Talking to the void

Trigger Warning: This content discusses sensitive and potentially distressing topics, including death, violence, and suicide. Reader discretion is advised, and please prioritize your mental and emotional well-being while reading. If you or someone you know is struggling with these issues, please seek appropriate support and resources.

There are many versions of death.

Figurative death:

I sat in the room, embarrassed and humiliated.  I slumped in my chair while my throat constricted, and I tried to maintain composure.  The class critiqued my piece harshly.  No kind words were uttered, only negative ones.  At least, that was the way I heard it. 

 I toyed with getting up and walking out, but this was a writing class, and workshopping was part of it. Unfortunately, I felt none of the constructive advice you expect from a beginner’s course.  I felt only harsh, undeserved, criticism for elements in my piece.  According to the instructor’s rule for workshopping, the author is not allowed to say a word. Only listen. The class discusses the piece as if the author isn’t present, making the critique even harder and more humiliating.  

Maybe I am too sensitive, but the situation brought me back to high school when the popular girls, who were supposed to be my friends, decided not to talk to me on any random day. I never knew what I had done to deserve the ridicule, only that I was a pariah.  I remember spending English class holding back tears, trying to focus on the lessons to no avail.  In a day or two, their callousness passed. My friends became my friends again, and I never knew what prompted their silence.  This writing class felt much the same. I didn’t know why the critique was so harsh.  I felt like it was a vendetta for something I had done, but I didn’t know what. 

Sitting in that classroom, I wanted nothing more than a hole to open in the floor and swallow me, ending the torture.    My brain raced with ways to escape, but no options were available.   The visceral pain of wanting out of the situation was immense.  I wanted to figuratively die. 

Sorrowful death:

Holding my fabulous Phoebe while the pentobarbital was administered into her right front leg, ending her pain, I cried. She was slightly emaciated from illness; age had grayed her black fur, and I knew it was time.  But this knowledge of her condition didn’t make the action more manageable.  

Her muscles relaxed, and her breathing slowed as I held her small black and white frame in my lap.  The veterinary team prepared me with waterproof pads and blankets in case she defected (an involuntary response often occurring with dying), but thankfully, she was spared that indignity. Instead, she gave me three long sighs as if she were at peace. Dr. Cooke told me this was another involuntary result of passing, but, to me, they indicated she was okay. 

I miss her dearly.  I miss her curly black fur that would turn to dreadlocks when time between groomings was too long. I miss her crooked teeth that were front and center when she smiled (yes, she smiled). I miss her strut as she walked in front of me on our daily adventures. We were inseparable.  According to my family,  she spent her days lying by the door and staring at it, waiting for my return if I were away for any longer than an afternoon.  Occasionally, I am told, she would utter a howl to punctuate her unhappiness.  “When I run away, I’m taking the dog!” was my motto. I liked to daydream of us traveling together when life felt overwhelming, just the two of us, walking beaches and hiking mountains – her favorite things.  Today, her ashes sit motionless in a gray urn on my bedside table.  

I don’t have the desire to sprinkle her ashes yet.  It took me 15 years to gain the strength to spread the ashes of the first dog I lost.  I suspect I will take as long with Phoebe.  Losing those we love creates holes in our souls. Thankfully, with time, those holes fill with fond memories rather than sorrow, and we can let go. 

Gruesome death:  

My sister-in-law’s grandmother was murdered in her bed by kids looking for money to buy drugs one horrible night in the early 80’s.  I don’t know many details of the crime. Understandably, no one talks about it.  What I know is the perpetrators found only $20.00 and stabbed her to death in the process of ransacking her apartment.  A concerned neighbor found her the following day.  My sister-in-law and her family were never the same.

The overwhelming amount of senseless killing leaves us battered and shell-shocked.  The news is rife with these events.  We lock our doors and windows, carry pepper spray, and look for the exits in crowded venues, trying to find peace and security.  Unfortunately, we also become numb. How many stories do we hear a day about a violent crime being committed? Every time another headlined violent story graces my news feed, I think, “This time, people will finally rise up and put an end to this nonsense.” But, alas, I, like everyone else, go on about my day, and nothing changes. We are just numb.

Tragic death:

When my brother-in-law’s father ran a tube from his exhaust pipe to the cabin of his car, everyone was shocked.  I only met the man once.  It was at my Sister and Brother-in-Law’s wedding.  I don’t remember him much from that day, but I’ll never forget his funeral.  One person after another spoke about how they wished they had known his intent. They all expounded on how they would have helped.  But did they truly see him in life?  Did they listen between the lines when he spoke?  Did they perform wellness checks on him and encourage his dreams?  No, I doubt it.  It’s easy to say, “I would have helped had I known.”  It’s hard to genuinely listen and hear a person in pain.  The overwhelm that builds to a crescendo of imaginable weight coupled with the bleak prospects for the future, whether real or imagined, are powerful drivers for the unimaginable action of suicide.  

Unfortunately, this irreversible, unconscionable, selfish, action does not end the suffering.  The pain these injured people feel is not fixed, only transferred. The pain is now reserved for those left to pick up the pieces.  So, many who feel they may be at the end of their rope keep going to protect their loved ones from that pain.  The pills, ropes, tubes, razor blades, guns, bridges, buildings, cars, and trains, stay in their safe locations unused.  However, the thoughts remain, and the plans continue to be hatched in the recesses of their mind.   TPWK (treat people with kindness) is strung on my daughter’s bracelet.  I believe this is an acronym we should all take to heart.  You never know which straw might break the camel. 

If you or anyone you know struggles with depression or suicide, please do not sit by and hope it will disappear. Help is available. Please call 911 or:

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (U.S.):

• Phone: 1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255)
• Website: National Suicide Prevention Lifeline