I always sigh a breath of relieve when a suicide takes just one physical body with it and, on a morning such as this, maybe others see it this way, too.
I am distraught as to what went through the mind of a 20-year-old and what he must have carried in his heart yesterday. I am distraught over what I imagine as an unimaginable scene of terror. And, I am distraught that with all the turmoil set-off in his mind by something which we don’t know now and may never know—he failed to keep it private inviting others into his personal hell.
It just seems that suicide should be a silent end to a distressed heart. It just seems that suicide should be a silent end to a tumultuous mind. It just seems that suicide should be a silent end to a mind which succumbs to the other side of logic. It just seems that suicide, with God’s compassion, should be a date-for-one as its host sinks into a silent abyss.
Yes, we would love to save them…..save them all but sometimes we miss the signs so we can’t…..
I have friends who have lost loved ones to suicide. Even the mention of suicide to them causes an angst that is visibly seen as it strickens the features on their face, removing them from the moment and hurling them back to that saddened and darkened place—the moment of first learning the finality of a much cherished life.
My words of comfort always seem to fall on deafened ears—ones that just can’t endure another explanation and yet, I add to that noise by saying, “…at least he didn’t take anyone with him,” to which they always force themselves to reply something acknowledgingly inaudible.
I usually feel hard-hearted, calculating, and insincere when I offer these words, yet I just can’t seem to exhibit enough self-discipline to just simply shut-up about it.
Today, I think of it again. Today, it seems fitting. Today, I think how wonderful it would be if it were just one life gone, or, am I inappropriate again. Wouldn’t it have been so much better if the one who left us “almost” of his own free will—almost because I sincerely believe that his mind overruled his heart as his heart overruled his mind causing despair—the worst state of mind—lured him out of his earthly hell.
I don’t know the details—they are still unfurling. I’ve only glossed over the images and statements in the headlines and know that innocence has left this world without invitation—a total infringement of their rights….their fundamental right to live and their fundamental right to choose whether or not to.
Yesterday, 20 wonderful children and 6 wonderful adults went into a school. Yesterday, 20 wonderful children and 6 wonderful adults were carried out of that school—their final unimaginable moments imagined by us all as these wonderful beings were taken from us needlessly…..
So, I ask you now…..
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if yesterday had been a suicide for just one?
When you feel married, you feel compelled to do things—you feel compelled to do things because you are married. It’s a cycle. Thankfully that cycle disconnected for me, as I reconnected to the way I felt before all these marital requirements became routine. I don’t know why. Maybe I got older. Maybe my kids got older. Maybe I got smarter. Maybe my significant got smarter. I’m not sure how it happened—it just did.
I realized something today on my 32nd wedding anniversary. I know it’s is a very big number—it’s almost an obscene number, I apologize for that. Geez, it’s so big that I don’t need a card to mark the occasion because I probably have 32 of them stashed away somewhere by now. Today, I don’t want to feel married any more….I just want to be in love.
I know it sounds like I checked out but what I’m really saying is that I’ve totally checked in— I see it like this: I don’t need a present or flowers or dinner or anything because these things are expected. As ridiculous as it sounds, I’m just too damn in love to care about all of the predictable marital expectations. It was a good run…wife, husband, married couple, ball-and-chain, etc., but now I pronounce us friend-and-friend. Two best friends with a million (okay, we’re a wee bit older now so not a million…maybe less, maybe a nice round number like 50 years….Geez, that’s only 18,250 sunsets to see—that’s not enough but for poetic reasons I’ll keep the larger number)….with a million sunsets to share.
To my best friend whom I just happened to be ut-hem married to, I’m blowing a kiss across the Big Pond for you to have in hand for tonight’s sunset with a promise that we get back to all the fun and spontaneity of our yesterdays—not the old-ball-and-chain predictable martial expectation stuff, just the happy-go-lucky “in-love” stuff. Even if I’ve messed up on the time zone, we can just watch the next sunset apart but together. I’m being ridiculously cliché here so bear with: we can even watch the sun set every night for the rest of our life and say goodbye to the day, hello to the night or just wait for another tomorrow to begin.
There is a sunset or two (18,250 to be exact) with our name on it. So, best friend, what are you doing for the rest of your married-but-unmarried-in-love life at dusk? Do you have time for a sunset or two? Maybe a million? Okay, okay, I’ll settle for the 18,250 we have left—just promise me you’ll be in love for each and every one. I will.
As nighttime settles peacefully into its patterns of sleep…so does the writer. The night’s movements are alluring, intoxicating, celestial as they dance into the breaths of the writer. In and out, in and out, slowly, serenely, the night’s gentle rhyme is a seduction—luring him deeper and deeper into his unconscious world of creativity.
His body becomes unyielding to the night’s softness–sheets, pillows, darkness. He finds himself floating easily away from the turmoils of the day and into the space of dreams. With each breath, his rhythms soften as an easy deep peace settles over him. As his limbs fill with air, the writer floats into his nighttime office—his nocturnal storytelling realm.
In the recesses of his mind, he sits in his mental chair as his dreams dance around his thoughts and his mind labors–designing, administering, visualizing the stories of his heart.
First enter the fantasies which he controls, but as he is lured deeper and deeper into his unconsciousness, he is no longer governor of his subconscious. His mind starts to weave his fantasies into tales and then stories.
Working into the wee hours, exhausting his mind into submission, the writer lays unknowingly in his state of creation—awakening mentally drained in a momentary stupor, he wonders if he ever really lost consciousness this night—aware that he has dreamt another story.
On this night, while the rest of the world slept peacefully, he was one of the lucky ones—he was able to grab another handful of imagination–another vision, another story from the nocturnal recesses of his mind—a place that awakens only when the nighttime sounds melt softly into the darkness, a place that can only exist….as writers dream.
I tweet several times a day….really funny stuff–probably my best advice, observations, and jokes, but no one sees it. I’ve been told this is a generational thing; that my friends simply don’t tweet. If my friends don’t tweet @me, who will?
I follow wonderfully talented strangers; those with unusual and strange talents follow me. My first follower, followed every Alexis D. in the U.S.—all 347 of us. Weird, right? My second follower’s likes/interests included the most obscene hobby/activity I’ve ever seen. I’m not even sure if it’s legal.
Apparently, it is a bad thing to be followed by someone with no followers which explains why no one follows me. I have only one follower. This is close enough to zero to make me the weirdo. To put my shameful number of 34 tweets, 1 follower, following 11 into perspective, look at the stats of my secret mentor:
Justine Musk has 6,909 tweets, 10,519 followers, and is following 7,849. Good for her; bad for me. I started following her after she posted the most brilliant piece of writing I’d ever seen “…..there must be pancakes somewhere…..” Brilliant, right? She had me at pancakes and I’ve been searching for them ever since.
The postings I follow and try to mimic are random, thought provoking, funny, serious, and at times, poetic. I’m just starting to catch on. I guess it’s a good thing no one is listening to me. I know I’m not. I’m not taking myself seriously, either. I’m too busy searching for pancakes and followers, and when I do finally find them I will probably still be tweeting to nobody.
It seems like everything my hand touches these days is a work-in-progress. This sounds like a disclaimer because it is. This is a new blog, and like an adolescent searching for its adult voice, it will probably crack and squeak along the way. When it matures, the hope is that it develops a voice others can find beauty in and a purpose that can enrich lives. I hope it doesn’t take too long; I’m curious to see what it will become and meet the people who will chose to follow it along the way.
A new blog….a new writer….a new readership….imagine the possibilities. It could change the world one post at time. Maybe not today—this is just day one….but tomorrow? Yes, tomorrow—change the world tomorrow.