How many beers and chicken fingers has she served me and David over the course of the last five years? You’re on a first-name basis, yet you know little, if not less, than anything about this person.
Then all of a sudden, you know more than you could possibly imagine. She walked up to me last night with that whisper that people unintentionally do when they talk to me about that one heavy topic.
“I just heard about your brother, I had no idea.” Her eyes shifting slightly down, probably wondering if she has just crossed some line.
“Thank you… and you don’t have to whisper about it.” I smile and look her directly in the eyes, trying to convey that this topic is open for discussion. I sense something is up as she sits down at the table without asking—something she has never done before.
“My ex-boyfriend shot himself in the head, and sometimes I feel like I am responsible for it,” she blurts out almost clumsily.
I pause and look at her… she’s part of the club, I can see it. The eyes tell all. She is a member of my club. The most heinous dues paid for a life membership.
The story is different, but the ending the same. The guilt and burden you wear beneath your clown smile. I shared what I could about how the outcome rests squarely on the shoulders of the person who actually commits the deed. We spoke about the concept of time being the best cure, helping people to want to live rather than wanting to die.
We talked throughout the night, and we spoke bluntly and in plain sight for all to hear and see.
It was a sad conversation. But it was a conversation shared. I asked her to write for me about her experience to share her wounds with us all so that more people feel comfortable talking about it, and so that we all shift a little less in our seats when we talk about suicide.
