This morning, at 2:03 AM, I received a text from a friend that simply said, “Help Me.”
My girlfriend’s husband had made the decision to take his own life, for all practical purposes, in front of her, earlier in the evening.
For those followers who have read my earlier writing, you know my family has it’s own suicide story and those posts contain my feeble attempts at drawing a picture of what suicide does to those left behind in the wake.
My disclaimer here, as was before, is that I don’t claim to understand everyone’s situation, pain, etc. nor do I claim to be a mental health professional. OK? Ok.
So here I go.
Really? Really? I get the pain part. I get the distorted thinking part. I get so much.
But the angry part of me? The part of me that sobbed on the phone with my precious friend this morning – that woke too many times through the night and since then, the part who has been feeling my heart break for my precious friend has this to say:
And I say it with no hidden sarcasm and obvious anger is…
If you insist on choosing a permanent solution to what could be a temporary problem, get a GD hotel room – or better yet, a place away from your home and family – a place – where you can be discovered by professionals who are at least a little prepared to deal with such things.
Since February, I’ve had one nasty little virus that refused to loosen its spider monkey grip, a host of “emergency” dental work, a nasty little spill down a flight of stairs that left me with a battered ego and a severe sprain and now? Now I have an ear infection and bronchitis. Really?
I do not do sick well.
Want to see a strong, happy, outgoing woman turn into a weepy puddle of tears?
I was raised in a musical family. We weren’t the Van Trapps but my dad had his own band back in the 40s and 50s (think swing) and he instilled in us a love and appreciation for all melodies.
When I was little, I put on elaborate shows for anyone that would listen. I put out signs in the front yard and stuffed flyers into our neighbor’s mail boxes.I climbed on top of our patio picnic table belted out “I’m leavin’ On A Jet Plane” and “House of the Rising Sun” into the vacuum cleaner cord.
I auditioned and was accepted into a performing arts high school and sang my heart out in church functions, musicals, a talent show or two and even an opera (so not me).
I wanted nothing more than to wake up one day and be Nancy Wilson of the female rock icon duo, Heart. I played (and I use the word played loosely) the 12 string, Ovation guitar and even sang in a band in my 20’s. I was enveloped in the magic of music….and I looked hot too – which helped.
But at some point, way back when, the music stopped.
I know why it happened. Once again, depression is a thief.