It’s almost 8 years to the day now when I got the call, that mom needed to come over to tell me something, and seated in the worn-out dingy couch on the porch, dark outside, the words spilling from her into me, something that could not be taken back, something final, a new reality shocked into me.
I remember somehow taking it so well, the determination to be strong overcoming any flirtation with falling apart or to pieces about it. It was his decision, and that’s what he did, he is no longer in pain, there’s nothing that can be done about it and we’ll be ok.
The bullets can’t go back in the gun, the gin back in the bottle, the note back to a blank page, my stepmother’s vision, the blood splattered to the wall.
Somehow I was able to manage this, mostly alone, as an only child and mother’s mental state succumbing to early-onset alzheimers.
But I was ok.
Sure I had my routine moments of scream/crying out loud, outbursts as a sort of release valve, but I’d carry on.
For 7 years I felt I had it mostly under control, then I met someone who’s father also committed suicide, and it’s not to say it’s her fault, but it’s like there was something in finally letting go this need to carry this burden, that this other person understood everything, and I understand her, and it sort of opens up this flood gate.
We fall in love, but it’s tumultuous and damaging, up and down, up and down, we’re together, we’re not together, we’re talking, we’re not talking, but we always love each other, no matter how much one hurts the other..
And just throughout our ups and downs, it steadily leads me to this dark dark place, one I’ve never known before, one that I feel for the first time can truly empathize with my father’s and cousin’s decision.
I hate that it’s come to this, after 7 years of being relatively stable, this delayed falling apart…I don’t know, think may hike the Pacific Crest Trail come April.
Hope you are all well