I've been thinking about writing this week. Certainly, I could regale you with stories of the city schools calendar meetings, at which I might indeed be the Most Hated Woman in the city. Or I could pimp my latest article in The Circle. (OK - might fit that in right here.) Or I could rant about the train wreck that is Sam's Club on the first of the month, complete with food stamp users loading their purchases into a S Class Mercedes.
Or we can talk about suicide.
A neighbor took his own life this week. We weren't close friends, though we fell under the well-acquainted acquaintances. He left behind three small daughters and a wife. He was Tim's age.
When you hear about something so senseless and tragic, there are a million different things that go thorough your head. But for me it comes down to how.
How is it possible to get to a place that is so very dark that you think nothing is better than something. That you think the void you leave for your kids, ages similar to my own, is preferable to being in their lives. That you would want to close your eyes and say life could never improve. That there is nothing left for which to live.
And how dark the path is that leads you to that moment.
Maybe that is what scares me the very most. That there are journeys so dark and frightening that I can't even imagine how awful they are. And what one might do to escape them.
I've written and erased a half dozen closings to this post. It's tough to come up with a pithy ending about death. What I do know is that if life seems unbearable, which it does for us all on occasion, I'm going to remember the hug his daughter gave me at the viewing, amazingly dry-eyed, thanking me for coming. Telling me how she missed seeing my daughters. Think about the strength that little girl had and hope we can all aspire to be that brave.
And know that her bravery will probably break down today, tomorrow, someday. I hope we can be there to hug her then.