Not THE Answer But It Helps

Dude's death will never make sense.  At times, I feel like I failed.  I know I shouldn't feel that way.  I know it wasn't my fault.  I don't blame myself.  But I do wonder.  I wonder why God did not stop it from happening.  I wonder what Dude was thinking that day.  I wonder at what exact moment he made the decision.  I wonder why none of us closest to him could get through to him and show him life is/was worth living.  I wonder how mental illness and depression can just suck the life out of one of University of Richmond's most eligible bachelors.  How such a bright light in the world can be completely enveloped in darkness - a darkness I hope to never understand. 

Those of us closest to Dude have sat around trying to understand.  We ask questions of each other hoping that someone has the million dollar answer.  We've poured over the reports from the doctors and the autopsy.  We go back and forth, but I liken it to being on a seesaw.  You keep moving up and down, but you never truly go anywhere.  Unfortunately, no matter how hard I/we try, we will never know the real answer.  I am not even sure if Dude would know the true reason he did what he did.  He might, but I won't find out til I get to heaven.  And, at that point, I won't even care!  I'll just be so excited to see him again.

I've done a lot of grief work over the last 14 months.  It's been absolutely essential to my grief journey.  No matter how hard I work, I can't bring him back.  I can't truly understand why this happened.  But, I do have to and want to move forward.  To honor him.  To honor God.  To live the life laid out before me. 

For the most part, I've accepted that this has happened.  I don't like it, but that doesn't change a thing.  I will always struggle with this to some degree.  But, every once and awhile, I find something that provides a little solace. 

“I had tried years earlier to kill myself, and nearly died in the attempt, but did not consider it either a selfish or a not-selfish thing to have done. It was simply the end of what I could bear, the last afternoon of having to imagine waking up the next morning only to start all over again with a thick mind and black imaginings. It was the final outcome of a bad disease, a disease it seemed to me I would never get the better of. No amount of love from or for other people-and there was a lot-could help. No advantage of a caring family and fabulous job was enough to overcome the pain and hopelessness I felt; no passionate or romantic love, however strong, could make a difference. Nothing alive and warm could make its way in through my carapace. I knew my life to be a shambles, and I believed-incontestably-that my family, friends, and patients would be better off without me. There wasn't much of me left anymore, anyway, and I thought my death would free up the wasted energies and well-meant efforts that were being wasted on my behalf." ― Kay Redfield Jamison, Night Falls Fast: Understanding Suicide

It's not THE answer, but it helps.

I love you and miss you, Dude.