A few days after Ken's suicide a guy we had gone to school with came to my house. He had lost his brother to suicide a decade earlier. Chuck walked up to me, gave me a tight hug and spoke these words...
"If my brother was able to be here right now I would give him the biggest hug and then I would punch him right in the nose."
Those words meant everything because Chuck knew how I felt and he validated those feelings. I had heard a thousand I'm so sorries and if there is anything I can do call me. This was the first thing anyone had said that touched me. I was angry. I was seething with anger but far more sad and lonely and lost. Somewhere under all of that grief was the anger. Acknowledging that seemed wrong until Chuck put it into that simple sentence.
Being left behind intentionally by someone's suicide is something like having someone pull up to the curb, open the door, smile a warm smile and then speed away. You are left standing on the street, feeling like a fool for believing they wanted you to get in and share the trip. I was left standing on the curb thinking we were only halfway through our journey. He was forty nine and I was fifty one. Now what?
Being a survivor admits you to a club you never wanted to belong to. You recognize fellow members in books and movies and among those you meet in life. The club is too big. I wish they could close the membership and no one ever again join the ranks. As a survivor I feel like I owe it to others to help them make it through because I know how close I came to giving in to the desire to just quit. I can't not offer my hand. Who am I if I'm not willing to say "I made it. It will hurt like hell but you will make it too."
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