room, the preparation for
death, the adrenaline awareness of what you are doing, the depth of
loneliness that he must have felt, the bitterness, god what emptiness
and pain and sorrow were there, that seeped, no, that flew from the
room when he was discovered and covered all of our heads with its pall.
Because we all know that room, somewhere in some place within us. We
all know that room with its threatening quiet and then its torrent of
inner voices and its rush of blood and its slow ebbing of life and its
aftermath quiet, the quiet after violence, and then the later sudden
discovery, the body sagging, all life displayed as indisputably vacant.
It's an attack. It's an attack and now we are all sitting around in the
aftermath holding each other and trying to understand.
I tried to talk about it but words just pushed the feelings
farther away into anger. And then I tried to understand it and the
feeling overwhelmed me so much that all I could do was flail and shake
like a newborn, overwhelmed by suffering, and friends laid their hands
on me but I was somewhere deep inside of me where I was bleeding, where
no one could touch. And outside I can feel myself already attempting to
come to terms with it, crafting with logic, distancing with words. But
there is this place inside of me that is ravaged, and I know this is
going to take a long time to heal.
When someone kills themself, it's like every thought or word you
ever had against them, even if it was just an emotional distancing, a
pushing away of intimacy, becomes a dagger when you remember it, as if
you had killed them too. And this is what hurts the most. As if he
killed himself to say to you that you made him do it. As if he were
blaming you and all the world for not being enough, for not being good
enough to love him.
And I do love him, and I did. And I wish he could see me and all
of the rest of us who loved him now. I wish he could see how we are
ruined. How we are broken apart and bleeding. How we are overcome by
the tyranny of this unspoken loneliness. Because we all know what it
took to do such a thing. And it weakens all of us when one falls victim
to their own despair.
We loved you, you stupid motherfucker.