Grown Pains

June 16th

How do you even say the word suicide to someone? As a Christian, how do I say it? How do I tell me friends that some days I just want to open myself up and drain out all my blood to see if that would make me feel lighter, to lift this seemingly unbearable weight. If I could just snip all my heart strings would it still remain there hanging limp in my chest or would it abate? I could not even put into words that sometimes I am in such sorrow that I do not want to simply “be” ¬†anymore.¬†Hope is such a dangerous thing to run out of. What lies beyond hope is bleak and desolate and so lonely it causes an actual ache. A gnawing that tells you it will go away if you do.

Someone once told me that he wants to leave a paper trail so what when he dies people can tell stories, or point to credit card statements and see his legacy. A legacy of buying coffee for friends, or charity donations, and money spent on gas so he can go visit his grandmother. And I think if I left now my legacy would fade so fast and it would not a legacy make. I would leave behind pain, resentment, and gross incompletion.

A friend of mine lost a dear loved one recently, a physical and spiritual giant in his community. This man filled so much space. My friend, in as near a perfect analogy as I can must, compared his life and the community’ loss to that of a felled tree. This tree will not be a staple of its forest any longer. His offspring and the trees around him have lost a source of shade and the forest will just never be the same. And I do not know if my friend knows this, but trees do so much more than just provide shade for one another. They also will warn each other about dangers and even supply nutrients to injured fellow arbors. So when that tree is gone a legacy is left. We truly are standing on the shoulders of giants I suppose. But I am not tree, or very giving and sometimes this is all much more difficult than I had imagined. My friend also said that her giant that passed away, Ike was the local mole patrol. He knew all about them so he took care of the rodents when they rose up from the ground. Ike had been loving his neighbors in this capacity for decades. So shortly after his death when all the moles began to pop up in people’s lawn no one was annoyed or irked they all just were reminded and rejoiced in the life and legacy of their friend, mole patrol, and giant Ike. And I suppose for now those moles are alive, and so am I.

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June 3rd

I sat in a basement today and watched friends take down circus decorations from a surprise party we threw a month ago. A friend spoke in a Scottish brogue and we discussed social justice and science fiction and whether or not I like social justice’s role in science fiction. And somewhere in London someone is laying on a sidewalk bleeding to death.

I sat in a village green today on a wooden bench surrounded by hard bound fairy tales, philosophy, and Theodore Roosevelt. I could not see his face on the bench next to me was turning a rubik’s cube at a maddening pace. Cube in hand spinning in a well practiced motion. My friend was off somewhere buying olive oil. Two women in different shades of green jackets, one meant for fashion the other functionality, pass each other in the lush grass. They shared words I could not hear about something the fashionable jacket’s dog did. I could hear gentle, but different laughs ripple out from beneath coated nylon and gabardine. And somewhere across the country a friend is plastered to her car seat in an accident.

Today I sat on a couch and listened to a friend tell me about the play he is in. He is blonde and American and maybe 5’5. The character is plays in the production is a tall, red headed, Scottish-Canadian so bound to be very convincing. The play is supposed to be serious, and melancholic, but also smart, darkly comedic, and existential. “Maybe they all die in the end as they fight their way into Normandy? The author left it intentionally ambiguously.” So maybe they bleed out on a Norman beach, I can only hope they left a forwarding address.