“The thought, ‘You’re lucky, it could have been worse,’ is the kind of gratitude I can do without. It also could have been better, or, actually, it couldn’t have been any other way than the way it was.”
“It could have been worse,” is the knife to the back that kills us slowly. When the thought of suicide surfaces from the inky depths of my mind. I feel the blood in my veins. My chest gets tight. I’m trapped in my mind and the memories. Grasping threads of reality in an attempt to surface from the nightmares of conditioned response, I feel the urge to harm myself in the vain (attempt) to exit my personal hell. The events could have happened in any innumerable ways with a plethora of variables.
Unfortunately, the events happened exactly as they did. So I must accept the past and let go. Discover the lesson. Implement small changes and move forward. My choice now will dictate the next million choices I face.
The tendrils of a memory hold me fast, ‘Beads clasped in my hands as I sat on the stained white sofa. Sweat, powder, and roses filled the air. The paramedics had arrived and left. The body would never grace the building again with laughter or farts or life. Tears long since stopped falling and my muscles were tense.
The guilt surfaces.
What more could I have done? Nothing.
Before it happened? Nothing. Nothing could change or alter the tragedy.
I could accept that I was or was not at fault. Either way I could not change the outcome. No matter how much I begged or pleaded with the universe or God it would not change.
Death touched me in an intimate way. It would forever color the way I looked at the world. Suicide began to reach out and grab me from every direction.