TW: Suicide, depression
I don’t sleep well on this night.
Tonight I am sitting alone in my new living room, with my cats, with my spouse sleeping in the next room.
And it seems that with each passing second the clock ticking on the wall behind me gets louder.
When it strikes midnight, it will be October 1st.
On this night, seven years ago, I wonder how you spent your final night on this earth. I wonder what your thoughts were. If you had fully made the decision. If you had any caveats, any signs that would stop you. I wonder what texts you sent. I wonder what words would have kept you here.
I imagine you hugged your sweet mama’s neck extra tightly that night. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
None of the people who loved you in the course of your 19 years had any idea.
In less than 24 hours, I would be sitting in a new member education meeting when I received the phone call. A friend who doesn’t call anymore. But the only person I would’ve wanted to share the news with me.
I hugged a wall. I hugged my sisters. I screamed, a lot that night.
The monster that has seemingly has no end. The one that reaps without care of age, gender, race, religion, had come into my circle, our circle.
As much as I wish that night could be taken back. I wish we could rewind. Someone could have stopped you. Hugged you tighter, said what you needed to hear, sat with you all night, done whatever you needed, it’s been done for seven years. Our bodies have completely regenerated since that night. We are completely different people than the ones who got those phone calls, than the ones who hugged you in the hallways, than the ones that can never again hear wonderwall without stopping to think of you.
I desperately wish that night would’ve my only encounter with the monster. Yet, time after time, the phone buzzes, the words are uttered, the heart breaks, the spirit is crushed.
If I never heard those words again, it would still have been too many times, it would still have been soul crushing weight, this night still will forever hold a magnitude as the night before our worlds changed. Because of you. And somehow, I want to find this to be poetic justice, that you must have felt so alone, yet by passing from one world to the next you have affected more lives than I think you probably could have imagined. But there isn’t justice in this world. There isn’t a healing balm. There is no time machine. There is only the movie playing in my head that reminds me of the week of October 1, 2012, and what it held, there is the picture show that repeats every phone call since then, and a voice echoing ever louder with the ticking of the clock, “we must do better.” Im sorry we didn’t for you.