I wrote this a bit ago...
So now we know why it was so hard to find out how she passed. Suicide.
Suicide.
How…strange. So out of place. So shocking, and yet, because it was her, not shocking at all.
I’ve never written about suicide publicly and only once privately…I suppose I’ve never felt compelled to. But I find myself, even though we hadn’t been particularly close since high school, deeply affected, troubled, and saddened by her death. Especially now that we know how she died…
I’ve been sitting here just staring at my screen for the last 15 minutes, watching the cursor blink away. I’m conflicted.
I hate the fact that this world has the potential to be so bad, so horrible, so unbearable that one feels forced to point the gun at themselves, or comfort themselves with a toxic combination of valium and oxycotin. How alone, cold, and painful those people must feel. And I shudder at the thought that someone I knew, liked, cared about, and was generally inspired by felt that way and died alone.
And yet…this was done of her own free will. I am a believer in the thought that "sometimes the fate you suffer is so much worse than death" . The one time I wrote about suicide, it was in defense of it. I wrote that it wasn’t a cowardly act…I know that I could never do it, even if I wanted to. And I wrote that those who call it a cowardly, those that are upset and lose respect for the victim only do so out of selfishness. They do it because they are left with unanswerable questions, perhaps they feel guilty that they played a part in the decision the victim made. It seems wrong because we are wronged by it. The victim isn’t, they made a conscious choice. So who is to say that that choice was wrong when we are on the outside looking in?
I want to be mad that someone I was friends with once chose this option, yet I feel like I need to respect it. I want to be mad at the people who were still in her life from not, somehow, stopping this. She was such a bright light that taught me so much in such a brief time. Yet I know that they had no say in it. I want to be made at myself for not telling her how she affected my life, but I know that I only realized how she helped me until years after she did. That, and I had all the time in the world…until I didn’t.
I’ve had my share of moments when I’ve felt worthless, hopeless, depressed, and generally not very well. I have felt so bad that I thought the world was crumbling around me and life was slipping through my fingers. I have felt so out of control and have been in so much pain. But I have never been in such a dark place that I seriously consider taking my own life. I gather that when one gets to that point, there must be so much pain, anger, and frustration that they feel nothing at all. Numb. Empty. Alone.
Knowing the pain I have felt, it saddens me that there is still yet another level of suffering (though, one I’m thankful to have never felt). And it angers me how powerless we can be against that suffering.
It’s just…too bad
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