Posts Tagged ‘anger’

It’s been a while since I’ve come to my little corner of the internet to find solace and space to work out what’s going on in my head.

Today social media is plastered with the news Chris Cornell of Soundgarden committed suicide. Some people are rushing to condemn him and all who take their own life. Many are reaching out to the people they care about with a plea they seek help if they’re contemplating suicide. And so many are having the same reaction people have any time a celebrity takes their own life: shock.

And I’m over here just trying to make it to Friday evening when I can hide away from obligations for a few hours and try not to think about death again. May 12, 2010 a man I loved hung himself. He was 28.

We were estranged, but I kept in close contact with his mother, sending her cards for different holidays and special occasions, calling regularly, and visiting when my schedule permitted. When I found out he died I was driving to the store for my mother, in her van. I almost hit a school bus. I didn’t make it to the store. One of my sisters had to come pick me up in a parking lot. My hands were numb. My lips were numb. My feet were numb. My ears were lying to me. I’ve had hearing problems since I was a little girl; I didn’t hear her right. Mama meant her other son. She meant her ex-husband or a cousin or the neighbor or her dog. Somebody else. Anybody else.

Every year I think it’ll be fine. I’ve prayed countless times to be less effected by it; I continue to pray. I take a personal day off work May 12 and spend it with friends or family and make it a day about love and being with people who are important to me. Without fail, each year the dreams come back, I hear his voice again, I see him walking through a crowd, the smell of his cologne hits me from an unknown source – I’ve been woken up by it in the middle of the night with no windows open in my apartment- and I break. Again.

This year I really thought things were going to be different. May 12 I spent chilling on the couch, eating junk food and watching Netflix with a friend of mine. We just hung out in our pajamas and laughed and talked for three days straight. The day passed and I was okay. Until last night.

It’s hard to explain why dreams in general mess with me so much. Many of them are vivid to the point I have trouble separating them from reality sometimes. The ones of him shake me to my core and it’s like he dies all over again. Each dream starts out with the same theme: he’s been dead, but, in some perfectly logical and plausible way, he comes back. From there they vary; some are happy, many are dark and violent, and some are purely macabre. All of them hurt. Last night’s was violent. I woke gasping for breath. Today after work I drove past a small indie music venue near my house. I don’t normally go near it, but I had an errand to run nearby. One of his favorite bands is playing tonight. They’re onstage as I type. Just a couple miles from my house. All I can ask myself is, “Why tonight?” May 19, 2010 we buried him.

Seven years later and it still hurts. And I hate it. I wish there were a stronger word than ‘hate’, but that word wouldn’t be enough either. I hate hurting. I hate missing being able to pray for him. I hate missing hoping he’ll get his act together and come home. I hate still caring. And I’m tired. I’m tired of the dreams and seeing him and smelling him and hearing him.

I’m tired of hurting, because of his decision to die.