The Seventh One.
Morning,
Trigger Warning: Suicide.
Today marks eight years since my Grandfather's suicide.
Every year on this day I try to set aside time to say something thought provoking, funny, heartfelt, anything at all to show him that I'm thinking of him and encouraging others to think of him as well. This year's reflection is going to be a bit of a mess. It's ugly, and raw, and jarring. It's mostly for me to be able to sort out my feelings and process them. If you're looking for a sweet remembrance, you won't find one this year.
One year after he passed, I held my baby shower for my son Wesley Joseph. He loves being referred to as Wesley Joe, and each time I call his name, my Grandfather is there like a quiet whisper.
As much as it's a tribute, it's a self imposed penance. No one has pointed their finger at me or held me responsible, nor would they. I didn't do anything.
I wish that I could make people understand that not doing anything is exactly what I feel guilty about, and I feel that guilt this year so intensely that it feels like I'm being smothered. Also, I must be clear about something, I do not want anyone taking a rag to me in an attempt to wash this guilt away. Guilt is normal, it's human, it teaches. I'm trying to let it teach me something now.
Bang.
The sound is muffled and round shaped, nearer than your room, it's probably a kitchen bowl, only I am wrong.
My Grandfather was a complicated man. He was a Veteran of the Korean War, a Paratrooper. I have a vivid memory of being younger and asking my Grandma about what they did in the military, she was in the Navy, he was in the Army. In answering my questions she also offered a strong word of advice, "Never ask your Grandpa about the Army. Ok? Never." I didn't understand why in that moment, but as I aged and learned about the things Veterans struggle with, the understanding came. I never asked him about the Army, or the War, or anything that could be tangentially related.
He never spoke a word about it, and I wonder about the torrential storm that bellowed there under the surface.
Bang.
Like the clanging from last week, a dislodged towel holder let you fall, and today it was my turn.
I'm not sure that anyone other than my Grandma and his best friend Tom really knew my Grandfather. Many of us knew things about him, likes and dislikes, musical tastes, where to take him for dinner on his Birthday, but I don't mean things, I mean him at the core. What was he afraid of? What did he dream about? What hopes did he have for the future, for his family, for himself? What did he leave behind unfinished in his own messy wake? What was the most beautiful sunset he ever witnessed? What made him weep, or sing, or dance?
Bang.
Five minutes ago I dashed past your door, offered a hurried hello, a wave, a smile.
That knowledge is forever out of reach for me, my children, and their children. I grieve not only for everyone who knew and loved you, but also for everyone who never will. It's rooted there, the guilt, the shame. It echos from somewhere inside that perhaps if I had truly known you, I would have known better than to keep walking that morning. It isn't just about that moment, but a lifetime of missed opportunities to do the right thing. I missed so much, and now, so will they.
Bang.
You smiled back, so I stayed my course, but with all I remember now, your smile is hazy and lost.
If I had any deep understanding at all, would I have sensed your fear?
Bang.
It comes once, but I replay it in that moment, trying to determine if it merits my valuable time and attention.
Would I have known to ask the right questions if I had questioned you about your life at all? Would I have known to ask them every day? Would asking the right question that morning instead of running up the stairs because I was late have saved your life?
Bang.
My Grandmother's scream, so shrill, so foreign.
Would I have more than one photo of you with my daughter? Would my son know the sound of your laugh, so loud it filled the house with joy?
Bang.
Blood. Silence. Detectives with questions more frightening than their guns. Confusion. Sobbing, but I'm so far away I don't know if it's mine or my Grandmother's.
Bang.
BANG.
If you're suffering in silence, please reach out- to me, to a loved one, to an unbiased ear. You are not alone.
The National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255
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Trigger Warning: Suicide.
Today marks eight years since my Grandfather's suicide.
Every year on this day I try to set aside time to say something thought provoking, funny, heartfelt, anything at all to show him that I'm thinking of him and encouraging others to think of him as well. This year's reflection is going to be a bit of a mess. It's ugly, and raw, and jarring. It's mostly for me to be able to sort out my feelings and process them. If you're looking for a sweet remembrance, you won't find one this year.
One year after he passed, I held my baby shower for my son Wesley Joseph. He loves being referred to as Wesley Joe, and each time I call his name, my Grandfather is there like a quiet whisper.
As much as it's a tribute, it's a self imposed penance. No one has pointed their finger at me or held me responsible, nor would they. I didn't do anything.
I wish that I could make people understand that not doing anything is exactly what I feel guilty about, and I feel that guilt this year so intensely that it feels like I'm being smothered. Also, I must be clear about something, I do not want anyone taking a rag to me in an attempt to wash this guilt away. Guilt is normal, it's human, it teaches. I'm trying to let it teach me something now.
Bang.
The sound is muffled and round shaped, nearer than your room, it's probably a kitchen bowl, only I am wrong.
My Grandfather was a complicated man. He was a Veteran of the Korean War, a Paratrooper. I have a vivid memory of being younger and asking my Grandma about what they did in the military, she was in the Navy, he was in the Army. In answering my questions she also offered a strong word of advice, "Never ask your Grandpa about the Army. Ok? Never." I didn't understand why in that moment, but as I aged and learned about the things Veterans struggle with, the understanding came. I never asked him about the Army, or the War, or anything that could be tangentially related.
He never spoke a word about it, and I wonder about the torrential storm that bellowed there under the surface.
Bang.
Like the clanging from last week, a dislodged towel holder let you fall, and today it was my turn.
I'm not sure that anyone other than my Grandma and his best friend Tom really knew my Grandfather. Many of us knew things about him, likes and dislikes, musical tastes, where to take him for dinner on his Birthday, but I don't mean things, I mean him at the core. What was he afraid of? What did he dream about? What hopes did he have for the future, for his family, for himself? What did he leave behind unfinished in his own messy wake? What was the most beautiful sunset he ever witnessed? What made him weep, or sing, or dance?
Bang.
Five minutes ago I dashed past your door, offered a hurried hello, a wave, a smile.
That knowledge is forever out of reach for me, my children, and their children. I grieve not only for everyone who knew and loved you, but also for everyone who never will. It's rooted there, the guilt, the shame. It echos from somewhere inside that perhaps if I had truly known you, I would have known better than to keep walking that morning. It isn't just about that moment, but a lifetime of missed opportunities to do the right thing. I missed so much, and now, so will they.
Bang.
You smiled back, so I stayed my course, but with all I remember now, your smile is hazy and lost.
If I had any deep understanding at all, would I have sensed your fear?
Bang.
It comes once, but I replay it in that moment, trying to determine if it merits my valuable time and attention.
Would I have known to ask the right questions if I had questioned you about your life at all? Would I have known to ask them every day? Would asking the right question that morning instead of running up the stairs because I was late have saved your life?
Bang.
My Grandmother's scream, so shrill, so foreign.
Would I have more than one photo of you with my daughter? Would my son know the sound of your laugh, so loud it filled the house with joy?
Bang.
Blood. Silence. Detectives with questions more frightening than their guns. Confusion. Sobbing, but I'm so far away I don't know if it's mine or my Grandmother's.
Bang.
BANG.
If you're suffering in silence, please reach out- to me, to a loved one, to an unbiased ear. You are not alone.
The National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255
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