living, magic borne on the legends you enkindled.
without grace, watched the flames lick dry my fortitude.
care torn tears worn with fatal desperation.
tore you from me, leaving only glimmers of sand-washed foam.
When I was 22, one of the most important people in my life put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.
Jokingly, half-heartedly, not seriously, he had warned us. We heard but we did not comprehend. If any of us did, we did not believe it. Not really. And I should’ve known. At the age of 15, a good friend of mine had hung himself from his family’s banister with his Dad’s tie. The symbolism of it was like an exclamation point. I could not imagine how his Dad felt when he found him swinging over the staircase. Of course, his warnings had been different, but I hadn’t believed them then, either.
On the morning of my 22nd birthday, we received the call. After the fact. Fifteen hours after the fact.
I did not cry. In fact, I had no emotions. I thought if this is what it is to lose someone so important, then death and loss is not that big a deal. I was a seasoned pro. Grown-up even. For someone born with a serious case of sensitivity, I found my reaction remarkable. I would be fine in the world. I was so over my sensitivity issues. They did not always serve me well anyway.
Three days later, we had an oceanside funeral. His ashes were like sand and shells. At the end, a giant wave crashed and snatched his ashes. It was poignant and still I felt little. In fact, I viewed the whole thing quite objectively as if it was a pebble being thrown into the sea and I could watch the ripples fan out like it was some phenomenon of the universe.
During his memorial afterwards, I recounted my tales of the things I loved about him. I laughed. I joked. I made merry. My best friend consoled me and still I felt nothing.
One week later, I returned to college.
I hit bottom like a piece of fine china.
The thing about suicide is those who survive must question everything. EVERYTHING. It is more than grief. Grief is the easy part if there is such a thing. No. It is the belief in and trust in that person, even your belief in life, the trust in every meaningful relationship, the faith even in your ability to love and perceive it back, that must be reckoned with. At 22, I was not prepared.
It is a long road and, sometimes, a terrifying road. That semester my GPA plummeted. The permanent FOREVER reminder that I barely survived the event. How do you explain that to professors or recruiters? Worse, I struggled to find reasons to stay alive. To save me, my roommate dragged me into the college counseling office.
When someone takes their life, they take more than that with them.
Years later, the wound is healed but the scar is always there. Sometimes, it even pulses like a nerve that has been damaged.
I wrote this poem at the end stage of grief.