I'm still so shocked. I keep hoping that this is some kind of elaborate prank to kill Shawn's blog once and for all. A conspiracy. It's Marilyn. It's Elvis. It's Kurt. Is it real? It seems so. It seems so tragic. I'm so terribly sad for his friends and family.
Kevin's post resonates with me. It might not be very "PC," and maybe even seem insensitive toward the plight of the distressed, depressed, or mentally cuckoo'ed-nessed. (And yah, add that last one to the non-PC bag.)
Shawn's suicide socked me right in the heart. When I read about it, I felt my heart heave. We weren't buddies, and,...(oh, blah blah, I won't even bother with 'our' story because it's trite and doesn't relate.) I don't need any yarns to connect he to I. I'll tell you, though, I was a fan, regardless.
But I remain shocked.
In his blogs, he was sunshineilly optimistic, and I appreciated it. I never even gave much thought to a darker version of Shawn, even though I figured there was one. I'm not always Jenny-sunshine online, and I tend to shy away from too dark posts on those days I'm feeling particularly gloomy or not-so-fresh. Just in case you thought about I was all about the funny and/or cat related posts, I do get the blues. Don't we all? But I try not to post directly about that stuff because it seems whiny. Overall, life is good, and tomorrow the sun will shine again, whether or not there's cloud cover so we can't see it.
Kevin's post resonates.
I can't recall a time, in recent years, that I was as scared as I was standing outside my co-worker's door in February. As the locksmith worked on her door for what seemed like forever, I walked a few steps away and lit a cigarette. I almost never smoke in front of my boss, but if I didn't have something to DO I was going to have a giant panic attack. I kept imagining walking in on a site I was never going to be able to get out of my head forevermore. I was sure we'd find her hanging. And blue. And dead.
As it was, though, I did get a scene I can't wash out of my head: my usually overanimated co-worker de-animated. On the floor. Waxy. Greasy yellow. Unresponsive. A note. A flurry of activity. Ambulance lights, and me alone. With tourettes.
There's always another day. And tragically, sometimes, an aftermath. Even though I see her (fine?) at work every day, I flash back to when she wasn't at work more often than I want. Way too often. I want none, and what I get is often. And to tell you the truth, because she (or anyone else) was unwilling or unable to talk about it, (before or after) I have a hard time looking her in the eyes. Still.
Because I saw what I saw, and it changed me.
So Kevin's right. He's not kid-gloving the suicidal. Rightfully so. Bone up. LIVE.
In the beginning of August I will be barefoot on a lawn in front of a glassy lake. There will be a large stereo wheeled out and it will be blaring. I'll dance alone or with people. For a long time. (Long enough for people to start to wonder "Shit, is that woman going to stop dancing, or what?" Long enough for the cops to be called about the noise, like they always are.) But in the meantime, I swear, I'll be thinking of shit like this. I'll be blissful, peaceful, and thankful,...but I'll be thinking of Shawn, and wondering if he's sad he missed something like that?
Because I'm so fucking sad I miss someone like him.
Meanwhile, my head might fall off its axis. I can't stop shaking it in disbelief.
Is it really real? Really?