I haven’t written anything in a really long time because I
figured my next post was going to be heavy and I’ve been kind of a chicken shit
about it. Also, I’ve been too obsessed with it to find anything else to talk
about, so I’m just going to do this and get it out of my system.
I’m a sharer. I naturally have almost zero filter for
personal information. I will pretty much tell anybody as much about my life as
they care to hear and sometimes more. I’ve learned to reign that in as I get
older, but honestly I’ll open all chapters of my life to whomever wants to know
it.
Last September Kris’ brother killed himself. It’s not my
place or my right to share the details of Shawn’s life so instead I’m writing
this comment about what it’s like to lose someone to suicide.
I’m pretty angry. I have lost a lot of people – to illness,
accidents, old age. In every instance it is sad, sometimes tragic, sometimes
unexpected, but always conceivable on an intellectual level. I understand that
cancer can kill a person. So can falling from a building. So can being 95. I
can’t conceptualize suicide because I cannot relate to it. I have, of course,
had times in my life where I have felt hopeless and desperate, but I’ve never
been in so dark a place that taking my life made sense. So, I don’t understand
it and it makes me angry.
It feels intensely sad. I know that Shawn tried hard to live.
He tried really hard for a long time but he couldn’t extricate himself from his
despair. I know he had moments of happiness with his wife, with their girls, with
his friends and with his family. But the overwhelming sadness he must have been
feeling before he died is heartbreaking. It will never be anything else.
I feel guilty. There are things I wanted to say to him but didn’t
and will never have the chance to tell him. I took him being present for
granted and I haven’t forgiven myself.
It feels lonely. Suicide grief is a different kind of grief.
I cannot describe how it is different, exactly, but it feels different. Maybe
it’s because there is a lot of stigma associated with suicide. That the person
was unloving, was selfish, was crazy, that nobody loved them enough or paid
enough attention to stop them. It’s also something people make light of all the
time. Every time a person says “I wanted to kill myself,” in jest or to make a
point about how bored they were in a particular situation reminds me that Shawn
is gone. Lord knows, I have said this or pulled a mock trigger against my head
to indicate my displeasure with something I felt merited more than an eye roll
and I never once thought I might be reminding someone of their loss. I am
acutely aware now. No one ever says “I wanted to have a stroke and die,” or “I
wanted to get cancer and die.” I guess the connection there is that people who
commit suicide are thought to be in control of their fate. And it’s possible they
are. Maybe it’s the only thing they can control. But I don’t feel it. In
Shawn’s case, his depression was in control. It took his life.
It feels empty. We have a shelf with a small urn, a photo of
Shawn and our son when he was six months old – the only time the two of them
were together – and a clock Shawn gave to my husband. It’s our Shawn shelf.
It’s in our living room. Our son looks at the picture of him and his uncle
every day. It’s hard to know that he will never know Shawn. Will have no memory
of him. I never met my father’s parents and I feel that I missed out on
something really fundamental. I see pictures and hear stories and feel a
longing. I know that our son will feel that someday and I wish it could be
different for him.
I love Shawn. He’s my brother. He gave great hugs. He was
generous and funny. There’s a lot of sadness and some regret, but there is a
lot of love out there in the world and I’m grateful for all the love I have and
am able to give. For the rest of my life, I will wish he was alive – something
that will never go away and never come true.
