“I can finally see, you’re as fucked up as me. So how do we win?“

Sick of losing soulmates:
-dodie

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How do I even begin a letter like this? It’s not like you can read it. Perhaps it’s my way of getting through “the process”, as they call it; the healing process or the grieving process or some shit like that. I didn’t do it when my brother died, and his death still fucks with my head; maybe I’ll write a letter to him someday and explain why I’m such a shitty aunt to his children.

I gave a half-assed made-on-the-spot speech about you at your memorial ceremony. I initially declined to do it because I felt it would be too manipulative of me. Sometimes I do things for the sake of credit, or external validation; even at the expense, or exploitation, of others: like your death. But then, one of your daughters made a very heartfelt speech. As she mumbled her words through an endless string of tears, begging for anyone to tell her why you would kill yourself when, as far as anyone could tell, life was going your way; it occurred to me – well, shit; if she could do it, then I most certainly could. I’m competitive by nature, but you knew that. 

Too bad it wasn’t all about you when you were still alive, huh? Maybe that’s what you needed. Maybe some of us should have reached out. It’s not like it’s hard. Just send a message to say, “Hey! How’s life, sister?” The last message I sent you (that wasn’t a response) was, shit, back in November? You sent me a “Happy New Year!” message to me a month and a half later. 

The next thing I know, you put a bullet through your head. 

I once heard of a guy who wrote in his suicide letter that if someone (anyone) would just smile at him as he walked his way to (and eventually off the side of) the Golden Gate Bridge, then he wouldn’t go through with it. Then there’s Kevin Hines: that guy was visibly distraught, tears rolling down his face, as he made his way to (and eventually off the edge of) the Golden Gate Bridge. He wanted someone to stop him as he walked to his death. No one did. He survived though; must’ve had Olympic divers in his gene pool or something. 

Could I have prevented it had I messaged you? 

Most folks don’t realize that suicidal people, for the most part, don’t really want to go through with it. We’re not planning a fucking birthday party here. It’s that thing, man. That thing. Whatever that thing is; loneliness, depression, anxiety, bi-polar; whatever it is: eventually – it wins. It becomes too heavy. And it doesn’t have a fucking schedule. It could be any place, any time. It could hit you on some random Tuesday morning. But when it hits, it hits hard. It’s tough to explain: I’m making it sound like a monster that bites you on the neck, forcing you into some zombie-like state forcing you to mindlessly walk off a building – it’s not like that. It’s something you live with, a dripping blackness: and every day it weighs a few more ounces. Those ounces turn to pounds, and then, eventually, tons. With all that weight, it sure makes it easier to leap off a bridge.

I get it. I really do. I get it because we talked about it. We talked about it often. In fact, you (of all people) wanted me to quit talking about it. You wanted me to get a grip; continue on with my life. You said I had too much to lose, too much potential. You sounded like my mother. We also talked about you too. You had thought about it. So, I would feed you the same shit you told me, because what the hell else is there to say, right? Maybe that’s the point. We know it’s shit, but we also understand. I think that’s the thing most people don’t get about people like us – 

Y’see Tami, what your daughter failed to grasp; what many folks fail to grasp, is that it doesn’t matter what’s going on in your life at the time of suicide. They don’t get that we always have those thoughts in our heads. They don’t understand that it’s difficult to tell them how we feel. They’ll say, “You can tell me anything. I love you! I want to help!” But you feel it’s all bullshit because it’s impossible for them to see you as they did before. You are now a liability to yourself. Now, your friends start to text you all the time, “Hey, how’s it going?” They didn’t text you like that before. Not all the time. You are a burden now.  You’re not someone to have meaningful conversations with anymore. You’re not someone to have fun with anymore. You’re someone to keep an eye out. Now, no one wants to “hang out”, they just need to “check up on you”. Have you pulled the trigger yet? No? Good, they’ll check up on you next week. You might also get invited to more parties or social gatherings! But why are they inviting you? Is it so your idle hands reach for the karaoke mic, instead of a noose? Would they have invited you out before? It makes you feel like all your loved ones just see you like a frail little creature in the corner; a weakling; something to pity. 

This is very frustrating for those who want to help. They wonder how they can help without making it feel like some disingenuous pity party. And the answer is very simple – 

They can’t.

And that’s okay.

It’s okay because no matter what we feel the motivation is behind our friends and family contacting us, the fact that they are taking the time out of their day to help means a lot. It’s hard work to love people like us. That’s how it feels, doesn’t it? We’re asking people to do something we can’t do by helping us prevent something we have the utmost capability (and sometimes, the overwhelming need) to do. And, eventually; we do come around. Eventually, we accept the fact that people want to help; not because we’re a burden, but because they love us – someone has to.

Yet, according to everyone at the memorial service, your suicide was a surprise. It came out of nowhere. Everyone was shocked . . . except me. Why didn’t I talk to you more? Perhaps I fell for it. We all fell for it; you were having a better relationship with your daughters, you were engaged to someone you loved, you even said I could use your house when I recover from my surgery! It’s the same old story all the time for suicidal people. When the roller coaster of our life goes up, our friends’ guard goes down. Everything was going your way, and I should have reached out. I’ll never know if it would have helped, but I’m damn sure it wouldn’t have hurt. I’m so sorry I didn’t reach out Tami. I know I can’t blame myself for your death, but I feel ashamed that I wasn’t surprised by it. I feel like – I should have known. And now I have to find a way to make peace. For someone like me; it feels impossible. 

Someone I hold dear to my heart told me I should think of the happy times I spent with you: all the times we laughed, all the times we had deep, meaningful conversations, all the good times. I often wonder if my dear friend knows how death works. Doesn’t she understand that you’ll never cry again? Never get mad or frustrated again? Never laugh again? How the hell do I sit in the darkness and think about all the good times with a shit-eating smile, when the person I’m thinking about felt she had no other option than to end her life?

How can I think of the good times when I know you spent your last days thinking about it, pondering it; probably wishing someone (anyone!) would reach out and say something? How can I giggle at the good times when I know I probably could have prevented it? But I shouldn’t think about that, I should think of the good times. Because that’s what happens when you die. People don’t want to think about it. They want distraction; whether it comes in the form of activity or thought, they don’t want to think about the pain you must have felt. They don’t want to think about the tremendous amount of loneliness that it took to squeeze a trigger. They don’t want to think that, perhaps, they may have other friends who feel the same way. No one wants to think about it. 

Fuck – that’s all I can think about. 

We had some good times too! A bunch of nights just talking and drinking; discussing friends, love-interests, makeup, hair, hormones, testicular shrinkage, dick-size comparisons – y’know, girl-talk! 

I guess we won’t have those conversations anymore; unless you ask my friends. They’ll say I can still talk to you. We can still have those conversations. I don’t understand how that works. Why do people do that? Why do they visit grandpa’s grave and talk? Why do they sit back and discuss major life decisions with their dead mother? I wonder if they hear anyone talking back. I guess, in a way, that’s what I’m doing now with this open letter; but I find no relief in it, no closure. By the end, you’ll still be dead. 

At the memorial, someone mentioned how they think you’re smiling down on us from above; that kind of creeps me out, personally. Someone else mentioned how they heard a tapping on their window late at night; they said it was just you saying ‘hi’. I would assume that if, somehow, you were a spirit wandering the Earth, you’d have something better to do than tap on someone’s goddamn window. But I guess it’s a way they can find peace with your death. I sure as hell wish I could. No offense, but your suicide is going to haunt me for the rest of my short life. 

The biggest shame in your death; the thing that’s most fucked up, is that you had a story to tell; your story. The best biographer in the world doing the most extensive research couldn’t write a better story about you than you could yourself. And goddamn, what a story you had! What a story we all have! It’s the one thing we can’t leave behind: perspective – our sense of the world. Once we’re gone, so goes our viewpoint; so goes our story. It’s the reason Social Media is so huge. Everyone has a story to tell. Sure, it might be hyperbole for the better (or worse) from time to time, but, all the same, it’s ours. Only death can take that away. 

What was your story, Tami? Maybe it could’ve helped others with similar stories of their own. Or, at the very least, your story could’ve provided understanding (and perspective!) for those living out vastly different stories. 

Maybe that’s why I haven’t done it yet. As much as I have this dark shadow, whose unbearable weight pushes me to my knees; I also have this unyielding need, this white light in the distance, like the sun through heavy fog; pulling me forward. Sometimes it’s faint, but it’s always there; beckoning, like a spirit, to keep telling my story. I feel we all have that light. It may not be to tell your story; like mine, it could be the love for your family, your compassion to help others, or even to finish that amazing project you started. Like all lights, though, it eventually goes out.  

Then darkness wins. Darkness always wins. 

I can only imagine what it’s like when that light fades away. I can only imagine that cold, silent moment in the dark; the fear, the loneliness, the tumultuous absence of hope. What was it like, Tami? Would a simple text message provide the kindling to spark life into that light again? And, would a tiny spark, in that infinite, heavy, blackness have been enough? 

What was it all for, Tami? Some have said (even at your memorial) that we can use your death as a way to talk about it; as a way to mention that there are people like us, very much alive, who are going through the same thing. But, people aren’t stupid. They know we exist. And the ones who have time, and are willing to put forth the effort out of love, let us know they love us. As for the ones that don’t; shit, I don’t mind. People have their lives to worry about; not all of us have time to worry about everyone else. 

So, does your death mean nothing then? That sure feels shitty to say. And it can’t really be true; because I almost ran off the road when I heard about it. I cried so hard. I haven’t cried that hard in a long time. A person just doesn’t cry over “nothing”. 

I sure would like to come over and talk about it. Maybe drink a couple of beers.

I promise I’ll make time for it. 

Just once more – 

Please . . .