I haven’t blogged in a long while. There are several reasons for it. One of them being I didn’t want to. Another is I have been completely exhausted. Emotionally, mentally, and physically. I am writing today because there is something that needs to be written about. That maybe some of us don’t necessarily talk about.
Each of us, when we are born, are connected to everyone in our family who was born before us, by a thread. We are like a tapestry; and as our lives move along more threads are added to that tapestry. Every thread is interwoven and makes us who we are. In many ways our patterns are a reflection our parents, grandparents, anyone and everyone who has touched our lives, we will always be connected to them. No matter how insignificant a person or experience may be, it has helped woven ourselves into who we are, what our pattern has become.
I, myself, have a thread missing. Me and anyone who is, was related through family, or friendship to my cousin, C. That thread in the tapestry, who makes me who I am, is missing. You may not see it at first, but if you look a little closer it is gone. That ache and pain, which leaves my core shaking, threatens to leave me falling, drowning. It’s the only way to describe it. I can only imagine what it must be like for his mother, brothers, sister-in-law, nieces, and friends who knew him, loved him. I loved him. Even if I had forgotten I loved him because that is what we do. People we love sometimes drift out of our lives and we forget we love them. He was my family, like a brother. We were only a month apart. His birthday was this month. As a mother it pains me to know that his mother had to remember on the day he was born, the day he died. It kills me actually. Even though I hadn’t seen him in years, he is, was connected to me as a part of my very young childhood. I may not have many remembered memories, but there is still the feeling there, the memories from our aunts and uncles, our parents. The tales of us, which make up that part of our childhood because we were too young to remember. The memory of happier innocent times.
The way we lost C was through the darkness of depression and suicide. I don’t know what his last days were like, but I can only imagine. People don’t talk about wanting to die. Why would you? Depression is a terrible thing. It lies and tells us we are not good enough, that there is no way out of the darkness that threatens to consume us whole, threatening to spit us out and leave us nothing but a shell. I’m guessing that is what C may have thought, when he thought that there was no other way out. I wish I had been with him in those days to tell him it going to be O.K., that it is just a moment, and he can get through it. I wish I could have been there and hold his hand, to let him know, when that moment tries to take him over, he has family who loves him and is willing hold his hand and walk through the trenches with him to escape the darkness. I wish I could have let him know he wasn’t alone, that he’s not the only one who knows what that dark feels like. That darkness that threatens to take down everything you love and have worked hard to keep safe. So many wishes.
What I wish for now is peace for his family, our family, to cherish his memory. To love him as we remember him. What I also wish is for others who have those moments of darkness, who feel like they can’t hold on, to find that light, to know there is someone’s hand which is willing to hold on to yours and walk you through that hellish darkness, towards the light that is hope. I wish for those who feel that way, to get help, talk about it to someone. There is always someone to listen, hold your hand. I can hold your hand, C, I can hold your hand.