Trying to decide what to tell your kids, if anything, about suicide is horrible. The brother who passed away? He took his own life. And I’m still waiting for the blast waves to wash over this already fragile family of mine. My husband and his mom are flying to burry their brother/son; the ache and sadness are beyond words. It’s coloring everything I see and feel- including the sunrises I’ve been watching because I cannot sleep. I just cry and cry, and I wasn’t even close to this sibling. It’s unfathomably sad he felt suicide was his best choice. Those left behind are fractured and devastated.
A friend and I were talking quietly in the hallway at church today, and she commented that if I were writing a story on this year, my editor would suggest I tone it down- I mean, really- so many crappy things don’t happen to anyone all at one time, right? It was hard to argue with her. Instead, we sat in the cavernous gym for Relief Society and somberly talked. It’s a good thing, too- the lesson was on dying.
I’ve noticed a ton of sychonicity the last few days. Maybe it’s always around and I’m only noticing because the bundle of raw nerves that passes for me these days has no walls, no defense, little protection, less barriers, no dividing anything. So I notice.
Once, when I was a girl, I drifted into the deeper part of the pool. Never a strong swimmer, I didn’t appreciate being in water over my head. The clear deeper blue and cooler currents gave away my drifting and I pressed my legs down, reaching and stretching and yearning for the solid touch of the bottom. Arms swaying, nose bobbing barely in the air, the fluid rolling edge of the water circling my upturned face, I could almost feel the rough blue surface, just beyond reach.
I know it’s there. I just have to give something up… only this time, I don’t know what I have to give. The rolling silver edge of the water is all around me, and I can’t figure out what I need more- to breathe, or to touch the Bottom.